“Brissart and her sisters, May’s was the smallest, nestled at the end of a winding road. I rang the bell twice to no avail. A repairman’s truck stood in the drive, and unless it belonged to a friend of May’s and they had gone off in another vehicle, I felt certain someone must be home. I rapped on the door with my fist and in a few seconds footsteps approached.
“Yes?” a much-harried May Estenfelder asked.
“I’m Alex Harris. We met at your....”
“Yes,” she sighed. “It must be my turn.”
“Excuse me?” I muttered.
“My sister called the other day. She said I should expect you.”
As long as I was expected, I didn’t see any reason to beat about the bush. “Then may I come in?”
“It’s really not a good—oh, never mind. Come in and wipe your feet. We’ll have to talk in the kitchen. I have a repairman fixing my stove and if you don’t watch these people every minute they charge you for things they never did.”
“On a Sunday?” I asked, awed that a repairman would be out today.
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