A Stranger in My Grave by Margaret Millar

appeared on her cheeks as if she’d been slapped, silently, invisibly, hard. Her reaction puzzled Pinata: did she have a grudge against the city council or the water commission? Was she afraid of biting dogs, Peeping Toms, thirtieth anniversaries?
    He said, “Don’t you want to go on with this, Mrs. Harker?”
    The slight movement of her head was neither negative nor affirmative. “It seems hopeless. I mean, what difference does it make to me whether a woman called Juanita Garcia got probation or not? I don’t know any Juanita Garcia.” She spoke the words with unnecessary force, as if Pinata had accused her of having had a part in Mrs. Garcia’s case. “How would I know a woman like that?”
    â€œThrough your work at the Clinic, perhaps. According to the newspaper account, one of the conditions of Mrs. Garcia’s two-year probation was that she get some psychiatric help. Since she had five children and was expecting a sixth, and her husband was an Army private stationed in Germany, it seems unlikely she could afford a private psychiatrist. That leaves the Clinic.”
    â€œNo doubt your reasoning is sound. But it has no connection with me. I have never met Mrs. Garcia, at the Clinic or anywhere else. As I told you before, my work there was concerned entirely with the children of patients, not the patients themselves.”
    â€œThen perhaps you knew Mrs. Garcia’s children. She had five.”
    â€œWhy do you keep harping like this on the name Garcia?”
    â€œBecause I got the impression it meant something to you.”
    â€œI’ve denied that, haven’t I?”
    â€œSeveral times, yes.”
    â€œThen why are you accusing me of lying to you?”
    â€œNot to me, exactly,” Pinata said. “But there’s the possibility that you may be lying to yourself without realizing it. Think about it, Mrs. Harker. You overreacted to the name….”
    â€œPerhaps I overreacted. Or perhaps you overinterpreted.”
    â€œThat could be.”
    â€œIt was. It is.”
    She got up and walked over to the window. The movement was so obviously one of protest and escape that Pinata felt as if she’d told him to shut up and leave her alone. He had no intention of doing either.
    â€œIt will be easy enough to check up on Mrs. Garcia,” he said. “The police will have a file on her, as well as the Probation Department and probably Charles Alston at the Clinic.”
    She turned and gave him a weary look. “I wish I could convince you that I never in my life heard of the woman. But it’s a free country; you can check everyone in the city directory if you like.”
    â€œI may have to. You’ve given me very little to go on. The only facts I have are that on December 2, 1955, there was snow on the mountains, and you ate lunch at a cafeteria downtown. How did you get downtown, by the way?”
    â€œI must have driven. I had my own car.”
    â€œWhat kind?”
    â€œAn Oldsmobile convertible.”
    â€œDid you usually drive with the top up or down?”
    â€œDown. But I can’t see how all this is important.”
    â€œWhen we don’t know what’s important, anything can be. You can’t tell what particular detail will jog your memory. For instance, that Friday was a cold day. Maybe you can remember putting the top up. Or you might have had trouble starting your car.”
    She looked honestly bewildered. “I seem to remember that I did. But that may be only because you suggested it. You say things in such a positive way. Like about the Garcia woman—you’re so sure I know her or knew her.” She sat down again and began repleating the corner of her jacket. “If I did know her, why have I forgotten? I’d have no reason to forget a friend or a casual acquaintance, and I’m not forceful enough to make enemies. Yet you seem so positive.”
    â€œSeeming and being are two