He left me alone soon afterward and I went through every cabinet and drawer, drinking in the scent of the wood, listening to the phantom creaking of the wind in the rafters overhead. It took me fifteen minutes to move my possessions in. Most of what I owned had been destroyed by the same bomb that flattened the old place. My all-purpose dress had survived, along with a favorite vest and the air fern Henry'd given me for Christmas. Everything else had been pulverized by black powder, blasting caps, and shrapnel. With the insurance money, I'd bought a few odds and ends – jeans and jumpsuits – and then I'd tucked the rest in a money market account, where it was merrily collecting interest.

At 8:45, I locked up, looked in on Henry briefly, and fumbled my way through yet another thank-you, which he waved away. Then I headed to the office, a quick ten-minute drive into town. I wanted to stay home, circling my house like a sea captain preparing to embark on some fabulous voyage, but I knew for a fact I had bills to pay and telephone calls to return.

I dispensed with several minor items, typing up a couple of invoices for two standing accounts. The last name on the list of phone calls was a Mrs. Clyde Gersh who had left a message on my machine late the day before with a request to get in touch at my convenience.

I dialed her number, reaching for a yellow pad. The phone rang twice and then a woman picked up on the other end.

"Mrs. Gersh?"

"Yes," she said. Her tone held a note of caution as if I might be soliciting contributions for some fraudulent charity.

"Kinsey Millhone, returning your call."

There was a split second of silence and then she seemed to recollect who I was. "Oh yes, Miss Millhone. I appreciate your being so prompt. I have a matter I'd like to discuss with you, but I don't drive and I'd prefer not to leave the house. Is there any chance you might meet with me here sometime today?"