“But she’s also standing closer to Helga than to Mom.”

“Maybe that’s ’cause Mom looks like she’s got all the charm of frozen halibut. Dad, on the other hand is more … cod. And Helga’s our shark.” Grinning. “How’s that for dime-store psychoanalysis? What I’m wondering is whether the revenge plot is Helga’s thing or a family affair.”

“We can’t eliminate Mom and Dad’s involvement, and one way or the other it’s family money that funds Helga’s lifestyle. Dahlia’s, too, including this house, which is immaculately maintained. Be interesting if the neighbors remember any of the Gemeins living here.”

“We’ll start canvassing soon as the house is cleared.” Another glance at the little colonial. “Only thing missing is the picket fence.”

Checking his watch, he followed up with the bomb squad. They were a couple of minutes away, arriving with high-tech toys and three of their best canines.

A couple of minutes turned into fifteen. Then, twenty-five. Milo fidgeted, smoked, made another call. One of the high-tech toys needed last-ditch tinkering. Milo spat out an expletive, bounded out of the car, and began knocking on doors. I caught up.

Ten minutes later, three neighbors had confirmed that Helga Gemein lived in the house, but they’d seen no sign of any other occupants.

A rangy woman sucking on a pink Nat Sherman said, “She changes her looks. One day it’s blond, the other day it’s brunette, next time it’s red. I figured her for an actress, or trying to be.”

Back at the car, Milo said, “Whole collection of wigs. So why the hell would she shave her head in the first place?”

“Maybe a rite of self-denial,” I said.

“Giving up hair for Lent?”

“Or until she got the job done.”

The bomb squad arrived, checked out the perimeter, returned to the front. The red door was unlocked and pushed open with a long pole, everyone standing back.

No explosion.

A lieutenant stuck his head in, ventured inside, came out giving the thumbs-up.

The dogs ambled in. The dogs were interested.

CHAPTER

29

Dahlia Gemein was gone but the house remained hers in spirit.

Lacy linens, pastel walls, a cheerful country kitchen that looked as if it had never been used. Cute little wicker tables were crowded with cute little glass figurines; clear preference for dolphins and monkeys. Half a dozen amateurishly daubed, pale blue abstractions bore a Dahlia signature. A tiny golden sun dotted the i.

Drawers and closets were filled with expensive clothing, much of it bearing German or French labels. No family photos, but two nail holes in the center hallway said something had been removed.

Despite the girlie décor, the house felt hollow, temporary.