Ghost Gone Wild (A Bailey Ruth Ghost Novel) (4 page)

“I see.” I was afraid I was beginning to understand. The telegram from Wiggins had been counterfeit. Nick’s aunt Dee had nosed about the department and found my name. Any thriller writer would consider it child’s play to purloin information from Wiggins’s old-fashioned paper files, which were kept in accomodating unlocked wooden filing cabinets. It was possible she sometimes served as an emissary. However, Wiggins was always insistent that emissaries not contact family members who knew them. In my first adventure, I’d aided a great-niece, but I had never met her previously. Possibly Aunt Dee was simply aware of the department’s activities. In any event, if she’d wanted to send help to Nick, obviously she would have hunted about in the files for someone connected to Adelaide, and so she had sent the spurious telegram and waylaid me as I was en route.

I felt chilled to the bone. Wiggins had no notion I was here. None. Even worse, assuming she cared, Aunt Dee had no way of knowing that I was marooned, unable to disappear, and adrift in a world where each person needed a proven identity to function. Oh, woe.

“If anybody could hijack somebody from Heaven, it would be Aunt Dee. That’s for sure. But look, you’re kidding me, aren’t you? You knew her, and that’s why you’re here. You can’t be a ghost.” But he edged farther away from me.

I squeezed my face in concentration. Perhaps the incidents of the evening had only temporarily derailed my ability to appear and disappear. I took a deep breath, and thought,
Gone
. My elegant rose leather loafers remained firmly planted on the floor and in full view.

I tried again. This time I spoke aloud, forcefully. “Gone.”

The stylish loafers were fully visible on the floor.

I sighed. I was an emissary without a link to the department. “Like it or not, and I definitely don’t, your aunt Dee bamboozled me.
Hijacked
sums up my situation very well indeed.” An untethered astronaut in space could not have felt more adrift than I.

What was worse, I had no idea in this world—and obviously not in the next—how to reconnect. I’d been in tight spots on my previous missions, but I’d always had my ace in the hole, the ability to appear and disappear at will.

Now . . .

I popped up from the sofa and stared at my image in the mirror behind the wet bar. I looked good. This was no time for false modesty. My morale needed every morsel of affirmation I could manage. I smoothed back a coppery red curl. My eyes looked a trifle strained, but the lavender-colored sweater, rose blouse, and charcoal gray slacks were quite flattering. I especially admired the scalloped collar of my blouse. I lifted my chin. I was Bailey Ruth Raeburn and, whether Wiggins realized my plight or not, I would do my best for Nick.

“All right. We play the hand we’re dealt.” I spoke decisively.

Nick looked alarmed. And worried. Very worried.

“Since I don’t have any money or transportation, I’ll have to stay here—”

He began to back away. “No way. I can’t explain to Jan why the shag dancer started living with me. Nuh-uh. You have to go someplace.”

I folded my arms in exasperation. “Let me put it in words of one syllable: I have no cash. I have no car. I have no identification. I have nothing.”

He fumbled with his back pocket. “Money is no problem. Lady, I’ll give you money.” His face brightened. “How about a plane ticket? And cash. Tomorrow I’ll get you ten thousand dollars and you can fly away. Have you ever been to Tahiti? You’d—” His face fell. “No ID. Yeah. Scratch a plane. No passport, I guess.”

I didn’t bother to answer. Earlier I’d thought he had a core of honesty. Obviously not. Ten thousand dollars! Where would a scruffy young guy like him get ten thousand dollars? He was just trying to get me out of his house. He would have promised the moon if I’d have listened.

He began to pace. “I’ll buy a car, get you a snazzy one. You can take the car and the money and drive away.”

My smile was slightly pitying. He was in error if he thought I was naive enough to believe his offers of money. I shook my head, gestured toward the bullet hole. “I’m here. Here I stay.”

He slammed a hand on the top of the wet bar. “Not here. That sure sounds like a setup to me. You got somebody around taking pix? I’ll bet this is a con, all this stuff about Aunt Dee. For all I know you knew her somewhere and you came here to screw money out of me.”

I raised a eyebrow. My tone was scathing. “I suppose you are just rolling in money! You don’t look old enough to manage anything better than a lemonade stand. One look at your patchy beard and polo with a ripped pocket and Levi’s with the knees out and it’s obvious you are not a titan of industry.”

