Austin’s grandfather clicked the button on the side of his steel measuring tape and the long flat extension whacked back up into its holder. Then he headed toward the house. Austin felt every one of his grandfather’s steps on his heart.

Macey pointed. “Whoever called in the fire lived on the other side of the creek.” Brookside Drive was a stone’s throw away, but by car a long and annoying drive. Between the two neighborhoods was a tidal creek, mud-bottomed at low tide, and swirling with currents at high tide. “Would you go with me to ask around the neighborhood?” she said.

Grandfather reached the side door and went in, shutting it behind him.

“They’ll have moved, Macey,” said Austin.

Her face fell.

“But it’s worth a try,” he said quickly.

Her face lit up, and she said, “Now?” and he loved her for being so much like his mother: Do it now, do it with passion, don’t sit down!

They walked across the Demitroff property to the edge of the water. The land was high, fifteen feet above high tide, and dropped off into rocks, but at the creek, grass ran right down to the water’s edge.

The tide was out. The creek ran thin. The water was probably only up to their ankles. “Let’s go,” he said, and the mudflats sucked their feet down, and gritty salt water filled his work boots. They had not walked fifty feet on the far side of the creek when they were hailed and a man called in a falsely polite voice, “May I help you?”

Good thing we like dogs, thought Austin. The guy’s got three of them.

One was a golden, no worries there. Macey knelt to hug the retriever while the other dogs, less eager to see her, growled. Their master, a middle-aged man, bifocals and not much hair, spoke to the dogs and they quieted. Their names seemed to be Janet, Darlene and Donna Lee.

Macey introduced herself and Austin. “I’m researching a fire that happened in 1959. An old barn was torched and the fire was reported by somebody living on your side of the creek.”

The man nodded, shifting dog leashes as the dogs twined around his legs. “Sure, I remember,” he said. “I didn’t live here then, though. Had an army career. My sister was the one who reported it. You could talk to her. She lives in New Canaan now.”

New Canaan was twenty miles away. Austin would drive Macey; take a long country drive with her, wandering on curving roads, stopping for ice cream.

“I’m Pete Yinson,” the man said. “Come on in while I get my sister’s telephone numbers for you.”