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the party. It was good seeing you again.”
    She felt dazzled. She watched him walk away, grasp someone’s hand, pat someone else on the back. She felt a sexual draw that had happened only once or twice before. But he had said “daughter,” and that meant wife, and she didn’t want to get into that kind of situation. Flora would kill her, and Flora was right.
    That was more than ten years ago, and Flora hadn’t killed her because Flora didn’t know.
    Looking through her few pieces of mail reminded Jane that she would have to let the post office know of her change of address. And the credit-card people and the stores where she had charge accounts. The details of moving went far beyond hiring a van with a few strong men.
    At the bottom of the pile of mail was the little letter on crinkly paper. Once again she left it unopened. This was not the time. She had dinner to eat and calls to make to try to locate the missing tenants in Quill’s building.
    â€œThis is Catherine Phelps. Who is this, please?” The voice was not that of a native New Yorker. It had probably started life in the South, although Jane guessed its owner had lived here for some time.
    â€œThis is Det. Jane Bauer of the New York Police Department.”
    â€œMy goodness! That is a surprise. Has something happened?”
    â€œNo, ma’am. We’re just trying to locate someone you know, Miss Margaret Rawls.”
    â€œMargaret. Well. It’s a long time since I’ve heard from Margaret.”
    â€œDo you have an address for her?”
    â€œMay I ask why you want to find her?”
    â€œIt concerns a homicide that took place in a building she lived in a few years ago.”
    â€œYes, I remember that very well. Her neighbor was murdered in the downstairs area.”
    â€œThat’s right. We’d like to talk to her about it.”
    A “hmm” came across the line. “Well, I tell you what. I don’t like doing business over the phone. I’m sure you can understand that. If you want to come and show me some identification, I’ll tell you what I know.”
    â€œHow about first thing tomorrow morning, Miss Phelps?”
    â€œThat will be just fine. I usually leave for work about eight-fifteen. If you can be here before eight, we can talk.”
    The address wasn’t far. Catherine Phelps lived on West End Avenue in the Seventies, and Jane could walk it in fifteen minutes or less. Getting up early was preferable to knocking herself out tonight and not getting any packing done. There were linens and clothes still to be taken care of, a couple of small rugs to be rolled and tied. In fact, everywhere she looked there seemed to be something else that needed to be packed.
    That left the number for Jerry Hutchins. She dialed it and waited while it rang several times, finally answered by a youngish-sounding man.
    â€œI’d like to speak to Jerry Hutchins.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œMr. Hutchins, Jerry Hutchins.”
    â€œNo one here by that name right now.”
    â€œMaybe someone by that name stayed at your address a while back. I really need to talk to him.”
    â€œHey, babe, anyone in New York could’ve lived here a while back. Hold on.”
    There were voices in the background. It almost sounded like a bar on Saturday night. Then another man said, “This is Al.”
    â€œI’m trying to find Jerry Hutchins.”
    â€œJerry Hutchins.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œIt kind of rings a bell.”
    â€œDoes he live there?”
    â€œIf he does, it’s news to me. But it wouldn’t be the first time someone’s lived here without my knowing it.”
    â€œDo you know where I can find him?”
    â€œWhen do you think he was here?”
    â€œAbout three or four years ago.”
    â€œFour years! Lady, in this place that’s a lifetime.”
    â€œAl,” she said plaintively, “I really need to find