He stared at me. “You think I’m broke.” His voice had an odd tone.

“I think you’ve got a few years to go before you have an extra ten thousand.” As in never.

“What did Aunt Dee say about me?”

I quoted: “He’s always been such a fool . . . but there are those who love him . . . try to save him from himself.”

He scratched at one cheek. “She didn’t tell you what I’d been doing or why I was back in town?”

“There wasn’t time.” I’d been swept up by Aunt Dee’s challenge. Next time I would pause and think, as Wiggins always hoped I would. If there were ever to be a next time. . . .

“So you don’t know that I’m seriously rich.”

I almost hooted. It was absurd to imagine that this callow, unshaven, sloppily dressed guy had an extra fifty bucks in his pocket. Absurd. . . .

He leaned casually against the wet bar with a cocky smile.

Nick had stumbled all over himself in talking to Brian about Lisa, but there had been a core of honesty in his response.

“You’re rich?” I felt stunned.

“You got that right, babe.”

I glanced toward the bullet hole. Money might not be the root of all evil—I’m no authority—but its possession or lack has a mighty effect on the course of human events.

He looked like a house croupier raking in the chips. “You ever heard of
Arachnid’s Revenge: Featherfoots to the Rescue
?” He studied my face. “Yeah, well, it’s my video game. Featherfoot spiders on a rampage, and they catch the bad guys, big hairy flies, in their webs, and there are thirty-two radii and twelve concentric spirals. You’ve got to fix the web when it’s broken and catch at least ninety flies to get to the second level—” He broke off, no doubt realizing I hadn’t followed a word. “Anyway, lots of goo oozes out as the flies try to get through the webs, but the Featherfoots are a web ahead.” He stopped to laugh at his own wit. “It’s a hairy, hairy game, and I got bought out for a cool nine million.” He slid onto a bar stool, propped an elbow on the counter.

I stared. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-four.”

“You said you came back to Adelaide. Where were you?”

“Austin. I went to school there, but I didn’t finish. I was halfway through my junior year when I started working on
Featherfoots
again. I first had the idea in high school. Everybody laughed at me. Like they always did.” There was a trace of bitterness in his voice. “Because I like spiders. I especially like Featherfoots. They are kind of a woody brown or gray mottled with white. What I really like is they can hang for hours in a web without moving. And the webs”—he sounded triumphant—“are always horizontal.” He spread his arms wide. “Cool, huh?”

Nine million dollars. Long live
Featherfoots
.

“Okay. I get it. You created this game and sold it, and you are rich. Why did you come back to Adelaide?”

If Bobby Mac and I had ever had nine million, or even one, my destination of choice would have been Paris.

Nick’s young face was abruptly pugnacious. “I had some scores to settle and money”—his tone was arrogant—“makes me a player. See, nobody ever thought I was a player. Well, I’m showing them, one by one. I’m having a hell of a good time. I started with Cole Clanton. He played football.” Years of loathing curdled his voice. “Big Bad Cole.” He drawled the name with venom. “He showed his ass one night on a campout, but he was such a big deal he turned it around and pretty soon everybody was dumping on me. See, we were at church camp and a jumping spider—a
Phidippus audax
—crawled out of a log Cole was sitting on. He gave a squeal like a girl and bolted like a stuck pig. The guys started laughing at him. His face turned red and he grabbed a stick and headed for the log. He was going to kill the spider. I yelled at him to stop, that it was a
Phidippus audax
and wouldn’t hurt anybody. I should’ve kept my mouth shut, but I said it was a cool spider with eight blue eyes, four big ones on its face, and it could jump fifty times its body length. He kept on going. I tackled him, and by the time everybody pulled him off of me, the spider was gone. Cole had gotten in some punches, and my right eye was swelling up. He pointed at me and yelled, ‘Look, one blue eye. I got it. You’re a
Phidippus audax
. I guess you got a whole family out here. Gee, Phidippus, how could I have known?’ Well, the guys all cracked up. That’s what they called me the rest of the way through school. Phidippus.”

“So you came back and you’re busy getting even.”

He gave two thumbs-up. “When money flows, anything goes.”

“I see.” Indeed, I did. No wonder Aunt Dee hoped I could save Nick from himself. “I suppose there are others who have earned your ire?”

He looked blank.

