It was nothing special inside, what little they could make out. A sparely furnished den, an oval rug, a bookcase full of portraits, the faces indistinct and ghostly, and hanging on the wall above it, a long paddle. But to Henry, the simple thrill of being inside a stranger’s house at night, uninvited, was almost unbearable. Another cramp seized him, and he was glad for the dark. Every half-visible object seemed charged with secret meaning. There was a clicking sound, and Alma announced that the electricity was off, and Clara said, “Well, Jesus, we don’t want to turn the lights on, do we?” They found their way into the kitchen, which was a little brighter, from a bay window at one end, and Alma rifled through the drawers until she said, “There we are,” and a blinding light startled them. She’d found a flashlight. She held it to her chin and made herself ghoulish.

They went upstairs, into what must have been the master bedroom. Shag carpet on the floor, a queen-size bed with a multicolored quilt. On the dresser stood a photograph of a middle-aged man and woman, the man bloated and self-important, the woman with thick, horn-rimmed glasses. Was that the Woods? Henry asked, and Effie said she wasn’t sure. Clara hung around the doorway, her arms crossed as if afraid to leave any fingerprints. Alma and Max were in the attached bathroom, looking through the medicine cabinet and under the sink, but they found nothing interesting, or embarrassing for the Woods—or whoever these people were—aside from a stack of used menthol camphor tins.

Max declared that he knew all he needed to know about the Woods. “Their children are grown and don’t care about the beach house anymore. The mister is retired. He was a home-appliance salesman. He and the missus still come out here, but without the children, they bore each other to tears. They’ll likely sell the place soon.”

They made their way back outside. “That was fun,” Clara said, but Alma, who had kept the Woods’ flashlight, was making her way to the next lawn, and they followed. That house was locked, but the one next to it was wide open: they walked in through the front door.

Effie didn’t know these people. Neither did Clara. The den was garishly nautical. Model ships lined the mantel. A ship’s wheel hung over a leather sofa, and a giant painting of a World War II battleship firing all of its guns hung opposite. In a corner stood a small armchair with white-lace arm covers. “He voted for Eisenhower,” Max said, “and she voted for Stevenson, twice, though she will never admit it to him.”