I know the kings of England and I quote the

fights historical,

From Marathon to Waterloo, in order categorical.

"Impressive! Where'd you learn that?"

He pointed to Mrs. Ostrova. "Jitka gave me a copy for Christmas a few years ago. Now I'm a big Gilbert and Sullivan fan. You want to hear my favorite part?"

I was about to say no when he stood up and started singing again.

When the enterprising burglar's not a burgling –

When the cutthroat isn't occupied in crime. He

loves to hear the little brook a gurgling

And listen to the merry village chime.

Ah, take one consideration with another

A policeman's lot is not a happy one.

"Thanks, Fran." I cut him off. His voice was good, but a little Savoy Opera goes a long way. A look of great affection crossed Magda's face when she smiled at him. Were they lovers? Who did my friend, this sexy divorced man, sleep with? He never talked about it.

There was so much I could have asked about Pauline, but thought it better to simply let the two Ostrova women talk about her.

"I was her mother, but still I never really knew her, you know? This is something I still cannot get over. She came from right here in my stomach, but I did not know her because she changed and changed and changed and sometimes it was good and sometimes it was crazy. There was this old movie, Man of a Thousand Faces? This was Pavlina. A thousand faces. I don't know which girl she was when she died."

An hour later, Magda said, "My sister did her own thing and if you didn't like it, too bad. At the trial, it came out she had a lot of boyfriends. So? Big deal! A guy who has a lot of girls is a stud. A woman does the same thing and she's a slut. Know what I say to that? Bullshit! Pauline wasn't a slut – she was a individual and even I knew that when I was a kid. As a sister? She was okay, but mostly all I remember is her going in and out of our house in a hurry because she was always up to something, you know? She always had something going on."

Jitka came into the room carrying a plate full of Czech pastries – buchty and kolace. "Pavlina was a bird. That's what I say. She flew around and never landed anywhere too long. Then poof! Off she flies again."

"Nah, Ma, you're all wrong." Magda picked up one of the sweets and took a bite. Powdered sugar dropped over her hand and fell like snow onto the floor. "Birds are always jumping up and flying away 'cause they're scared of everything. Nothing scared Pauline. If she was curious, she'd charge it like a rhino. She wasn't any bird."

They had given me permission to tape what they said. Not having to take notes enabled me to sit back and watch them interact. Sometimes they agreed, sometimes not. Once in a while they would compare notes about a shared Pauline experience. It gave me the feeling they had been going over these things for years. What else did they possess of the dead girl? What other things could they point to or remember and say that's who she was, that's what she did. Who else cared about their dead love? Worse, who else even remembered? I understood why they would cherish her notebooks.

I told them the story of the day Pauline ran over our dog and came to the house to report it. They were delighted and asked many questions.

"She never told me she hit a dog!" Jitka said crossly, as if preparing to have a word about it with her eldest daughter when she came in. "When I was little girl in Prague, my mother got bottle of perfume for her birthday. She never wore it because she thought it is too nice to use. Typical mother, hah? But I would go into my parents' room all the time and smell it. If Mother caught me, ooh! She would get so angry, but she could not stop me from doing it. I had to breathe that smell at least twice a week. It said there were so many exotic and wonderful things in the world and one day I would go and know them. Adventure! Romance! Gary Grant! I didn't need to read Arabian Nights books – I just take the top out of her bottle and pop! – there was the dzin . . . the genie for me.

"But I grew up and married Milan and come to America. That was a little interesting, but my whole life wouldn't have filled up that bottle. I think, I really do think if Pavlina was alive, her life would have been everything I dreamed of when I smelled the perfume. She got into trouble and made me crazy, but she could have done anything."

"Who do you think killed her?" I asked in as calm a voice as I could muster.

Mother and daughter glanced at each other. Jitka nodded for Magda to speak.

"From everything we know? Gordon Cadmus. I mean, Frannie's been showing us all this stuff over the years, telling us things, and if I had to bet my life on it, I'd say it was him.

"It's getting cold in here! Hah, Ma? Isn't it cold in here?" Rubbing her shoulders, Magda stood up and left the room. No one said anything. Pauline's death was suddenly as fresh again as a just-dropped glass.

After asking if I could visit again, we thanked the Ostrovas and left. On the way to the car, Frannie's pocket phone rang. He was needed down at the station. It was a five-minute walk from there so we said goodbye and he strode off.

Veronica was taking the train back to the city, but asked if I would show her Crane's View before she left. I'd done the tour first with Cass, then Frannie, and now Veronica. It had been different each time because it was always through another pair of eyes. Cass knew the town through my stories, Frannie because he had lived there his whole life, Veronica because of the death of Pauline. She made it plain she wasn't interested in Al Salvato's store or the spot where fifteen-year-old McCabe set a car on fire: She wanted to see Pauline's town.

We drove past the school, the pizza place, the movie theater. The tour ended down at the river/railroad station. I parked near the water and we walked to where we'd found the body. I described again what it had been like. We stood there silently looking around. The sun was going down and its gold set the water on fire. Her train was due to arrive in a few minutes. This companionable silence would have been a nice way to end the visit, but then the big bats flew out of the Veronica cave.

The first one, a small and innocuous question, gave no hint of what was to come. "Whatever happened to Edward Durant's father?"

"I'm interviewing him next week. He's retired. Lives across the river in Tappan. Sounded nice on the phone."

"Sam, you shouldn't have asked the Ostrovas who they thought killed Pauline. I was surprised at you."

"Why?"

"Because you're going to have to tell them about the videotape and the notes you've gotten. All of it's going to upset them. It's taken thirty years to get over her death and now you come in and exhume her. I think the less you upset them, the better. The less you tell them –"

"Don't lecture me, Veronica. I don't agree with you. When we find the real killer it'll give them some peace. The only way I can do that is to ask a lot of questions of everyone."

"Do you think you can trust Frannie?" Her voice was calm enough, but the look on her face wasn't.

"Why shouldn't I?"

"I don't know. Just the way he is. He obviously has his own agenda and maybe it's not the same as yours. Anyway, you don't need his help on this, Sam. I can do it with you. I'll do whatever you want. I'm great at interviewing and researching. That's my job! I make documentary films. Forget Frannie and that boy Ivan. I'll help you with everything. You can't imagine the connections I have!" She stepped in close. I could smell the hot tang of her breath. She put her cheek to mine and whispered, "You don't need anyone but me. I'm your harbor."