deception seemed preferable to the alternative: trying to explain over the phone that I’d broken into a friend’s home, retrieved her messages, and wanted to know why Maris had been making threatening phone calls.
A conversation like that, I’d decided, would go over much better in person.
Maris lived in an area of West Norwalk that appeared to have been developed in the fifties. The houses all had the homogenized look that had been popular in that era: street after street of colonial-style homes placed squarely on wooded one-acre lots. With the specter of world war in the not-too-distant past, Americans had found safety in sameness. Now the look was simply dated.
Whoever had built the development half a century earlier must have been a history buff, for the streets were all named after early patriots. I followed Nathan Hale Road until it ended on Betsy Ross Lane, then took a right and pulled over to the curb.
Except for its fenced yard, Maris’s house looked no different from any of the others. Like the neighboring town of New Canaan, Norwalk has stringent zoning laws. There was nothing to indicate from the curb that Maris was running a business in her basement.
She must have seen me drive up because Maris had her front door open before I’d even reached the steps. Her leg, lifted and braced against the door frame, blocked two sandy colored Wheaten Terriers from making their escape as I opened the storm door.
“Watch your step,” she said. “These guys are fast.”
I slipped inside and pulled the door quickly shut behind me. Maris’s approving nod ratified the tactic. She held out a hand and we introduced ourselves.
“I do most of my grooming downstairs,” she told me, heading toward the back of the house. “I can also make a house call, if you prefer, but the rates are pretty steep for that. Let me take you down and show you around. Please feel free to ask as many questions as you like. Believe me, I know how hard it is to trust your dog’s care to a stranger.”
Phooey, I thought as the two Wheatens bounced around us, vying for possession of a stuffed toy. Phone message notwithstanding, Maris was turning out to be a nice person. I hate it when that happens; especially when I’ve started things off by lying through my teeth.
“I have a confession to make,” I heard myself blurt. “I don’t really need my dogs groomed.”
Abruptly Maris stopped walking. She turned around and crossed her arms over her chest. “Then why are you here?”
“I have to talk to you about Sara Bentley.”
“What about her?”
“She seems to be missing.”
“I should hope so,” Maris snapped. “Otherwise she needs a damn good excuse for yanking me around again.”
I couldn’t think how to answer that, so I didn’t say a thing.
After a moment, Maris frowned. She began to look concerned. “You’re not kidding, are you?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Come on.” She led the way back to the living room, where we both sat down. “Tell me what’s going on. For starters, why did you come to me?”
“I heard the message you left on Sara’s answering machine yesterday. You sounded pretty angry.”
“I was. I still am.” Maris paused, then started again. “I mean, unless there’s actually something wrong. What makes you think Sara is missing, anyway?”
I explained about how Bertie had hired Sara to arrange her wedding, and about the note that had been delivered to Bertie at the show. “Bertie’s been trying to get in touch with her all week, but Sara’s disappeared and nobody’s seen her. She’s not returning her calls, either. Unless you’ve heard something . . . ?”
Maris shook her head. “In fact, I left a couple of messages myself. Sara never called me back. That’s one of the reasons why I was so mad when I left that message yesterday.”
I sat back on the couch. One of the Wheatens came over and rested his head on my knee. After a moment, his front legs, then his shoulders, had
A conversation like that, I’d decided, would go over much better in person.
Maris lived in an area of West Norwalk that appeared to have been developed in the fifties. The houses all had the homogenized look that had been popular in that era: street after street of colonial-style homes placed squarely on wooded one-acre lots. With the specter of world war in the not-too-distant past, Americans had found safety in sameness. Now the look was simply dated.
Whoever had built the development half a century earlier must have been a history buff, for the streets were all named after early patriots. I followed Nathan Hale Road until it ended on Betsy Ross Lane, then took a right and pulled over to the curb.
Except for its fenced yard, Maris’s house looked no different from any of the others. Like the neighboring town of New Canaan, Norwalk has stringent zoning laws. There was nothing to indicate from the curb that Maris was running a business in her basement.
She must have seen me drive up because Maris had her front door open before I’d even reached the steps. Her leg, lifted and braced against the door frame, blocked two sandy colored Wheaten Terriers from making their escape as I opened the storm door.
“Watch your step,” she said. “These guys are fast.”
I slipped inside and pulled the door quickly shut behind me. Maris’s approving nod ratified the tactic. She held out a hand and we introduced ourselves.
“I do most of my grooming downstairs,” she told me, heading toward the back of the house. “I can also make a house call, if you prefer, but the rates are pretty steep for that. Let me take you down and show you around. Please feel free to ask as many questions as you like. Believe me, I know how hard it is to trust your dog’s care to a stranger.”
Phooey, I thought as the two Wheatens bounced around us, vying for possession of a stuffed toy. Phone message notwithstanding, Maris was turning out to be a nice person. I hate it when that happens; especially when I’ve started things off by lying through my teeth.
“I have a confession to make,” I heard myself blurt. “I don’t really need my dogs groomed.”
Abruptly Maris stopped walking. She turned around and crossed her arms over her chest. “Then why are you here?”
“I have to talk to you about Sara Bentley.”
“What about her?”
“She seems to be missing.”
“I should hope so,” Maris snapped. “Otherwise she needs a damn good excuse for yanking me around again.”
I couldn’t think how to answer that, so I didn’t say a thing.
After a moment, Maris frowned. She began to look concerned. “You’re not kidding, are you?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Come on.” She led the way back to the living room, where we both sat down. “Tell me what’s going on. For starters, why did you come to me?”
“I heard the message you left on Sara’s answering machine yesterday. You sounded pretty angry.”
“I was. I still am.” Maris paused, then started again. “I mean, unless there’s actually something wrong. What makes you think Sara is missing, anyway?”
I explained about how Bertie had hired Sara to arrange her wedding, and about the note that had been delivered to Bertie at the show. “Bertie’s been trying to get in touch with her all week, but Sara’s disappeared and nobody’s seen her. She’s not returning her calls, either. Unless you’ve heard something . . . ?”
Maris shook her head. “In fact, I left a couple of messages myself. Sara never called me back. That’s one of the reasons why I was so mad when I left that message yesterday.”
I sat back on the couch. One of the Wheatens came over and rested his head on my knee. After a moment, his front legs, then his shoulders, had
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