He might be in his own way a homespun philosopher, with all due respect to spiders, but his vocabulary lacked muscle. Possibly, if time permitted, I might suggest a reading list, starting with “Babylon Revisited,” though Nick was obviously not a serious drinker even if he was seriously rich. However, efforts to engender a more charitable attitude could await the successful completion of my assignment.

I felt a little lurch inside.

I didn’t have an assignment. But Nick was in danger and I was here. I would have to do what I could. I had much yet to learn about Adelaide’s youngest millionaire and who might have wanted him dead, but tomorrow was time enough. For now, I hoped Wiggins would forgive me—
Wiggins, are you there? Are you anywhere?
—if I sought a place to stay. It would be easiest if I stayed here, though the prospect had moved Nick to ferocious resistance. So that was out for now. The attack still must be reported to the police, and I was in no position to answer official questions.

I gave a decisive nod. I caught the movement in the mirror. Wiggins would be proud. I appeared as determined, and I hoped as appealing, as Myrna Loy in the paint scene in
Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House
.

Nick stiffened.

I reached out to pat his shoulder reassuringly, and he shied like a spooked horse. “Emulate your favorite spider. Be cool. Here’s what we need to do.”

His rigid face was all angles, mostly jutting cheekbones. He seemed to have an aversion to the plural if it included me.

I was pleasant, but firm. “You must report the shooting. After the investigation is complete, you can join me. I’ll . . .” I paused, squeezed my face in thought. Where could I go? “It’s such a bother, not being able to be here and there whenever I wish. You must stay here for the moment and I must leave. . . .” Inspiration struck. “I’ll take that little yellow scooter outside. Meet me at Main and Calhoun at midnight. Surely it won’t take any longer than that to see about the shooting. Until we figure out what’s going on, you shouldn’t stay by yourself. We can book a double room somewhere.”

He looked as horrified as if I’d suggested sharing space with an adder. “Not a chance.”

“Your virtue is not at risk. I am a happily married woman. You can sleep in your shorts and I suppose you have a T-shirt I can borrow. After all, there are not only coed dorms but coed rooms these days. So what’s the problem?” I smothered a yawn. “On the way, we’ll stop for a hamburger somewhere.”

Now his face not only jutted, his body locked in a decent imitation of an iron sculpture. “No way.”

I moved behind the wet bar, opened cupboards. A can of cashews.

“Come on, Nick, you must call the police. But first, call a motel and make a reservation.”

“You want me to use my credit card and have a redheaded babe show up and check in? This is a little town. Word would get back to Jan—” He stopped. “Jan. Hey, that’s where I can put you. Jan’s mom has a B and B. I grew up next door.” He looked a trifle defensive. “Arlene—her mom—is kind of frosted at me right now, but I doubt if she’s full, and a body in a bed pays better than a bed without a body. Anyway, Arlene can use the money. Adelaide’s booming because of the Chickasaw Nation, but even so, Jan said the B and B visitors are down this year. The economy keeps a lot of people home. I’ll call and explain I have an employee who needs a place to stay. Jan will think everything’s on the up-and-up if I send you there. Won’t she?” The beseeching tone in his voice was pitiful.

“Of course that’s what she’ll think.”

His momentary elation fled. He gazed at me from head to foot. “What could I hire you for?”

His emphasis on the third-person pronoun was not pleasing. Possibly, I thought, I should add to his reading list a self-help book extolling the value of tact. However, a seriously rich twenty-four-year-old probably felt tact was as unnecessary as a landline. But this wasn’t the moment to try to improve Nick’s attitudes.

He shook his head in disgust. “Who’s going to believe I need a redheaded babe to do anything? I’ve never had a secretary. I’m thinking about a new game, but I’ll bet you don’t know a thing about vampires. That’s what’s hot.” His face brightened. “I’ve got this great idea about vampires who vaporize giant squid invading from Saturn.”

Great idea. . . .

I clapped my hands together. I don’t know if it was the cashews or the prospect of finding sanctuary or the light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel relief that finally the police would be contacted, but suddenly I knew exactly what to do.

I
shared my plan in a few short sentences.

Nick looked even more disagreeable.

I was adamant. “It’s a brilliant ploy. Nobody will dare touch you.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.” He gave a kind of snicker.

“I am not kidding.”

He made a sound between a moan and a snort. “You look about as much like a private eye as a belly dancer resembles a bishop.”

