"It's always better in person."

In spite of the housing tracts and thesmokeless industries proliferating around it, Pacific Point had kept itsidentity. Foothill Drive was lined with trees, and had a dusty changelessquality. Settled old families still lived here behind mortised walls that hadresisted earthquakes, or hedges that had outlived generations of gardeners.

The towering cypress hedge of 311 maskedthe house completely from the road. I turned in through the open iron gateswith Alex following me. We passed a small white gatehouse with a green door andgreen shutters, rounded a bend in the driveway, and came in sight of the whiteColonial house.

A woman with a wide straw hat tied underher chin was kneeling shoulder deep among the flowers in front of it. She had apair of clippers in her gloved hands. They snicked in the silence when ourengines died.

She rose cumbrously to her feet and cametoward us, tucking wisps of gray hair under her hat. She was just an old ladyin dirty tennis shoes but her body, indeterminate in a loose blue smock,carried itself with heavy authority, as if it recalled that it had once beenpowerful or handsome. The architecture of her face had collapsed under theweight of flesh and years. Still her black eyes were alert, like unexpectedanimal or bird life in the ruins of a building.

"Mrs. Bradshaw?" Alex saideagerly.

"I am Mrs. Bradshaw. What do yougentlemen want? I'm very busy, as you can see." She flourished theclippers. "I never trust anyone else to clip my roses. And still they die,poor things." Regret rustled in her voice.

"They look very beautiful tome," I said in an encouraging way. "Mr. Kincaid and I hate to botheryou. But he seems to have misplaced his wife, and we have reason to think she'sworking for you."

"For me? I employ no one but mySpanish couple. My son," she added with a trace of pride, "keeps meto a strict budget."

"Don't you have a girl driving foryou?"

She smiled. "I completely forgotabout her. She's just on a part-time basis. What's her name? Molly? Dolly? Inever can remember the girls' names."

"Dolly," I said, and showed herthe print. "Is this Dolly?"

She removed one gardening glove to takethe picture. Her hand was gnarled by arthritis.

"I do believe it is. But she saidnothing to me about being married. I'd never have hired her if I'd known, itmakes for too much involvement. I like to take my little drives onschedule."

Alex interrupted her rather garrulouschatter. "Where is she now?"

"I couldn't say. She's done her day'sstint for me. She may have walked over to the college, or she may be in thegatehouse. I let my girls use the gatehouse. Sometimes they abuse theprivilege, but so far this one hasn't." She gave Alex a sharp blackglance. "I hope she won't begin to, now that you've turned up."

"I don't expect she'll be going on—"

I cut him short. "Go and see if she'sin the gatehouse." I turned back to Mrs. Bradshaw: "How long has shebeen with you?"

"About two weeks. The semester started two weeksago."

"Is she attending the college?"

"Yes. I get all my girls from there,except when I have to have a regular attendant, as I did when my son was abroadlast summer. I hope I don't lose Dolly. She's brighter than most of them. Butif she goes I suppose there are always others. You'll realize, when you'velived as long as I have, that the young ones leave the old ones . . ."

She turned to her roses, glowing red andyellow in the sunlight. She seemed to be looking for some way to finish thethought. None occurred to her. I said:

"What name is she using? What surname?"

"I'm afraid I don't remember. I call them bytheir first names. My son could tell you."

"Is he here?"

"Roy is at the college. He happens to be the Deanthere."

"Is it far from here?"

"You can see it from where you stand."

Her arthritic hand curled on my elbow andturned me gently. Through a gap in the trees I could make out the metal cupolaof a small observatory. The old lady spoke close to my ear, in a gossipy way:

"What happened between your youngfriend and his wife?"

"They came here on their honeymoonand she walked out on him. He's trying to find out why."

"What a strange thing to do,"she said. "I'd never have acted like that on my honeymoon, I had too muchrespect for my husband. But girls are different nowadays, aren't they? Loyaltyand respect mean nothing to them. Are you married, young man?"

"I have been."

"I see. Are you the boy's father?"

"No. My name is Archer. I'm a privatedetective."

"Really? What do you make of all this?" Shegestured vaguely with her clippers toward the gatehouse.

"Nothing so far. She may have lefthim on account of a girlish whim. Or she may have had deep dark reasons. All Ican do is ask her. By the way, Mrs. Bradshaw, have you ever heard her mention aman named Begley?"

© Alexander Sviyash, 2009