the house to greet them. As the cop and the chief talked, Jo stood rooted to the ground, taking it all in. The yard was filled with oaks and maples, lending a pastoral beauty to the scene despite the overall run-down appearance. The house was a simple ranch style, with chipping paint, rotted front steps, and an abandoned garden along the side. Several outbuildings were in the distance, including a detached garage and what looked like a barn in the middle of a pasture. There were no animals in sight, though Jo was wishing she had brought Chewie along so he could run and play. He would have loved it there.
“Might as well do this,” the chief said to Jo as he gestured toward the house. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” she lied, moving forward and taking the slanted steps with care.
Inside, the house was musty and warm, with faded wallpaper, a few doilies, and ragged furniture. There were some family photos propped along an old piano. Jo studied them with care, but she didn’t recognize anyone except Frank Malone.
As they proceeded slowly through the house, she had to admit she didn’t recognize anything that might be of significance. Her mind carried a running dialogue of household hints—how to get the mildew from the shower curtain, how to remove the grease from behind the stove, how to put a shine to the faded wood floors—but nothing spoke to her personally at all.
They ended their tour down in the basement, which featured a hefty furnace on one wall and a row of empty shelves on the other. Each shelf was coated with thick dust, except in large circles all along a row, where something had long sat and recently been removed. The whole room smelled like oil and must.
Back upstairs, Jo listened as the cops described the items they had unearthed in their search of the house, none of which had anything to do with Jo Tulip.
“Jo, are you absolutely sure that nothing in this house relates to you in any way?” the chief said.
Jo took a deep breath and held it in. The chief had no idea how much she wanted to be able to answer that question the right way.
“Nothing,” she said, “unless you turn up something on the computer.”
“There was no computer,” one of the cops replied.
“Yes, there was,” Jo said, moving to a corner table. “Right there. You can tell by the shapes in the dust.”
Lettie sat at a table in the Dates&Mates Internet café, where she had earned two free hours of computer time when she registered for the dating service. Though most of the people in the café were sprinkled around the room using their own laptops, she was at the mercy of one of the large PCs at a table along the wall.
Lettie didn’t have e-mail access—not that there was anyone who would write to her if she did—but she liked the web. She could spend hours surfing travel sites, airlines, and Central American Realtors. Through digital magic, she lived her dreams of flying away, of making her escape, of buying a house and settling down with her sister.
Now, though, before she visited the usual sites, she thought she ought to do a search for “Jo Tulip” just to see what would pop up. As it turned out, Jo had her own website, so Lettie took a look. It was cute, all pink and green with little tulips as buttons. Just reading the blog and the tips made Lettie feel, for a moment, like a normal person, like someone who might care about how to clean grout or stake tomatoes. After going through “10 Ways to Clean with Baking Soda” and “20 Uses for Vinegar,” however, she’d had enough, and she could feel a dark despair begin to lap at the edges of her brain. Hers
wasn’t
a normal life. She’d never owned any grout. She’d never bought a bottle of vinegar
or
a box of baking soda. She’d spent the twenty-three years of her existence simply getting by.
Lettie logged off the computer and moved to a secluded table over in the corner, dialing Mickey’s number on her cell phone. Though she didn’t feel like talking
“Might as well do this,” the chief said to Jo as he gestured toward the house. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” she lied, moving forward and taking the slanted steps with care.
Inside, the house was musty and warm, with faded wallpaper, a few doilies, and ragged furniture. There were some family photos propped along an old piano. Jo studied them with care, but she didn’t recognize anyone except Frank Malone.
As they proceeded slowly through the house, she had to admit she didn’t recognize anything that might be of significance. Her mind carried a running dialogue of household hints—how to get the mildew from the shower curtain, how to remove the grease from behind the stove, how to put a shine to the faded wood floors—but nothing spoke to her personally at all.
They ended their tour down in the basement, which featured a hefty furnace on one wall and a row of empty shelves on the other. Each shelf was coated with thick dust, except in large circles all along a row, where something had long sat and recently been removed. The whole room smelled like oil and must.
Back upstairs, Jo listened as the cops described the items they had unearthed in their search of the house, none of which had anything to do with Jo Tulip.
“Jo, are you absolutely sure that nothing in this house relates to you in any way?” the chief said.
Jo took a deep breath and held it in. The chief had no idea how much she wanted to be able to answer that question the right way.
“Nothing,” she said, “unless you turn up something on the computer.”
“There was no computer,” one of the cops replied.
“Yes, there was,” Jo said, moving to a corner table. “Right there. You can tell by the shapes in the dust.”
Lettie sat at a table in the Dates&Mates Internet café, where she had earned two free hours of computer time when she registered for the dating service. Though most of the people in the café were sprinkled around the room using their own laptops, she was at the mercy of one of the large PCs at a table along the wall.
Lettie didn’t have e-mail access—not that there was anyone who would write to her if she did—but she liked the web. She could spend hours surfing travel sites, airlines, and Central American Realtors. Through digital magic, she lived her dreams of flying away, of making her escape, of buying a house and settling down with her sister.
Now, though, before she visited the usual sites, she thought she ought to do a search for “Jo Tulip” just to see what would pop up. As it turned out, Jo had her own website, so Lettie took a look. It was cute, all pink and green with little tulips as buttons. Just reading the blog and the tips made Lettie feel, for a moment, like a normal person, like someone who might care about how to clean grout or stake tomatoes. After going through “10 Ways to Clean with Baking Soda” and “20 Uses for Vinegar,” however, she’d had enough, and she could feel a dark despair begin to lap at the edges of her brain. Hers
wasn’t
a normal life. She’d never owned any grout. She’d never bought a bottle of vinegar
or
a box of baking soda. She’d spent the twenty-three years of her existence simply getting by.
Lettie logged off the computer and moved to a secluded table over in the corner, dialing Mickey’s number on her cell phone. Though she didn’t feel like talking
Similar Books
