She touched the credit slip. “You still need to total and sign.”

I did, adding a 25 percent tip.

“Thank you,” she said.

“My pleasure. What made you think this woman didn’t like the clinic?”

“Just the way she talked- asking lots of questions. About them.” Glancing across the street. “Not right away. After she’d been coming for a while.”

“What kinds of questions?”

“How long they’d been here. I had no idea, just moved in myself. Did the doctors or any of the other patients ever come in here- that was an easy one. Not even once. Except Kathy- that was her name. She didn’t seem afraid of anything. Kind of aggressive, actually. But I liked her- she was friendly, liked my food. And she came in all the time. I really liked the idea of having a regular. Then one day, out of the blue, she just stopped.” Snapping her fingers. “Just like that. I thought it was strange. Especially because she hadn’t mentioned anything about being finished with her treatment. So when you said this other woman disappeared, it kind of reminded me of that. Though Kathy didn’t really disappear- she just stopped showing up.”

“How long ago was this?”

She thought. “About a month ago. First I thought it was something to do with the food, but she stopped going over there, too. I knew her car. She’d been on a regular schedule: Monday and Thursday afternoon, like clockwork. At three-fifteen she’d be in here for angel hair pasta or scallops, cappuccino royale, and a raisin croissant. I appreciated it because, to tell the truth, business has not been booming yet- we’re still establishing our presence. My husband has been I-told-you-soing for three months. I started Sunday brunch last week, but it hasn’t exactly raised the dead.”

I clucked my tongue in sympathy.

She smiled. “I called this place La Mystique, for mystery. He says the only mystery is when I’m going to fold- so I’ve got to prove him wrong. That’s why I especially appreciated Kathy’s patronage. I still wonder what happened to her.”

“Do you remember her last name?”

“Why?”

“I’m just trying to contact everyone who knew my patient’s mother. You never know what little detail might tell us something.”

She hesitated, then: “One sec.”

She pocketed the credit slip, went back into the kitchen. As I waited, I looked over at the clinic building. No one entered or exited. Not a hint of life behind the windows.

She returned with a square of yellow message paper.

“This is Kathy’s sister’s address. She gave her as a reference at the beginning, because she used to pay by check and her own checks were out-of-state. I actually thought of giving a call, but never got around to it. If you speak to her, give her my best- tell her Joyce said hi.”

I took the paper and read it. Neatly printed letters in red felt-tip marker:

KATHY MORIARTY

C/O ROBBINS

2012 ASHBOURNE DR.

S. PAS.

A 795 phone number.

I put it in my wallet, got up, and said, “Thanks. Everything was great.”

“All you had was berries and coffee. Come back sometime when you’re hungry. We’re good- we really are.”

She walked back to her table and the newspaper.

I got up, looked out the window, saw movement. A stately-looking gray-haired woman getting into the Lincoln. The station wagon already pulling away from the curb.

Time for a chat with Dr. Ursula.

But I was disabused of that notion as I reached the sidewalk. The Saab shot backwards out of the driveway, came to a short stop, and sped northward. So fast, I barely had a glimpse of the driver’s tense, beautiful face.

By the time I got behind the wheel of the Seville, she was out of sight.

I sat for a while, wondering what had drawn her away. Opened the glove compartment, took out my Thomas Guide, and looked up Ashbourne Drive.

The house was a generously proportioned used-brick Tudor on a wide, ungated lot shaded by maples and firs. A Plymouth van in the driveway shadowed a scattered collection of toy bikes and wagons. Three brick steps and a porch led to the front entrance. The door featured a tiny brass replica of itself set at eye level.

A bell-ring, the tiny door creaked open, and a pair of dark eyes peered out. A TV cartoon soundtrack blared from within. The eyes narrowed.

“Dr. Delaware to see Mrs. Robbins, please.”

“Wan meen’.”

I waited, straightening my clothes and finger-combing my hair. Hoping my dress shirt and tie would make the stubble look like intentional hip.

West-side hip. Wrong neighborhood.

The little door opened again. Blue eyes. Pupils contracting.

“Yes?” Young voice, slightly nasal.

“Mrs. Robbins?”

“What can I do for you?”

“My name is Dr. Alex Delaware. I’m trying to locate your sister Kathy.”

“Are you a friend of Kathy’s?”

“No, not actually. But we have a mutual acquaintance.”

“What kind of doctor are you?”

“Clinical psychologist. I’m sorry to bust in on you like this, and I’ll be happy to show you identification and some professional credentials.”

“Yes, why don’t you do that.”

I pulled the appropriate snips of paper out of my wallet and held them up, one by one.

She said, “Who do you and Kathy both know?”

“It’s something I really need to discuss with her personally, Mrs. Robbins. If you’re not comfortable giving me her number, I’ll give you mine and she can call me.”

The blue eyes moved back and forth. The little door slammed shut again and the big one opened. A woman in her late thirties came out onto the front porch. Five six, trim, strawberry-blond hair cut in a bob. The blue eyes deep-set in a long, freckled face. Full lips, pointed chin, slightly protruding ears that the short hair flaunted. She wore a short-sleeved, boatneck top with horizontal red-and-white stripes, white canvas pants, and tennies without socks. Tiny diamonds in her ears. She could have been one of Las Labradoras.

“Jan Robbins,” she said, looking me over. Her nails were long but unpolished. “It’s best that we talk out here.”

“Sure,” I said, conscious of every wrinkle in my suit.

She waited until I’d backed away a bit before closing the front door behind her. “So why are you looking for Kathy?”

I considered how much to say. Had Kathy Moriarty’s sessions at the clinic been something she’d withheld from her sister? She’d talked openly to Joyce at the restaurant, but strangers were often seen as the safest repositories of confidences.

“It’s complicated,” I said. “It would really be best if I talked to your sister directly, Mrs. Robbins.”

“I’m sure it would, Doctor. I’d like to speak with her directly myself, but I haven’t heard from her in over a month.”

Before I could reply, she said, “Not that it’s the first time, given the way she lives- her career.”

“What career is that?”

“Journalism. Writing. She used to work for the Boston Globe and the Manchester Union Leader, but now she’s on her own. Freelancing. Trying to get her own books published- she actually had one out a few years ago. On pesticides-The Bad Earth?”

I said nothing.

She smiled- with some satisfaction, I thought. “It wasn’t exactly a best-seller.”

“Is she from New England originally?”

“No, originally she’s from here- California. We both grew up in Fresno. But she went back east after college, said she considered the West Coast a cultural wasteland.”

She gave a quick look at the van and the toy bikes and frowned.

“Did she come back out on a writing project?” I said.

“I assume so. She never told me- never talked about her work at all. Confidential sources, of course.”

“You don’t have any idea what she was doing?”