“You ever ridden with Mary in that car of hers?” she asked me as she shook my hand.

“Several times,” I said.

Rachel looked at me questioningly.

“A cherry ‘68 Mustang convertible,” I said, getting nods of agreement from Esther and Ruby.

“I’ve got to meet this woman,” Rachel said.

“Who lives in the other apartment?” I asked, pointing to the one across the hall from Esther’s.

“Oh, that guy. He’s spending a month back east with his grandkids,” Esther said, then added with a note of disapproval, “He’s like your aunt was-he keeps to himself.”

“But I take it you all keep an eye on one another?” I said to Ruby.

“Yes. That’s how we caught the burglars. Esther scared them off- didn’t have to use my little semiautomatic. Only a twenty-two, not much stopping power. But it will do in a pinch. I must say I’m relieved to have you take Briana’s belongings away from this place.”

“Tell us more about these attempted burglaries,” Rachel said. “The first time you saw him, he parked out front, came up to look at the mailboxes, then left?”

“Yes,” Ruby said. “Esther spotted him first, and called me. We watched him while he was watching the place. But he didn’t try to get in that time. Later, we sat down and figured out that it had been just before the accident.” She shook her head. “I feel so terrible about that! Briana kept to herself more than most, so we didn’t always know what she was up to, if you know what I mean. We knew she wasn’t home, but recently she’d taken to leaving for a few days at a time, and we just thought she might have gone visiting some friends or relatives. But then to find out…” Her voice trailed off as she caught Esther’s censorious glare.

“To answer your question,” Esther said, “the man showed up just before Briana died, and watched the place. Then he came by again, after the accident, but before we knew what had become of her. He had a set of lock picks with him.”

“Lock picks?” Rachel said. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Ruby said. “Saw them plain as day through the peephole.” She pointed out a small opening in her apartment door.

“I scared him off,” Esther said. “And I got a good look at him, too.”

“Mind describing him for me?” I asked.

“He’s tall,” Esther said, “about six foot, I’d say, and handsome enough, I guess.”

“Hoo!” Ruby exclaimed. “A regular silver fox!”

“Control yourself,” Esther said, but added, “To be fair, he was a somewhat attractive man. I’d put him in his mid-to-late fifties. Broad shoulders. He must have been dark-haired at one time, but mostly gray now. Cut short. And he was clean-shaven.”

“I smelled booze on him,” Ruby added.

“Oh, now, Ruby!”

“I was right down here near him, Esther, and I tell you I smelled booze.” She turned to us. “Do you know him?”

“Now Ruby Hambly, why on earth would they know a drunken burglar?” Esther exclaimed. “Of course they don’t.”

“You said there were two attempts?” I asked.

“Yes,” Esther said. “The second time was just a day or two ago. Didn’t get as good a look that time-slender fellow, trying to break in through a back window.”

“How tall?” Rachel asked.

“That’s hard to say, too. I only saw him at night, and from my upstairs window. Saw someone in dark clothes and a knit cap, which was an odd thing to be wearing on a spring evening. Heard him trying to pry the bars off. Stupid thing to try. I shouted down at him and he ran off. I’d guess him to be younger than the fellow who was at the door, and definitely not as tall.”

“Sure it wasn’t the same man?” I asked.

“That much I’m sure of. Different build.”

Rachel asked a few more questions, but the ladies seemed not to be able to recall much more. There was an argument over the make and color of the drunken burglar’s car. It was American, a sedan, dark green or brown.

“I appreciate your watching over things,” I said. “I’m going to try to get everything moved out this weekend, so with any luck this place won’t seem so attractive to thieves.”

They again expressed condolences, then went back to their apartments.

I unlocked Briana’s apartment door, and Rachel followed me in and shut it behind us.

“I’ll open a couple of windows,” she said.

The room we stepped into was warm and close. I felt a mild sensation of claustrophobia, and if Rachel had not hurried to let some air in, I might have stepped back outside. I glanced back at the door and saw a crucifix above it, dried palm leaves from a Palm Sunday Mass placed behind the cross. I turned my attention back to the job at hand.

I reached over a small, tattered sofa and raised the blind on the picture window, filling the room with sunlight. Looking more closely at the sofa, I saw tufts of shredding on the corners and arms; the type that can only be made by a cat who has decided to use the upholstery as a scratching post. For a moment I worried that some feline had been horribly neglected after Briana’s death, but saw no other signs that a cat had been living in the apartment-no scent of a cat or a litter box, no fur, no food dishes, no cat toys.

This front room was a parlor of sorts, a room that could be closed off from the rest of the apartment by pulling two sliding wooden doors shut. The carpet was a faded floral pattern of large, pale roses on a beige background. On one wall, there was a framed print of the Sacred Heart. On top of a set of built-in bookcases, Briana had made up a small shrine to the Blessed Virgin: a little plaster statuette surrounded by five blue-glass candle holders. A pink-glass rosary lay to one side, on top of a holy card with the prayer “Hail Holy Queen” printed on it. One shelf of the bookcase held a dog-eared, leather-bound Bible and a worn St. Joseph’s Sunday Missal, as well as Butler’s Lives of the Saints. There were no other books, only two solemn ceramic angels, one with its guiding hand on a small boy’s shoulder, the other like it, but guiding a little girl. The lower shelves held a few seashells.

If Briana was this religious a couple of decades ago, when we were closer, I didn’t remember it. Devout Catholics though Briana and my mother had been, that devotion hadn’t overwhelmed the decor of their homes.

Rachel had already moved to the rear of the apartment. I continued to walk through rooms, but more slowly. I moved from the front room into a larger room that contained a small dining table and a set of built-in cupboards. The cupboards contained a few pieces of mismatched crockery. On the table, facing the single chair, was a small, black-and-white TV with a crack in its case; a bent hanger did duty as an antennae. In front of the TV was a plastic placemat-a photograph of a meadow blooming with small yellow flowers. Although it was clean, there was an indentation where hot cups of tea had been placed. I caught myself making this supposition of tea and stood remembering that unlike her sister, Briana had never acquired a taste for coffee; that on Sundays after Mass, Briana would come to the house and my mother-who had shopped at special stores to find the type of tea her sister liked to drink-would bake scones. Tea and scones to make Briana feel welcomed in our home. I ran my fingers across the indentation in the plastic mat and wondered if Briana ever thought of those long-ago Sunday mornings.

I went into the small, bright kitchen at the back of the apartment. I opened cupboards, found a can of peaches, two cans of chicken noodle soup, a tin of Hershey’s cocoa, a box of powdered milk, a box of baking soda, a small box of sugar and half a bag of flour. Nothing more. The refrigerator was empty, but Mary had warned me that the landlord was going to clean it out-it belonged to him, along with the stove. In a drawer next to the stove, I found a box of generic-brand tea bags. I felt my throat tighten.

I shut the drawer and moved through another door, which led to a bathroom. Here there was a sink, toilet and claw-foot tub; a small mirror that was losing its silvering; a pink toothbrush in a water-stained glass; three hairpins near the faucet; cracked linoleum; a set of thin towels neatly folded over a single towel rack. I moved on.