No, there were no footsteps on the walk or the front stoop other than my own. And none marking the expanse of virgin snow around the house.

I pulled out my cell phone and called. Mother’s voice mail answered.

“I’m at Barliman Vess’s house,” I said. “I need to talk to you before you get here. Call me.”

Should I go back to town or wait here for Mother?

Or should I see if I could get into the house myself?

I looked under the doormat to see if he had left a key. No luck. But then when I dropped the coconut-fiber mat back down it hit the brick stoop with a dull but metallic ping. I flipped it up again and looked at the underside. A key was neatly affixed to the bottom of the mat with a small strip of duct tape. A slight improvement over just tucking the thing under the mat, I supposed.

What I was contemplating was, of course, trespassing. But I could always say that I’d misinterpreted some message from Mother and believed she had asked me to feed Mr. Vess’s cat. Minerva would back me up.

I pulled the key off the mat and unlocked the front door.

I’d half expected the cat to greet me at the door, but the front hall was empty and unnervingly still. The loud ticking of a huge antique grandfather clock to my left only emphasized how quiet everything else was. Was there really a cat, or was Mother just making one up as an excuse to come out here?

I closed the door behind me and locked it. I reached for the light switch, then stopped. Why advertise my presence? I began fumbling in my purse for the flashlight I always carried.

Of course, with my car parked in the driveway, I was already advertising. I gave up the flashlight search and flipped on the lights.

My first thought was that Mr. Vess clearly had taste and money, but his life must be a little lonely. Well-worn but expensive-looking oriental rugs covered small patches of the polished hardwood floors. The furniture all looked either antique—mostly Colonial—or of good quality, if very understated. But while I couldn’t put my finger on the reason, I had the strong sense that not a lot of people ever came here.

To the right of the door was the living room, which looked chilly, underused, and a little brittle, as if everything might crumble if I turned even one of my boys loose in it for a few minutes. To the left, a small dining room that looked a little less as if everything was glued in place. Over the sideboard hung a modern oil painting of an attractive woman in her fifties. The late Mrs. Vess, no doubt. She was smiling slightly and her eyes looked warm and kind. If the artist had accurately captured her personality …