“Actually, I’m out of orange juice, anyway,” she said genially, coming back toward me. She was either completely comfortable or very good at faking it. Very odd. I followed her into the living room, and we both sat down.

“So, what can I do for you?” she asked in a kindly tone that was oddly unsettling. “I’d like to help, of course.”

I kept my own tone casual and nonthreatening. “First of all, are you the only driver for your car?”

“Just me.” She smiled as though the question was vaguely funny. I wondered why.

“Has it been outside of your supervision at any time in the past six weeks or so?”

“Well, when I sleep, of course. And when I’m at work. I do housekeeping at the Beverly Hills Hotel.”

“I see. So you need the car for transportation to work.”

She fingered the collar of her uniform and eyeballed the pad in my hand as though she wanted me to write that part down. On an impulse, I went ahead and did it.

“So I guess the answer is yes,” she went on. “Technically, it has been outside of my . . . whatever you said. Supervision.” Her laugh was a tiny bit coy. “My purview.”

I scribbled a few more notes of my own. Eager to please? Busy hands. Wants me to know she’s intelligent.

As we continued, I watched her as much as I listened. Nothing she said was really out of the ordinary, though. What struck hardest was the way she concentrated on me. Her hands kept landing in different places, but her brown eyes didn’t travel very far from my own. I got the impression she was glad I was there.

When I stood up at the end of the interview, as if to leave, her face dropped.

“Could I bother you for that glass of water?” I asked, and she brightened visibly.

“Coming right up.”

I followed her as far as the doorway. Everything in the kitchen was neatly arranged, too. The counters were mostly empty, except for a four-slice toaster and a set of country kitsch-style canisters.

The dish rack next to the sink was full, and there were two steak knives among the clean silverware.

She filled a glass at the tap and handed it to me. It tasted slightly soapy.

“Are you originally from California?” I asked conversationally. “From around here?”

“Oh, no,” she said. “Nowhere near as nice as this.”

“Where’d you move from?”

“The North Pole.” Another coy laugh and a shake of the head. “At least, it might as well be.”

“Let me guess. Maine? You strike me as a New Englander.”

“Can I get you a refill?”

“No, thank you. Really, I’m fine.”

She took the water glass out of my hand, not yet half empty, and turned toward the sink.

That was when all hell broke loose.

First, I heard heavy footsteps and a loud shout coming from just outside.