My eyes slitted. “Are you sexist? Why couldn’t a belly dancer become a bishop?”

His mouth opened, closed. He took a breath. “I’m not touching that one, lady.”

“But you are going to cooperate with me.” I tried to maintain a pleasant tone. “Unless you want an unexplained female voice reporting the shooting.” I grabbed the cell from his hand, punched 911.

With a yelp, he grabbed it back, lifted it. With a gulp, he muttered, “Nick Magruder here.” His glare at me was malevolent. “Nick Magruder. Eight nineteen Mulberry Lane. Somebody shot a rifle through my front window. Nobody’s hurt, but there’s a slug in the wall. Yeah, I’ll be here.” He clicked off the phone. “A patrol car’s on the way.”

“Which side of town are you on?”

He gave a strangled moan. “You’re going to pretend like you’re a private eye, and you don’t even know where you are?”

“Aunt Dee”—my tone was icy—“didn’t share much information.”

He squeezed his face as if his head hurt. “Aunt Dee. Do I believe you? Actually, there’s something screwy here. Tomorrow I’m going to find out all about you and get you out of my hair.”

“Tonight comes before tomorrow.” I paused to contemplate my observation. Perhaps stress made me even more lucid than usual. “Tonight,” I spoke with emphasis, “comes before tomorrow.”

“You already said that.”

I felt in top form. “It was worth repeating.” Such an apposite observation deserved to become a maxim. Possibly after he knew me better, he would appreciate shared wisdom. “Tonight I am here. You don’t want me here. But here I stay until you agree to my plan. I need transportation and funding.”

From his expression, he would have enjoyed tossing me into a deep pit.

I held out my hand. He was seriously rich, and if he didn’t want to be seriously compromised by my presence, he would ante up.

“Okay. You win. For now.” He shoved a hand in the pocket of his jeans, shook his head. He stalked to the desk.

I was right behind him.

He pulled out the center drawer. Keys slid toward us. I reached in and grabbed a small pad with a hotel logo and the single pen. Obviously, he didn’t use the desk for work.

Nick picked up the scooter key, plopped it in my hand. From his back pocket, he retrieved his billfold. He flipped it open, plucked out a bunch of bills, thrust them at me.

I counted aloud. “Six hundred dollars. I’ll keep a meticulous count of expenses. I’ll need clothes, of course. Oh, rummage around and find a suitcase.”

“There aren’t any clothes here.” He looked abruptly mulish. “You can’t have any of mine.”

“Why would I want your clothes?” I found his thought processes puzzling.

“I don’t know. Why do you want a suitcase?”

“When I arrive at the B and B, it will look odd if I don’t have a suitcase.”

“You’re going to look odd anyway, arriving on a motor scooter. Are you going to pretend you drove up here from Dallas on the scooter? Yeah, Dallas private eyes go everywhere on scooters.”

I remained unruffled. “There may be a few flaws in my plan, but it gets me out of here.”

“You just said the magic words.” He dashed across the room, banged open a door, disappeared from view. In a moment, he was back with a canvas duffel bag. “It’ll fit better on the back of the scooter.”

The bag appeared to be full.

“I stuffed in a couple of pillows so it looks like you’ve got stuff.” He glanced at his watch. “The cops will be here in a jiffy. You need to get out of here. Now.” He strode to the door, flung it open. “The B and B’s at the corner of Elm and Buffalo. I’ll call Arlene as soon as you leave.”

I felt a bit pressed for time as well. I definitely wanted to avoid the police. What if I were asked for identification? I grabbed the duffel and hurried to the door. “Remember, I’m your employee. You can leave the rest to me.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” He was gloomy. “Don’t do anything rash. I’ll check with you after breakfast.”

I folded my arms, slowly shook my head. “I expect you to arrive at the B and B as soon as you finish with the police. You will be safer if you are always in the company of others from this point forward.”

“You want me to stay at the B and B?” Expressions flitted over his face—irritation, consideration, anticipation. “Yeah, maybe that makes sense.” He rubbed his furry cheek. “If Arlene’ll let me in. But hey, money’s money.”

“I’m beginning to think that attitude is what put you in peril.”

He cocked his head. “You talk like an old radio show. But if I have to hang out with you, the B and B sounds good.”

