“She didn’t have any friends?”

“There’s the man across the street. He came over to ask me if he could do anything to help. I got the impression that he and my mother were good friends.”

“What about the man with the keys to her garage? Was he a good friend, too?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

Evie felt herself flush. “Not that kind of friend.”

When they got back outside, Evie glanced across the street to where the second officer was ringing Frank Cutler’s bell. That house was dark, and the garage was open and empty. The officer gave up and tried the house next door.

“Okay, then. I guess that about wraps it up,” the younger officer said, handing her his card. He put away his notebook and looked as if he was anxious to be off. “Call if you discover anything else missing. And if I were you, I’d get the locks changed immediately.”

The older officer came back. “Just the old woman living next door is around. She has an interesting theory. She says the man who lives over there”—he indicated across the street toward Mr. Cutler’s house—“was out in front of your house earlier today. Talking to a tow truck driver who picked up a car. She thinks she saw a box in the driveway. Says she’s sure the man took it with him. But you can take that with a grain of salt. She calls us all the time, almost always with some complaint about that neighbor.”

Evie looked next door. Mrs. Yetner was still standing in her doorway, the screen pushed open. Was she a reliable witness or did she see what she wanted to see?

“Besides,” the officer added, “I’m not sure her eyesight is all that good.”

Evie waved at Mrs. Yetner. Her neighbor certainly saw her well enough to wave back.

Chapter Thirty-one

Mina had been surprised to see the police officers next door talking to Evie. Even more surprised when one of them came over to talk to her. As often as she called the police, she couldn’t remember the last time they’d actually stopped and questioned her. She was lucky if they slowed down when they rolled by.

Now she watched as the pair got back into their cruiser and drove off. Sandra Ferrante’s daughter was still out on her mother’s front steps, standing there like the poor thing didn’t have the good sense to come in out of the rain.

Mina pulled an umbrella from the stand and walked next door, picking her way across the wet lawn. “You had a break-in?”

“That’s what it looks like. Did you see anyone trying to get into the house?”

“I didn’t. But I was busy.” She’d gotten the chicken started, sat down to read, and then fallen asleep. The rain had woken her. When it let up, she’d taken the kitty litter over and sprinkled it over the gasoline spill. Young people had no idea how easy it was for a fire to get started. “What did they take?”

“Nothing, really.”

“What kind of nothing?”

The girl squirmed under Mina’s gaze. “A brown shipping box. Who’d bother with that?”

The girl must have been talking about the box that Mina had seen sitting at the end of the driveway getting rained on. Or maybe it had been in the grass. Weeds, really. Mina doubted if there was even a single sprout of actual bluegrass or fescue left in that yard. Then she’d gotten distracted by the sound of the winch raising the car and the spectacle of the truck driving off with the car in tow. After that, Frank had disappeared and she couldn’t recall seeing the box again.

“A big box?” Mina stretched her arms wide. “And flat?”

“Where did you see it?”

“Out in front of your house when he”—she tipped her head in the direction of the house across the street—“was out there chatting up the tow truck driver. I don’t know what he’s up to but he’s a schemer, that one.” Mina felt her face grow warm. “And he’s been hanging around your mother.” Like smell on a dead fish, as her father liked to say. “Helping out.” Mina sniffed.

As if that man were capable of helping anyone other than himself. Oh, he’d been pleasant enough when he first moved in. Brought her a bottle of sweet sherry that she’d never even opened. Even her grandmother hadn’t had a taste for sherry. Offered to clear the leaves off her lawn when she’d complained about the infernal noise of his leaf blower.

“He thinks I haven’t heard him, going through my trash in the middle of the night.” Mina caught the girl’s skeptical look. “More than once.”

“I know you don’t like him very much.” The girl had her arms folded in front of her as she pinched and tweaked her sleeves. “Are you sure you saw him actually walk off with that box?”

“Well.” Mina dropped her gaze. “Maybe not walk off with it.”

“Mrs. Yetner, whoever got in didn’t break in. I know Finn has a key to the garage. But maybe you know if my mother gave house keys to anyone else.”

Mina fastened the top button of her blouse and pulled her sweater around her. The question flustered her, because somewhere, deep in the recesses of her memory, she did recall that Sandra Ferrante had, once upon a time, given her a key to her front door. It was years and years ago, when the girls were little and sometimes locked themselves out. Mina had a vague memory of slipping the key into an envelope and writing Ferrante on it. But where it had gotten to, she had no idea.

“You don’t think I—” Mina started. “Because I would never—”

“You? Of course not,” the girl said, her cheeks blazing. “It’s just that whoever got in must have a key. Which means they can get in whenever they want to. And I might not even have noticed except the papers were—” Her voice cracked and she took a breath. “And I don’t know if it’s random or what.” The poor girl was trembling.

“Shhhh,” Mina said, putting her arm around her. “The thing to do is get the locks changed. Right away. And why don’t you stay overnight with us? Ivory will be delighted.” She could read Evie’s guarded look. “I promise not to leave a pot on the stove and burn the house down.”

Chapter Thirty-two

It had been so sweet of Mrs. Yetner to invite Evie to stay over, and though Evie had no intention of taking her up on it, knowing that she had the option made her feel safer and less alone. It was chilly and damp when she got back inside. The insecticide smell hadn’t vanished completely, and in the kitchen a single pantry moth fluttered drunkenly about. With her bare hand, she smacked it against the wall.

It took four calls to locksmiths listed in her mother’s 2008 copy of the Yellow Pages before she found one that was still in business and taking calls on a Sunday night. In return for payment in cash, the woman who took her call promised someone would be there in an hour.

Evie hung up and called Ginger. “The house got broken into,” Evie said as soon as Ginger picked up, “but they didn’t take anything valuable.”

“Oh my God. What next? Are you okay?” Ginger asked, her voice rising. “Did you call the police?”

“I’m fine. Of course I did.”

“Did they make a mess?”

“No. In fact, if I wasn’t so anal about the way I sorted Mom’s papers, I never would have realized the house was broken into. And before you ask, I’ve got someone coming to change the locks.”

“Tonight?”

“In an hour.”

“You sure you’re okay?”

“Other than a headache—” Evie put her hand to her temple and massaged the spot that had started to throb. Headaches that started that way usually turned into doozies. She started for the bathroom where she’d seen some Excedrin in the medicine cabinet. “—I’m fine.”

“It’s a good thing you had all that money with you,” Ginger said.

“Good thing,” Evie said as she ran water in the bathroom sink and splashed her face with one hand. “I’ll deposit it first thing tomorrow.”

“You’re sure nothing else is missing?”