quit her job, join Ramona’s Bible-study group, play Bingo, all those sorts of things. She was disappointed and disapproving that Phoebe wasn’t interested.”
“Except the woman in the back said Ramona was also jeal-GILLIAN ROBERTS
78
ous, because another neighbor fixed Phoebe up with a date, and Ramona apparently thought she was ahead of Phoebe in line for men.”
“Would she kill her perceived rival? Is that what you’re saying?”
“I have no idea what I’m saying. But do you know anything about that man? That’s the most specific information I’ve gotten about anybody so far.”
Sasha looked into some middle distance. I imagined a small Rolodex file spinning card by card in her mind, name after possible name, the memory of conversations long gone searched for names, and found wanting. “Nothing,” she said. “Can’t we go ask the neighbor who fixed her up?”
“Tomorrow. She’s not home today.”
Sasha’s features softened, the muscles in her face relaxed.
“Good,” she said. “Besides, if she was still interested in doing some hunting online, he couldn’t have been Mr. Perfect. She was a serial monogamist. If she’d found him, she wouldn’t have looked any further. Until she decided to lose him again, that is.
But there’d be a marriage in between. So that fix-up date probably fizzled pretty quickly, or she’d have been engaged again.
Unless, of course, she rejected him and he was the surprise visitor-killer that night.” She looked concerned for a moment, then sighed, and shook her head. “Hungry yet?”
“Well, I guess . . . I was going to look through those papers, and it’s early, but . . .”
“Then, if you can hold off a minute, look at this.” She turned and lifted a clear glass bowl of matchbooks and handed it to me with a flourish.
“Matchbooks,” I said. “Just what I always wanted.”
“For the case!”
“Did Phoebe smoke?”
“Not really. But matchbooks mean something, don’t they?”
“They mean she collected them, too, Sash.”
79
ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS
“In the movies, they’re always a clue.” She was actually serious. Nobody in the movies found three dozen matchbooks in a glass bowl. “They could lead you to where she maybe picked up a date,” Sasha said. “The one who was here that night.”
“There was only one glass of wine,” I said.
“Sure, but maybe he was AA, or . . .”
“I promise to follow up with the matchbooks.” I emptied the bowl into the carton. If Sasha weren’t so desperate, she’d recognize they were no more than another of Phoebe’s acquisitions, like the rows of tiny glass bells, or the flowers made of woven horsehair, and whatever else was on the tables, shelves, and win-dowsills of this house.
“I picked up a barbecued chicken and salads,” Sasha said.
“You can look at things and eat at the same time, can’t you?”
I could indeed multitask. We relocated to the kitchen, which looked less used and functional than Neva’s had. In addition to cooking necessities, Phoebe had another collection on the countertops: roosters and chickens made of china, tin, painted wood, and plastic. I peered inside the refrigerator, a better clue to its owner than a matchbook, but Phoebe’s had been cleaned out, except for the eternal half-filled bottles of condiments. I didn’t know who’d cleaned the fridge out, or why those bottles were left. What was to become of an inch and a half of teriyaki sauce, a small bottle of horseradish in cream, six bread-and-butter pickles, and nearly empty containers of mustard, ketchup, and mayonnaise?
But the archeological digging was still fine on the outside of the refrigerator. Angel magnets held calendars, reminders of doctors’ appointments, snapshots, newspaper clippings, and cards from local purveyors of driveway repair, delicatessen, and aroma-therapy.
“Whoops,” Sasha said. “I forgot all about that junk.”
I carefully relocated the surface papers to one of the
“Except the woman in the back said Ramona was also jeal-GILLIAN ROBERTS
78
ous, because another neighbor fixed Phoebe up with a date, and Ramona apparently thought she was ahead of Phoebe in line for men.”
“Would she kill her perceived rival? Is that what you’re saying?”
“I have no idea what I’m saying. But do you know anything about that man? That’s the most specific information I’ve gotten about anybody so far.”
Sasha looked into some middle distance. I imagined a small Rolodex file spinning card by card in her mind, name after possible name, the memory of conversations long gone searched for names, and found wanting. “Nothing,” she said. “Can’t we go ask the neighbor who fixed her up?”
“Tomorrow. She’s not home today.”
Sasha’s features softened, the muscles in her face relaxed.
“Good,” she said. “Besides, if she was still interested in doing some hunting online, he couldn’t have been Mr. Perfect. She was a serial monogamist. If she’d found him, she wouldn’t have looked any further. Until she decided to lose him again, that is.
But there’d be a marriage in between. So that fix-up date probably fizzled pretty quickly, or she’d have been engaged again.
Unless, of course, she rejected him and he was the surprise visitor-killer that night.” She looked concerned for a moment, then sighed, and shook her head. “Hungry yet?”
“Well, I guess . . . I was going to look through those papers, and it’s early, but . . .”
“Then, if you can hold off a minute, look at this.” She turned and lifted a clear glass bowl of matchbooks and handed it to me with a flourish.
“Matchbooks,” I said. “Just what I always wanted.”
“For the case!”
“Did Phoebe smoke?”
“Not really. But matchbooks mean something, don’t they?”
“They mean she collected them, too, Sash.”
79
ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS
“In the movies, they’re always a clue.” She was actually serious. Nobody in the movies found three dozen matchbooks in a glass bowl. “They could lead you to where she maybe picked up a date,” Sasha said. “The one who was here that night.”
“There was only one glass of wine,” I said.
“Sure, but maybe he was AA, or . . .”
“I promise to follow up with the matchbooks.” I emptied the bowl into the carton. If Sasha weren’t so desperate, she’d recognize they were no more than another of Phoebe’s acquisitions, like the rows of tiny glass bells, or the flowers made of woven horsehair, and whatever else was on the tables, shelves, and win-dowsills of this house.
“I picked up a barbecued chicken and salads,” Sasha said.
“You can look at things and eat at the same time, can’t you?”
I could indeed multitask. We relocated to the kitchen, which looked less used and functional than Neva’s had. In addition to cooking necessities, Phoebe had another collection on the countertops: roosters and chickens made of china, tin, painted wood, and plastic. I peered inside the refrigerator, a better clue to its owner than a matchbook, but Phoebe’s had been cleaned out, except for the eternal half-filled bottles of condiments. I didn’t know who’d cleaned the fridge out, or why those bottles were left. What was to become of an inch and a half of teriyaki sauce, a small bottle of horseradish in cream, six bread-and-butter pickles, and nearly empty containers of mustard, ketchup, and mayonnaise?
But the archeological digging was still fine on the outside of the refrigerator. Angel magnets held calendars, reminders of doctors’ appointments, snapshots, newspaper clippings, and cards from local purveyors of driveway repair, delicatessen, and aroma-therapy.
“Whoops,” Sasha said. “I forgot all about that junk.”
I carefully relocated the surface papers to one of the
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