“Have at it.”

I circled the kitchen, glancing into the three adjoining rooms—a glassed-in back porch that ran the width of the house, formal dining room, and den. By the time I finished my minitour, she’d taken out an enormous wineglass and poured me enough Chardonnay to float a small school of fish.

“We can sit on the porch unless you have a better idea.”

“I’m with you,” I said.

I tagged after her as she crossed the kitchen in a billow of silk. Windows, mounted above wainscoting, now enclosed what had probably once been a bare concrete patio. A sisal carpet covered much of the floor, and the windows could be protected with roll-up blinds if the sun hit at a blinding angle at odd times of the day. The furniture was white wicker, old-fashioned compared to the rest of the house. Looking out, I realized the house to the right of hers was where the Unruhs had lived. I couldn’t see the spot where the techs had gone to work, but it felt odd to know I was in range of a site that had occupied so much of my imagination of late.

She settled on one of two love seats that faced each other across a wicker coffee table. She leaned forward and snagged an ashtray, pulling it closer so she could light another cigarette. The ashtray was metal and the spent paper match made a tinking sound when she tossed it in. She took a deep drag on her cigarette and blew out a stream of smoke, lifting her head slightly to avoid blowing it in my face. “Now then. Why did Felix send you over here? Natural charm aside, I’m sure you have a deeper purpose in mind.”

“I’m interested in talking to Deborah Unruh. Felix thought you might put me in touch.”

“Really. And what’s your interest?”

“I’m a PI.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m a private investigator. My client was the one who motivated the cops to dig up the Unruhs’ backyard.”

“How did your ‘client’ talk them into it? That must have been a trick.”

“He remembered something that happened when he was six years old and thought it was connected to a crime.”

“And what crime was that?”

“I’d prefer not to say.”

“I see. So you want information from me, but you won’t pony up yourself.”

“Good point. I’m talking about the Mary Claire Fitzhugh kidnapping.”

“What’s that have to do with Deborah? They dug up a damn dog. I don’t see the relevance.”

“The dog was buried in 1967 when she and Patrick were still living in the house.”

“I’d say ‘So what,’ but I don’t want to sound rude.”

“It was right around the time Mary Claire Fitzhugh disappeared.”

She studied me briefly. “You’re not drinking your wine.”

“It’s a little early in the day for me.”

“I usually start at noon, so this is late as far as I’m concerned. You really ought to loosen up. One little taste won’t kill you.”

I took a sip of wine, which I confess was head and shoulders above the crap I’m used to drinking. “Wow. That’s really lovely.”

“Told you so.” She was silent for a moment, pressing a wrinkle out of the silk in her lap. “Funny you should mention Mary Claire.”

“How so?”

She studied the end of her cigarette. “Don’t think I’m telling tales out of school here, but Deborah had a similar experience. Her grand-daughter, Rain, was abducted maybe ten days before Mary Claire was kidnapped. Happily, Rain was returned unharmed, but Deborah believed Rain was what she called the ‘practice child.’ Rehearsal in preparation for the real deal.”

18

JON CORSO

Summer 1967

The Amazing Mona had arranged an eight-week trip to France and Italy, departing after the school year ended in June. She and the girls had been to Europe when she was married to her former husband, and now she wanted to relive the joys of foreign travel with Lionel in tow. Lionel saw the trip as an opportunity to do research for a book on the lesser-known American expatriates writing in Paris after World War I. In May of Jon’s senior year at Santa Teresa High, his academic performance was still so poor that it was clear he wasn’t going to graduate. As a consequence, he was excluded from the family vacation.

He was three credits short of what was required for his diploma and he’d managed to exasperate just about everyone, including his English teacher, Mr. Snow, who snagged him one afternoon after class. Mr. Snow was thirty-five years old, dedicated and energetic, new to Santa Teresa High School, where he taught English and creative writing. He’d had two novels published and he was working on his third. He perched on the edge of his desk, with his grade book open in front of him. He ran his finger down the column of Jon’s classroom grades, many of which read “incomplete.” He shook his head while Jon sat in the front row, posing as a kid busy contemplating his sins.