slippers. The tiny monster looked ready to take a chunk out of us, too.
âThey were looking for Elizabeth. Her twentieth class reunionâs coming up, and they wondered if she wanted to be on the planning committee. I told them I didnât think sheâd be interested.â
Mr. Potter eyed both Cory and me up and down. âNot likely.â
I gestured to his wife. âMrs. Potter was explaining about Elizabethâs accident. We didnât know.â
Mr. Potter brushed by us, yanking the dog away from our ankles, and entered the house. âWe donât like to talk about that. Whatâs done is done.â
âYes, of course. We wonât intrude on your time anymore.â
Nor would that be an option. Mr. Potter had closed the door right in our faces.
_____
Wayne Engleâs childhood home lay four miles from Elizabethâs parents, a large blue colonial with black shutters, a red door, a three-car garage, and a white picket fence. The well-manicured lawn covered at least two acres, a covered in-ground pool visible in the backyard.
I glanced at Cory over the roof of the BMW as we climbed out. âWeâre moving on up.â
He grinned in response. âIt is the eastside.â
A woman around Coryâs age answered the doorbell. She had blond
hair and light brown eyes as well as a distinct resemblance to Wayneâs
yearbook picture. His sister? Again, Cory took the lead. âHi, Iâm Cory and this is Jolene. Is Wayne Engle home?â
âWayne doesnât live here anymore, not for years.â Her gaze swept over the two of us, measuring, assessing then dismissing.
âI see.â Cory waved the yearbook. âHis twentieth class reunion is coming up. The alumni association is looking for volunteers to plan the event. Any idea if he would be interested?â
âI doubt it.â She moved to close the door.
Cory stepped forward. âWould you have his current address or phone number? Iâm sure heâd at least like an invitation to the reunion.â
She hesitated.
I spoke up. âWeâre trying to locate the whole class and make this the best-attended reunion ever.â With my smile, I tried to channel pep rally spirit, flying in the face of my true long and happy history of nonparticipation.
The blond frowned, perhaps not a school spirit kind of girl either. âHe lives in Binghamton. He owns an insurance company, Wayne Engle Insurance. You could try him there.â
For the second time that day, a door closed in our faces.
âFriendly, wasnât she?â
Cory didnât seem phased by the womanâs behavior. âWe got what we came for, maybe more. Donât you think itâs weird both he and Elizabeth live in Binghamton?â
âItâs a big city, close by. I like it better than Albany. Maybe they do, too.â
Cory glanced at his watch. âShould we swing by his office on the way home?â
Weâd driven across the state and approached Albany from the north this morning. It would be easy to return home to Wachobe from the south, driving through Binghamton and Watkins Glen on the way.
âWe could, but itâs definitely weird for us to drive all the way there to tell him about a class reunion. We look like hometown cheerleaders here in Albany. But there, weâd look like fanatics, tracking down the man to discuss a reunion thatâs more than a year and a half away, especially after his sister said he wouldnât be interested. I think he would expect to get a phone call or a letter about the reunion, now that weâve talked to her. If she calls him to say we stopped by his parentâs house, heâs going to be suspicious.â
âOkay. Let me think.â
Back in the car, Cory fiddled with the GPS, typing in Wayne Engleâs company name and city. The street address popped up on the screen and the system plotted a two hour and twenty minute drive for us. At least
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