doors and modulated voices; no one seemed to feel the need to mow a lawn or blow away an errant leaf.
However, I was puzzled by Madison’s behavior. She’d professed great concern about Sara Louise at noon—but shortly thereafter, had cast off her Florence Nightingale trappings and disappeared, not into the night but into the midday sun. I told the girls I would return shortly with some crackers and cheese, then went inside. Madison had not left a note on the pad next to the phone. I did a quick tour of the living room, dining room, and den. The only evidence of any occupation was in the den, where there were soda cans and an empty pretzel bag on a coffee table. Fingerprinting and DNA testing were not required to identify the culprits.
I went upstairs and into Sara Louise’s bedroom. She appeared not to have moved since I’d been there earlier. I was not surprised, since the prescription bottle from a pharmacy contained pills strong enough to knock out the most valiant cavalry troops on the Crimean battlefields. Sara Louise’s color was adequate and she was breathing evenly.
The bedroom directly across the hall was untidy, but no more so than the master suite. Madison had been able to cram quite a bit into her backpack, I thought as I picked up clothes and tossed them on the bed. She clearly preferred silk to cotton, and the sunglasses atop the dresser were replicas of the ones in Caron’s magazine. I stopped as I saw her purse on a chair by the window. I advanced cautiously, as though it might be a booby trap left by fashion terrorists. Echoes of stern warnings blared over loudspeakers in airports flashed through my mind.
I finally opened it. Rather than sticks of dynamite, it contained a thick wallet, a makeup kit, scraps of paper, pens, a checkbook, a key ring, a brush, a small address book, wadded tissues, and other necessities.
I could think of no reason why she wouldn’t have taken it with her, unless she’d anticipated being gone for only a few minutes. It would have been firmly affixed to her backpack had she attempted to climb Mount Everest, or strapped to her life jacket had she chosen to go white-water rafting on the Colorado River. A dearth of lipstick would pose a greater threat than mere frostbite.
Perplexed, I did a quick search of the guest bathroom, master suite, and my bedroom. If there was an attic, I saw no telltale trapdoor in the ceiling. Madison was not the type to risk climbing a rickety ladder in order to brush away cobwebs and amuse herself by snooping through whatever Dolly might have stored there.
There was likely to be a more mundane explanation, I told myself as I went downstairs. The doctor at the emergency room could have been as handsome as the most recent customer at the Book Depot, and called to invite Madison for a leisurely lunch. A grad student might have met her while she was at the mailbox and suggested watching racy videos at his house. She’d felt the need for a spontaneous trip to the mall to alleviate her stress and called a taxi. She’d gone for a walk, turned her ankle, and was now being treated by a bearded professor with a fondness for whiny blondes in tiny shorts. But she wouldn’t have left her purse behind in any of those scenarios.
There wasn’t much point in worrying about it, I concluded. Remembering my offer to appear poolside with cheese and crackers, I went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. The shelves were crowded with containers of leftover Thai delicacies, cold cuts, cans of soda and beer, a curling piece of pizza, jars of pickles and relishes, and so forth. I found packages of cheese in a lower drawer. I took out what I preferred, along with a jar of olives and a salami, arranged a platter, and was about to go outside when I realized I hadn’t seen any steaks. When I’d last seen Madison, she’d been on her way to the freezer in the garage, but apparently had lost her way or allowed herself to be distracted by the heady
However, I was puzzled by Madison’s behavior. She’d professed great concern about Sara Louise at noon—but shortly thereafter, had cast off her Florence Nightingale trappings and disappeared, not into the night but into the midday sun. I told the girls I would return shortly with some crackers and cheese, then went inside. Madison had not left a note on the pad next to the phone. I did a quick tour of the living room, dining room, and den. The only evidence of any occupation was in the den, where there were soda cans and an empty pretzel bag on a coffee table. Fingerprinting and DNA testing were not required to identify the culprits.
I went upstairs and into Sara Louise’s bedroom. She appeared not to have moved since I’d been there earlier. I was not surprised, since the prescription bottle from a pharmacy contained pills strong enough to knock out the most valiant cavalry troops on the Crimean battlefields. Sara Louise’s color was adequate and she was breathing evenly.
The bedroom directly across the hall was untidy, but no more so than the master suite. Madison had been able to cram quite a bit into her backpack, I thought as I picked up clothes and tossed them on the bed. She clearly preferred silk to cotton, and the sunglasses atop the dresser were replicas of the ones in Caron’s magazine. I stopped as I saw her purse on a chair by the window. I advanced cautiously, as though it might be a booby trap left by fashion terrorists. Echoes of stern warnings blared over loudspeakers in airports flashed through my mind.
I finally opened it. Rather than sticks of dynamite, it contained a thick wallet, a makeup kit, scraps of paper, pens, a checkbook, a key ring, a brush, a small address book, wadded tissues, and other necessities.
I could think of no reason why she wouldn’t have taken it with her, unless she’d anticipated being gone for only a few minutes. It would have been firmly affixed to her backpack had she attempted to climb Mount Everest, or strapped to her life jacket had she chosen to go white-water rafting on the Colorado River. A dearth of lipstick would pose a greater threat than mere frostbite.
Perplexed, I did a quick search of the guest bathroom, master suite, and my bedroom. If there was an attic, I saw no telltale trapdoor in the ceiling. Madison was not the type to risk climbing a rickety ladder in order to brush away cobwebs and amuse herself by snooping through whatever Dolly might have stored there.
There was likely to be a more mundane explanation, I told myself as I went downstairs. The doctor at the emergency room could have been as handsome as the most recent customer at the Book Depot, and called to invite Madison for a leisurely lunch. A grad student might have met her while she was at the mailbox and suggested watching racy videos at his house. She’d felt the need for a spontaneous trip to the mall to alleviate her stress and called a taxi. She’d gone for a walk, turned her ankle, and was now being treated by a bearded professor with a fondness for whiny blondes in tiny shorts. But she wouldn’t have left her purse behind in any of those scenarios.
There wasn’t much point in worrying about it, I concluded. Remembering my offer to appear poolside with cheese and crackers, I went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. The shelves were crowded with containers of leftover Thai delicacies, cold cuts, cans of soda and beer, a curling piece of pizza, jars of pickles and relishes, and so forth. I found packages of cheese in a lower drawer. I took out what I preferred, along with a jar of olives and a salami, arranged a platter, and was about to go outside when I realized I hadn’t seen any steaks. When I’d last seen Madison, she’d been on her way to the freezer in the garage, but apparently had lost her way or allowed herself to be distracted by the heady
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