"The victim may have gotten into a car. Do you remember a car parked down there?" Davis pushed back her short hair. She was in uniform, though usually the detectives dressed in civilian clothes.

"I didn't come home along the lower street," Susan said. "I came up the other way, directly from the village. Walking. I'd been walking Lamb, on the beach."

Davis nodded. Her dark Latin eyes warmed to Susan, and she reached to pat her arm. "You'll continue to wait until Detective Garza can talk with you again? Are you comfortable?"

"Of course," Susan said, badly wanting her coffee.

The detectives spent nearly two hours going over the scene, photographing, dusting for prints, taking blood samples from several locations, and taking Susan's own fingerprints for comparison. After about an hour, Davis asked her if she wanted to come in and make coffee.

As she sipped that first, welcome cup, Detective Garza sat with her in her living room, refusing coffee, asking endless questions. She allowed him to examine her hands and arms for any cuts or scrapes or bruises. She tried not to let that ruffle her. This was part of his job, to be sure she hadn't been involved, that she wasn't holding back information.

"Who knows your routine, Mrs. Brittain? Who would know that you are in the habit of walking early in the morning?"

"All my neighbors know that. And my women friends. Wilma Getz… Shall I give you a list?"

"Yes, with addresses and phone numbers, if you would. Anyone else?"

"Other dog walkers would know. Anyone used to seeing me and Lamb in the village or on the beach. This is a small town, Detective Garza. Everyone knows your business." Garza had only been in the village a few months; but surely even working in San Francisco, he'd be aware that some of the neighborhoods were like a small town, where everyone knew everyone else. And Garza knew the village, he had vacationed here for years.

"When can I begin to clean up?" she asked. "Do I have to leave that mess?"

"For a while you do. We'll be putting up crime scene tape, we'll want everything left untouched until we notify you. Can you stay with a friend for a few nights? Stay out of the house until we're finished?"

"I'll call Wilma. I'm supposed to meet her and some friends for brunch, but I…"

"It might help to have friends around you. And please don't leave your dog here, for his own safety."

"No, I wouldn't leave Lamb. He'll go with me."

"He's a fine, dignified fellow. Does he hunt?"

"No. My daughter never trained him. She got him for companionship. She's working in San Francisco now, so I inherited Lamb. Do you have dogs?"

"I used to raise pointers. I have two that I'll be bringing down later, when I get the backyard fixed up for them." He smiled. "Go on to brunch, Mrs. Brittain-you and Lamb. I'll wait while you pack an overnight bag."

She gave Detective Garza her spare house key that she kept in her dresser, and packed a bag while he waited. His presence in the house was reassuring. Before she left, they checked the doors and windows together. As she drove away, she saw Detective Davis canvassing the neighborhood to see who might have been at home, who might have heard or seen anything unusual. The disappearance of the body-of the wounded man-distressed her. She didn't like the idea that he might return.

But, comforted by the officers' thoroughness, she began to feel easier. She was not a flighty woman, she was not going to get hysterical over this. After the wreck that had left her so crippled, which had taken a year to recover from, she had been able to keep herself together. So why go to pieces over something so much smaller? All the time she was in the wheelchair she had not lost her nerve or resolve-at least, not very often. She told herself that this break-in, this ugly invasion of her privacy, was nothing compared to that nightmare. Yet she couldn't shake the sense of being totally violated.

She supposed everyone felt this way when such a thing happened, felt incredibly angry at their own helplessness. If she could get her hands on either of those men, even the hurt one, and if she was strong enough, she wouldn't answer for what she might do.

Parking a block from the Swiss Cafe, she smoothed her short hair and put on some lipstick. Detective Garza was right, she needed her friends. Clipping on Lamb's leash, she let him out of the car and headed for brunch, praying that she wouldn't end up crying in her pancakes, making a fool of herself.

4

When the ambulance screamed again through the village, Mavity Flowers jumped, startled, dropping the handful of old beaded evening bags she'd been sorting through. That violent noise tore right through a person. She never got used to it, not since the ambulance came when her husband died, when Lou was taken away.

Pushing back her kinky gray hair, she knelt to pick up the little old purses, clutching them against her white uniform. Rising, she laid them out across the cluttered table atop a mess of other bargains so she could choose the best ones. You'd think she'd be used to sirens at her age, and with so many older folk in the village. The ambulance went out often, even if only for some poor soul who had taken a bad fall-went out more frequently than she liked to think about. She felt uneasy suddenly, thinking about her Senior Survival friends. But Cora Lee and Gabrielle were right there at the sale. Wilma never came to these events-but Wilma was healthy as a horse, working out twice a week and walking every day.

She hadn't seen Susan, and that was strange. Susan got up so early, she was always among the first, eager to get the best buys.

Looking around for her, Mavity wanted to use the McLearys' phone, see if she was all right.

But that was foolish, that was the kind of fussing that would deeply annoy Susan. She was too independent to tolerate her friends' checking on her for no sensible reason.

Mavity knelt to pick up the purses, selecting the nicest ones, and looking to see if any beads were missing. She hoped that when her time came to depart this world, there would be no need for sirens. That she'd go fast, that she wouldn't have some terrible, debilitating stroke to leave her lingering. It terrified her to think of growing weak and helpless, of being unable to care for herself.

Even though she was getting up in years, she felt young inside, and she kept herself in good shape, cleaning houses all day. She could still walk a mile into the village, buy her groceries, and carry them home again, and not be breathing hard when she plunked the bags down on the kitchen table. Still wore a size 4, even if all she bought was white uniforms in the used-clothing shops. Only when she looked in the mirror at her wrinkles and crow's-feet did she see the truth about her age.

She had no children to look out for her if she got sick. Now that her niece was dead, she had only her brother Greeley, and what good was he? Older than she was, and he'd be all thumbs, trying to care for a person. Irresponsible, too. Living down there in Panama like some foreigner. The last time he flew up to see her, look at the trouble they'd had, him stealing, right there under her nose, robbing from the village stores.

No, she couldn't depend on Greeley. When her time came, she prayed for one massive stroke. Zip. Gone-to whatever lay beyond.

Maybe she'd see Lou again, maybe not. Two old folks wandering hand in hand again. Or maybe they'd be young again. No aches and pains. Wouldn't that be nice.

She hadn't been to church for years, didn't remember how a priest described Heaven. Well, if there wasn't any Heaven, if there was nothing after this life, she wouldn't know it, would she? Might as well think like there was, and enjoy the promise.