He didn’t care a bean bag about my protecting him, but apparently proximity to Jan appealed mightily. He nodded energetically. “I’ll make a reservation for two rooms.” As I stepped onto the porch, he stuck his head out the door. “Don’t come to my room.”

I grinned at him. “Only for business conferences.”

He didn’t grin in return. Possibly he was humor-impaired.

He massaged his cheek again. “I’ll tell Jan’s mom you work for me and need a place to stay while you’re in town. Oh hey, wait up. What’s your name? I have to give Arlene your name.”

My name . . . Bailey Ruth Raeburn was chiseled into a stone in St. Mildred’s cemetery:
Bailey Ruth Raeburn, cherished wife of Robert MacNeil Raeburn.
There was a nice carving that did justice to the
Serendipity
, and the legend
Forever Fishing
.

In my past adventures, I’d assumed several names. Police Officer M. Loy, a tribute to Myrna Loy, who played Nora Charles to William Powell’s Nick; Jerrie Emiliani in a nod to Jerome Emiliani, the patron saint of orphans; and Francie de Sales in honor of Francis de Sales, the patron saint of writers.

The right name came to me in a flash. My mission—even if unauthorized—was clear: I needed to lift Nick out of the mess he’d obviously made of his return to Adelaide as a seriously rich twenty-four-year-old. But, as Mama always told us kids, “Honey tastes better than vinegar,” so I would have to use finesse and be adroit. The blessed Hilda, revered abbess of the monastery at Whitby, was renowned for her charm and grace in directing the lives of those in her care. I couldn’t aspire to her accomplishments. However, I would do my best. Did I hear a distant tattoo of trumpets? “Tell them Hilda Whitby is on her way.”

I felt jaunty as I started down the steps, the scooter key tight in my hand. I had transport and six hundred dollars in my pocket. If I had to be marooned, at least I had enough to keep me clothed and fed for a few days.

Some of the bounce left my steps by the time I reached the scooter. As I swung onto the seat and turned the key, I looked up at the diamond-bright stars in the immeasurable night sky and felt far, far away from Heaven. Previously I’d known with certainty that when my task was done (I usually hoped not too soon due to occasional mishaps), I’d hear the triumphant whistle of the Rescue Express and I would be homeward bound. What if . . . ?

I gave myself a shake. Mama also told us kids not to borrow trouble. As I wheeled down the drive, my hair streaming in the night air, I gave Heaven a thumbs-up. “I’m here, Wiggins. I’ll do my best.” But I’m afraid the sound of my voice was plaintive.

• • •

I parked the scooter on the street, hefted the duffel, and followed a mosaic walkway to the front steps of a three-story Victorian house with a corner turret. Light spilled from ground-floor windows through lace curtains. On the porch, a hexagonal lantern with intricate ironwork offered a welcoming golden glow. Ferns in terra-cotta jars framed the paneled and elaborately carved jade green front door. On the side door panels, peacocks postured brightly in stained-glass insets. A center inset featured a shaggy buffalo.

A white wooden sign hung to the right of the door with the legend
Majestic Buffalo B & B.
Beneath a doorbell, a taped white card instructed:
Ring after ten p.m.

I punched the bell.

An athletic blonde in her late forties opened the door. Trim and graceful, she had the healthy glow of a tennis player or golfer. She flashed a quick but meaningless smile that didn’t reach ice-blue eyes. “Miss Whitby? Nick Magruder called. Please come in. I’m Arlene Richey.” Her white blouse was as crisp as though she’d just dressed. Palm-print pale green linen slacks fit her loosely. Her apple green, single-band leather sandals were especially attractive, the band having the fine-grained appearance of bamboo. Her daughter Jan bore not the slightest resemblance to her.

I stepped into a hallway with golden yellow oak wainscoting and geometrically patterned floor tiles. A mirror framed in gold leaf hung above a mahogany chest. A Tiffany lamp sat on a pillar styled after an Ionic column. At the end of the hallway stood an oak grandfather clock. The stairway, with ornate cast-iron floral balusters, was in shadow, but a slim figure stood watching from the landing.

I smiled at Arlene. “I’m sorry to be late arriving. Travel difficulties.” I waved them away with a flick of my fingers. I wasn’t pleased with the rose red of my nails, but I couldn’t, as in the past, think pink and achieve a better result. “Mr. Magruder,” I hoped the more formal appellation made clear that Nick and I were not well acquainted, “will arrive as soon as the police complete the initial investigation of the crime.”

