“How do you know? My dad says that whenever there are a string of crimes like this one, you get people knocking off their families and pretending it was done by the first guy.” This from the omniscient Jenny.

“Well, she was. Because our next-door neighbour is a good friend of the cop who is investigating the murders, and she told my Aunt Kate that it was probably the same guy. And that we should be very careful.” Amanda took another bite from her limp sandwich. “And so it doesn’t matter who that poor wimp was—I mean, even if he was her husband, he didn’t do it.” There was something in Amanda’s air of finality that intimidated her classmates. The conversation turned rapidly to some very cute hunks who were coming over from a local boys’ school, and to whether the slim chance one would have of being tripped over by one of them would make staying late worthwhile.

But at the dinner table that night at the Martin Delisles, and the Geoffrey Smiths, and the Paul Wilcoxes, the fascinating tale of Amanda Griffiths and the man in the gray Honda was trotted out as a lure that would interest even Daddies. Martin Delisle felt that in some obscure way it proved what he had been saying all along, and he warned Jenny to be on her guard. Geoffrey Smith laughed, and to Leslie’s intense irritation, dismissed it as a particularly elaborate piece of schoolgirl embroidery. Paul Wilcox even managed to look faintly interested and to ask a kind question about her observant friends. Poor Sarah glowed with delight at the implied, but unaccustomed, praise, as she prattled on.

It was well past lunch time, and Sanders and Dubinsky had been driving back and forth for some time in a thin, nasty drizzle along Kingston Road—the city’s eastern strip—looking for the Blue Cross Motel. The Cobourg Police Department had apparently believed that a name and the street on which it was located would be sufficient identification. “And it would have been,” said Sanders, “if they’d gotten the bloody name right. There isn’t a Blue Cross Motel; Dubinsky. Turn around and we’ll try the Blue Dolphin and the Bluegrass.” Dubinsky started patiently back the other way. “There it is.” Sanders pointed at a gaudy sign depicting a porcine and melancholy dolphin with a wary look, as if it were expecting to turn up at dinner as special of the day. The gentleman behind the counter looked even more melancholy and world-weary than the dolphin.

He twitched back the corner of his little mustache in a smile. “Yes?” he asked in sepulchral tones.

“Do you have someone here,” Sanders flashed his identification in the clerk’s direction, “named Michael Hutchinson?” He glanced around him impatiently. The sight of the I.D. card plunged the desk clerk into even greater fits of despair. He shrugged his shoulders helplessly and reached for the register. “Staying since the beginning of February?”

“Oh, no,” he replied morosely. “Our customers don’t often manage to stay until dinner time. I’d certainly remember if someone had been here that long. No. No one. Not of that name or any other. Sorry.” He pushed the register back into its niche with a sigh.

“A comedian,” said Sanders, as they walked back to the car. “Let’s get on with it.”

The Bluegrass Motel was small, shabby, and absurdly named. It was tucked in behind a large gas station and beside a tiny suburban plaza in its death throes. The nearest grass was probably three blocks away; the nearest horse, several miles. Inside the hovel marked “Management,” a thin, white-haired elfish man sat hunched over a copy of a magazine which he slid rapidly under the counter as soon as he saw that he was not alone. “We don’t rent rooms for half a day,” he said sourly.

“Jesus, what is this?” said Dubinsky. “What the hell do we look like?” His voice became coldly unpleasant. “You got someone here named Michael Hutchinson?”

“He’s out. His car ain’t there, so he’s out. What you want him for?”

“To talk to,” said Sanders, tightly. “When did he go?”

“Dunno.” He pulled out his magazine and flipped the page.

“The key,” said Dubinsky, clapping his huge hand over the open page on the counter. “We’ll check it out for ourselves.”

“Can’t do that. Not unless you have a warrant.” He tried to yank the magazine out from under Dubinsky’s paw, with no success.

Sanders leaned over the counter, his voice friendly and confidential. “Perhaps you’d prefer to have us come back in the evening,” he said. “Every evening, say, in a nice bright yellow car, with lights flashing on the roof, just when you’re trying to fill up for the night.” The clerk glared at him across the counter, slowly got up, reached in a drawer for a small bunch of keys and tossed them down in front of them.

“Room nine,” he said. “The numbers are on them.” He turned his back on them in complete indifference and went back to his cultural pursuits.

Except for an unmade bed, room nine showed few signs of occupancy—no suitcases, no clothing hanging up on the open rack near the door. Sanders looked in the bathroom. Empty. Not so much as a rusty razor blade in the tiny medicine cabinet. Wet towels lay about the tiny room; the paper bathmat was soggy and gray. On the floor in front of the television set a morning paper lay spread open to pages two and three. As Sanders leaned over it to see what was there, the second part of a story on the death of Jane Conway stared back at him. He turned to Dubinsky. “He’s gone. The bastard’s gone. As soon as he saw the story in the paper he took off. All this time we’ve been farting around looking for disappearing rapists and husbands, and he was right under our noses. Get the license number and make of the car from that idiot out there and call it in. We should be able to pick him up if he didn’t leave too long ago.” As Dubinsky went out the door, he glanced back and saw Sanders standing very still, muttering at the carpet.

Eleanor pulled up in the driveway of 24 Forest Crescent and sat for a moment in the car. The spring house-buying season was in full swing, and the day had been hectic—meetings in the morning and three showings in the afternoon. Fortunately, a five o’clock appointment had canceled out, or she could have been in the office until nine. She wondered if John had called. After all, it had been his idea that she go to that crashingly boring party with Grant, and two days later, she still hadn’t heard from him. Of course, she’d been presiding over an open house all Sunday afternoon, but he knew how to leave a message at the office. Damn! Sitting here stewing did no good at all.

She opened the front door cautiously and looked around to see who was about. Mrs. Flaherty was crashing around with her pots in the kitchen, a reassuring sound, and the blare of the television from the morning room told her where her daughter probably was. She strode through and discovered her mother and Heather deep in a WKRP in Cincinnati rerun.

“Oh, hi, Mummy,” said Heather. “I thought you weren’t going to be in tonight.” She reached up her forehead for a kiss.

“Sorry to disappoint you, sweetheart, but my evening appointment canceled out—three houses I don’t have to go through tonight. I think they’ve finally realized that they have no intention of moving.” This remark was addressed to her mother, who also presented herself for a kiss. “So here I am. Anyone call?”

“Not that I know of, dear. But you’d better check the front hall.”

“Yes, of course I will. How was school?”

“Fine,” said Heather as she always did. Eleanor often wondered what it would take of triumph or disaster to make her come up with a more elaborate description. “And I need five dollars and a permission slip signed today because we’re going to the zoo tomorrow and I’m the only person who hasn’t got her money in yet. Mrs. Brett is really mad.”