Bartell, C. H., 1202 Archibald Street.

Now, this may sound fishy, but up until that moment I hadn’t thought of Martin’s former wife being in Corinth.

I discovered I was burning with the urge to see Cindy Bartell. A particularly ridiculous jealousy had flared in my heart; I wanted to see her.

Wise or not, I decided to lay eyes on Cindy Bartell while I was here. I took off my glasses and relaxed on the slablike motel bed, with an uneasy feeling that I was being seriously stupid, and wracked my brain to try to remember what Cindy did for a living. Surely Martin had mentioned it at some point or other? He was not one to discuss his past much, though he seemed fascinated with the placidity of mine…

I almost fell asleep fully dressed, and when I forced myself to get up and wash my face and put on my nightgown, I had dredged up the fact that Cindy Bartell was, or had been, a florist.

The little telephone book informed me that there was a listing for a Cindy’s Flowers.

I fell asleep as if I’d been sandbagged, still not having decided if my good taste and good sense would keep me away from Cindy’s shop.

The next morning I showered briskly, put my mass of long, wavy hair up in a bun that I hoped would make me look religious, went light on the makeup, and cleaned my glasses carefully. I wore a suit, a khaki-colored one with a bronze silk blouse, and modest brown pumps. I wanted to look ultrarespectable, so Mrs. Bishop would be reassured, yet I wanted the religious cult front to be objectionable enough to tempt Joseph Flocken to sell the farm to spite his stepchildren. Unfortunately, I didn’t know the location of the farm, since Flocken didn’t have a phone listing. I was simply hoping I’d spot it during my driving around with the real estate agent.

I scanned myself in the motel mirror, thought I would pass whatever test Mrs. Bishop chose to give, and went off to have a little breakfast before I met her.