Arlene looked shocked, but I didn’t detect concern for Nick. “Crime?”

Jan clattered down the steps. “What happened?”

“Someone shot at Mr. Magruder tonight. Fortunately, the shot missed him. You arrived very soon afterward. Mr. Magruder insisted the incident not be mentioned. He didn’t want you to be worried. That’s why we danced.” I was businesslike. “I’m a private investigator, not a dance teacher.” Announcing myself as a private eye pleased me so much that I feared I was succumbing to worldly ways. However, even Wiggins—if he ever were to know—would have to admit that I was at the moment most definitely not only
in
the world but
of
the world. “My job often requires me to assume different identities, but I’ve never taught the shag before. Hopefully, when everything is sorted out and Mr. Magruder is safe, we can have another lesson before I leave.”

If I ever left. . . .

“Someone shot at Nick!” Jan stood with one hand at her throat, her eyes wide and stricken. “Why?”

“That’s what I’m here to discover. My agency is SAM Private Enquiries, Limited.” If pressed, I’d give the principals’ names: Spade, Archer, and Marlowe. “We have a one hundred percent success rate once we take a case.” I am nothing if not positive. “Mr. Magruder contacted us after he received several threatening letters. He didn’t keep the letters and ignored the threats until the night he almost crashed into a log that had been dumped onto his private drive.” I must remember to inform Nick about the letters and the log, fancies I’d spun as cleverly as a Featherfoot. “I arrived tonight for a personal consultation. The shooting occurred at about twenty minutes before ten. He is dealing with the authorities at this moment. I recommended he rent a room here. He should not remain in that isolated house.” I looked at Arlene inquiringly.

She nodded, though her lips were pursed. “He rented rooms for you and for him.”

“Staying here will help keep him safe and it will aid me in my investigation.”

Jan clasped her hands together. “We’ll do everything we can to help.”

I gave her a quick, warm smile. “He’ll be here soon. I hope you’ll let me ask a few questions. The more I learn, the quicker we can find out who is behind the attack. I need to find out as much as I can as fast as I can”—hopefully before Nick arrived at the B and B—“about anyone who might be angry with Mr. Magruder.”

Jan bit her lip and looked away. Her mother’s cool gaze studied me.

I looked wistfully at Arlene. “Perhaps I might have a snack? I missed dinner this evening.”

• • •

The sandwich was delectable—thinly sliced rare roast beef piled on a buttery croissant with a layer of Thousand Island dressing. I took a forkful of tangy coleslaw, munched a sweet potato chip. A tall glass of whole milk added to my contentment.

Arlene sat across from me, Jan to my left, at a small oak table in a nook near the swinging door to the kitchen. I finished offering my creatively crafted resume. “. . . and I’ve been working for three years at SAM. Previously I was with Gilbert, Keith and Chesterton Private Inquiry Agency in Houston.” Few people knew that G. K. Chesterton, the creator of the Father Brown stories, was Gilbert Keith Chesterton. For an instant, I felt uneasy. Perhaps I was being too clever by half. I knew enough of the digital world from my previous missions to understand the threat posed by Google. A couple of clicks would reveal that my purported job history was bunk. Oh well, I’d think of something.

Arlene already appeared unconvinced. “What did the letters threaten? A good kick in the butt? If so, he’s a candidate.”

“Mother! If somebody tried to shoot Nick, it isn’t a joke.”

“I was there. It wasn’t a joke.” My gaze held Arlene’s until she looked down, her lips compressed. “We were in the living room. A rifle barrel poked through the screen of a front window. I pushed him out of the way before the rifle was fired. Had I not done so, I doubt he would be alive now.” I took a last bite, gathered my plate and cutlery. “So I need to know who wants to kick Nick’s butt and why. Please give this some thought while I take care of my dishes.” I popped up, waved Arlene to her seat, and carried the plate into the kitchen.

Picture tiles with baskets of fruits added a Victorian flavor. Glass-fronted cabinets were painted a serene pale blue. I noted the rose-colored linoleum flooring. There was even a dresser, that icon of a Victorian kitchen. Several framed photos sat on the dresser. One studio portrait pictured a broad-faced man with curly brown hair and a genial expression. I had no doubt he was Jan’s father. A cut-glass bud vase sat next to the frame. The vase held one white rose.