“Mary Ellen Revere."

“Of course. She lives across the street.”

“Is that it?”

Jane could see out the window. "Yes . . ." she said slowly as she watched a gurney with a covered shape being wheeled out to the ambulance. A man in coveralls the same blue as the cleaning lady's pant suit was walking alongside.

Jane suddenly felt sick again, but it had nothing to do with the murder victim. She was thinking of Steve. He must have been taken away like that, his face covered. But it had been the middle of the night, freezing and snowing. And instead of lush, green lawn, there must have been only twisted metal, bent guardrails, ice-coated pavement, and blood everywhere. Steve's blood and the truck driver's, probably steaming in the frigid night air at first, then crystallizing on the snow.

And he'd had nobody to walk beside him.

Five

“Mrs. Jeffry, could you give me addresses for the women you've mentioned? I'll have to contact them."

“What—? Oh, yes, of course." Jane dragged herself back to the present. What was going on now was bad enough; the past was unthinkable. She got her address book out from the drawer beneath the phone and started recording the information on a notepad.

“I'll take you home anytime you're ready, Mrs. Nowack," Detective VanDyne was saying. "Do you need anyone called? Your husband—?"

“No, he's out of town. So are my children. I'll phone him later this afternoon when things—when I've calmed down. Uh—about that room—the guest room—?"

“It's all right. Death is sometimes very messy. This one wasn't," he said, correctly interpreting her concern. "Of course, we've got a photographer and a fingerprint man there still, but they'll dean up after themselves—in their fashion—when they're done. We'll have to take the vacuum cleaner to the lab for a few days to try to get some prints off the cord. It's unlikely they'llfind any full prints, though. Is there anything else you can tell me about all this? What do you know about Mrs. Thurgood?"

“Mrs. Thurgood? Who's that?”

He looked at her with some alarm. "Mrs. Thurgood is the woman who was murdered."

“Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't know that was her name. I suppose she must have told me, but—"

“She worked for you every week and you didn't know her name?"

“No. I'd never had her to my house before. She was a substitute for the woman the agency was supposed to send."

“I didn't know that," Detective VanDyne said.

“Does it matter?" Jane asked, looking up from her task of compiling names and addresses.

“Who can say?" he answered. "I don't know anything yet." He turned back to Shelley. "Are you ready to go home?"

“I'll come with you, Shelley," Jane said. She handed the list to the detective and wondered if he'd be able to read her handwriting. She hardly recognized it as her own.