There was no place to park, but a hard-packed dirt lane encircled the house, where I could see lights still burning. I pulled in beside a vintage truck up on blocks, wheels gone, its black tailgate down. I killed the engine and got out. I kept my attention half-turned on the pit bull while I picked my way to the front porch. The wooden steps creaked emphatically, which threw the pit bull into a frenzy. The dog lunged repeatedly with such force that the shuddering doghouse humped closer by a foot. Looking out across the yard, I could see a number of old cars dotting the landscape. Maybe Mrs. Wyrick sold salvaged auto parts along with all the other junk.

The top half of the front door was glass, with a panel of cloth that might have once been a dish towel concealing the rooms from view. The sound from a television set suggested a sitcom in progress. When I knocked, the glass windowpane rattled under my knuckles. After a moment, Mrs. Wyrick peered out and then she opened the door. The overhead light was on in the living room and a brightly lighted kitchen was visible beyond it.

She was softer than I’d imagined her. When I’d spoken to her on the phone, I’d pictured a harridan, stooped, not quite clean, with flyaway white hair, rheumy eyes, and bristles on her chin. She’d mentioned her shed, and I had images of a crone who’d been saving Life magazines since 1946. I envisioned a house filled with newspapers, head-high, with narrow walkways between, stray cats, and filth. The woman who greeted me had a round, doughy face. Her body looked spongy, rising and swelling as she moved until the flesh filled all the little nooks and crannies in her dress. She may have had some fermentation action under way as well because the snappishness I’d encountered on the phone had now mellowed. She seemed vague and irresolute, and she smelled like those bourbon balls people give you at Christmastime. She was eighty-five if a day.

The minute she saw me, she turned and lumbered back to her easy chair, leaving me to close the door. The rise and fall of a laugh track churned the air, not quite camouflaging the fact that nothing being said was funny in the least. “Did you take out the garbage?” Screams of laughter. “No, did you?” The more witless the line, the more hilarious was the outbreak of merriment. Mrs. Wyrick picked up the remote and lowered the sound. I spotted the half-empty pint of Old Forrester sitting on the end table near her chair.

We skipped right past all the social niceties, which was just as well. She was too looped to do much more than navigate from the chair to the door and back. I said, “Did you have any luck?”

Something flickered in the depths of her blue eyes-cunning or guilt. She picked up a folded piece of paper that fluttered lightly from the palsy in her hands. “Why do you want this?”

“Do you remember Violet Sullivan?”

“Yes. I knew Violet many years ago.”

“You must have heard that her body was found.”

“I saw that on the television.”

“Then you know about the Pomeranian in the car with her.”

“I believe the fella said a dog. I don’t remember any mention of a Pomeranian.”

“Well, that’s what it was, and I think the dog was one you sold. Is that the litter record?”

“Yes it is, hon, but I can only tell you who bought the puppy. I wouldn’t know anything about where the dog went from here.”

“I understand. The point is I suspect the man who bought the dog gave her to Violet and he’s the one who killed both.”

She began to shake her head. “No, now you see, that doesn’t sound right. I can’t believe that. It doesn’t set well with me.”

“Why not?” I caught a flash of light and glanced over my shoulder, thinking a car was pulling into the drive. The dog barked with renewed vigor.

Mrs. Wyrick touched my arm and I turned back to her. “Because I’ve known the man for years. My late husband and I were longtime customers of his and he treated us well.”

“You’re talking about the Blue Moon?”

“Oh, no. The Moon is a bar. My husband didn’t hold with alcoholic beverages. He never had a drink in his life.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to jump to conclusions. Do you sell automobile parts?”

“Not for the kind of car you have. I heard you when you drove up. It sounded foreign to me. I may be deaf in the one ear, but the other one hears good.”

“What about Chevrolet parts?”

“Them and Fords and whatever, but I don’t see how that applies to this question of the dog.”

“May I see the paper?”

“That’s what I’m still talking over in my head, whether I should pass this on. I don’t want to cause any harm.”

“The harm’s already been done. I’d be happy to pay for the information if that would help you decide.”

“A hundred dollars?”

“I can do that,” I said. When I reached for my wallet, I noticed my hand was shaking. I had to get out of there.

She laughed. “I was just saying that to see what you’d do. I won’t charge you anything.”

“Then you’ll give it to me?”

“I suppose so since you drove all the way out.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

She held the paper out.

It was like the Academy Awards. And the nominees are… I opened the fold and looked down at the name, thinking about the presenter who pulls the card from the envelope and knows for one split second something the audience is still waiting to hear. And the winner is…

“Tom Padgett?”

“You know Little Tommy? We always called him Little Tommy to distinguish from his daddy, who was Big Tom.”

“I don’t know him well, but I’ve met the man,” I said. I thought about how rich he was now that his wife was dead, how desperate he must have been while she was still alive.

“Well, then I don’t see how you can think he’d ever do a thing like that.”

“Maybe I’m mistaken.” I could feel the fear welling up. I tucked the paper in my bag and put one hand on the doorknob, prepared to ease out.

She seemed to be rooted in place but fidgety at the same time. “He always said if anybody ever asked about the dog I should let him know. So I called and told him you were coming out.”

My mouth had gone dry and there was a sensation in my chest like a faraway electrical storm. “What did he say?”

“It didn’t seem to worry him. He said he’d drive over to have a chat with you and get it all straightened out, but he must have been delayed.”

“I thought someone pulled in just a moment ago.”

“Well, it must not have been him. He’d have knocked on the door.”

“If he shows up after I’m gone, would you tell him I was thinking of someone else and I’m sorry for the inconvenience?”

“I can tell him that.”

“Mind if I use your phone?”

“It’s right there on the wall.” She nodded toward the kitchen.

“Thanks.” I crossed the living room to the kitchen and picked up the handset from the wall-mounted phone. The line was dead. I set it back with care. “It seems to be out of order so I’ll just be on my way. I can probably find a phone somewhere else.”

“Whatever you say, Hon. I enjoyed the visit.”

I left by the front door, and the porch bulb went out as soon as my foot hit the step. For a minute I was blinded by the sudden shift from bright lights to darkness. The dog had taken up its barking, but he didn’t seem any closer to the house. I could hear the rattle of its chain as he paced back and forth. I stood there, waiting for my eyes to adjust. I scanned the area around the house. I spotted my VW, parked where I’d left it. There were no other cars in sight. The highway extended in both directions with no passing cars. I found my car keys and listened to them jingle as I went down the stairs. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely unlock the car door.

Automatically I checked the backseat before I got in. I made sure both doors were locked and then started the car, shoving the gear into reverse. I took my gun out of the glove compartment and laid it on the passenger seat, putting my shoulder bag over it to weigh it in place. I threw my right arm over the top of the passenger seat, my eyes on the path behind me as I backed out of the yard. I swung out onto the highway and shifted into first. All I had to do was reach the sheriff’s substation, less than ten miles away. I’d have to cut south from Highway 166 to West Winslet Road, then cut south again on Blosser, which Liza had penned in parallel to the triangle of land where the airport sat. Foster Road was close to the southernmost boundary.