Person’s Store, but had an authentic Early American one that failed to catch and thus left the door slightly ajar. Christopher spoke more softly than Mr. Motherway did. Several times, his grandfather told him to stop mumbling. I caught phrases and tones of voice. Christopher was lodging a complaint about his father, Peter. The discussion concerned someone named Gerhard, who I somehow gathered was a foreign student. Perhaps Christopher objected to the way Peter was treating Gerhard? I couldn’t be sure. I had the sense that Mr. Motherway promised to correct whatever situation was troubling his grandson.
Mr. Motherway returned with Wagner but without Christopher. “You’ll have to excuse me,” he said. “Something’s come up.”
I thanked him for seeing me and agreed to a third meeting.
I made it sound as if it had been my idea. It could have been,
I suppose. I still hadn’t seen a photo of Forstmeister Marquandt, and Mr. Motherway still hadn’t told me much about Geraldine R. Dodge and her son, M. Hartley Dodge, Jr., the one who’d died young in a car accident in France.
Mr. Motherway saw me to the door. After he’d closed it, I fished in my purse for my car keys and furtively located one of the business cards I’d made with the new computer and printer my father had given me. As I approached my car, Jocelyn staggered out of the barn carrying another neatly sealed cardboard box. With the irrational sense of committing myself to serve as a secret agent in a dangerous conspiracy, I took deliberately casual steps toward her. Making a show of fiddling with my keys, I slipped her my card. “I don’t want to see you get bitten by that dog,” I said softly. “Call me. I can help.”
Her pasty skin turned scarlet, but she seized my card and surreptitiously slipped it into a pocket of the dowdy gray skirt. She said nothing, not even good-bye.
As I drove home, I honestly did see the same car more than once, or I was pretty sure I did. I can’t tell one make of car from another unless I’m close enough to read the lettering on the front or rear, or unless the car is something so distinctive that anyone would know what it was. This car was behind mine. I couldn’t read anything written on it. It was definitely not a 1950s Cadillac with tail fins, an old Porsche, or a VW hug. It wasn’t a station wagon or a four-by-four. But I know my colors; I went to kindergarten. The car was tan. I had the feeling it might not be American. But my primary feeling about the car had nothing to do with its size, color, model, or country of origin. Rather, I had the strong sense of being followed.
Chapter Six
ON SATURDAY MORNING , heavy rain pelted Cambridge. Deferring to Rowdy’s hatred of water at any temperature above thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit, I left him at home and took Kimi for a three-mile run. After I’d returned, showered, and dressed, a glorious dog-training opportunity presented itself in the form of passing fire engines. With admirable presence of mind, instead of just seizing a clicker and treats to reinforce the dogs’ howling, I grabbed my tape recorder and dashed out the front door to Concord Avenue. The neighbors are used to me. If I ran outside naked and started shrieking about alien spaceships, the people up and down the block would shrug their shoulders and agree that I was practicing another new and probably harmless method of training dogs. Anyway, no one had me locked up, and although the taped sirens proved less provocative than the live performance, the dogs were already revved up from the real thing, and we made gratifying progress—and all this at a more civilized hour than two a.m., I might note.
Then I checked my e-mail. I should perhaps explain that my office looks nothing like Mr. Motherway’s. For one thing, if I’d ever owned an antique desk, upholstered chairs, and Early American paintings, they’d long ago have been destroyed by dogs and replaced with the makeshift desk and
Mr. Motherway returned with Wagner but without Christopher. “You’ll have to excuse me,” he said. “Something’s come up.”
I thanked him for seeing me and agreed to a third meeting.
I made it sound as if it had been my idea. It could have been,
I suppose. I still hadn’t seen a photo of Forstmeister Marquandt, and Mr. Motherway still hadn’t told me much about Geraldine R. Dodge and her son, M. Hartley Dodge, Jr., the one who’d died young in a car accident in France.
Mr. Motherway saw me to the door. After he’d closed it, I fished in my purse for my car keys and furtively located one of the business cards I’d made with the new computer and printer my father had given me. As I approached my car, Jocelyn staggered out of the barn carrying another neatly sealed cardboard box. With the irrational sense of committing myself to serve as a secret agent in a dangerous conspiracy, I took deliberately casual steps toward her. Making a show of fiddling with my keys, I slipped her my card. “I don’t want to see you get bitten by that dog,” I said softly. “Call me. I can help.”
Her pasty skin turned scarlet, but she seized my card and surreptitiously slipped it into a pocket of the dowdy gray skirt. She said nothing, not even good-bye.
As I drove home, I honestly did see the same car more than once, or I was pretty sure I did. I can’t tell one make of car from another unless I’m close enough to read the lettering on the front or rear, or unless the car is something so distinctive that anyone would know what it was. This car was behind mine. I couldn’t read anything written on it. It was definitely not a 1950s Cadillac with tail fins, an old Porsche, or a VW hug. It wasn’t a station wagon or a four-by-four. But I know my colors; I went to kindergarten. The car was tan. I had the feeling it might not be American. But my primary feeling about the car had nothing to do with its size, color, model, or country of origin. Rather, I had the strong sense of being followed.
Chapter Six
ON SATURDAY MORNING , heavy rain pelted Cambridge. Deferring to Rowdy’s hatred of water at any temperature above thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit, I left him at home and took Kimi for a three-mile run. After I’d returned, showered, and dressed, a glorious dog-training opportunity presented itself in the form of passing fire engines. With admirable presence of mind, instead of just seizing a clicker and treats to reinforce the dogs’ howling, I grabbed my tape recorder and dashed out the front door to Concord Avenue. The neighbors are used to me. If I ran outside naked and started shrieking about alien spaceships, the people up and down the block would shrug their shoulders and agree that I was practicing another new and probably harmless method of training dogs. Anyway, no one had me locked up, and although the taped sirens proved less provocative than the live performance, the dogs were already revved up from the real thing, and we made gratifying progress—and all this at a more civilized hour than two a.m., I might note.
Then I checked my e-mail. I should perhaps explain that my office looks nothing like Mr. Motherway’s. For one thing, if I’d ever owned an antique desk, upholstered chairs, and Early American paintings, they’d long ago have been destroyed by dogs and replaced with the makeshift desk and
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