"Bummed rides with Justine and Cornell and everyone else. That's another thing got on people's nerves. She was a mooch."

"Did she work?"

"Her? That's a laugh. I couldn't even get her to pick up after herself."

"I know I asked you this before, but is there any way you could pin-point the date she left?"

Medora shook her head. "I was just glad to have her gone. Does seem queer to think she's been dead all these years. I pictured her married with kids. That or living on the street. Wonder who killed her."

"That's what we're trying to find out. Do you have a photograph by chance? I'd be interested in seeing how she looked."

"I don't, but you might ask Justine." She paused, coughing again with such vigor it brought tears to her eyes. "I can't stand it. My throat's killing me. You want a drink?"

"No, thanks."

I watched Medora pour herself some whiskey, her hands shaking so badly she could scarcely lift the glass to her lips. She swallowed with relief and then took two deep breaths. "Whoo! That's better. Whiskey'll cure just about anything."

"Well, I guess that's it. I can't tell you how much I appreciate your help."

"You want my opinion, whatever happened to her? She brought it on herself."

I was on my way down her walkway, heading for Dolan's car with the quilt over my arm, when I noticed a sedan had pulled in and parked at the curb. The door on the driver's side opened and a woman got out. She tucked her keys in her purse and she was halfway up the walk when she caught sight of me and stopped. Her gaze flicked to the quilt and then back to me. This had to be Justine. She and Medora shared the same body type and the same pale fly-away hair. Though their features were unremarkable, I could see the resemblance; something in the shape of their narrow chins and their pale green eyes. Like her husband, Cornell, she appeared to be in her mid-thirties.

"Excuse me. Are you Justine McPhee?"

"Yes?"

"My name's Kinsey Millhone. I'm a private detective –"

"I know who you are. I believe we have you to thank for the foul mood my father-in-law's been in." Her manner was an odd mixture of composure and agitation, her tone giving vent to something prickly lurking under the surface.

"I'm sorry about that, but it couldn't be helped."

She glanced toward the house. "What are you doing here?"

"I was just chatting with your mother about Charisse."

Her expression was vacant for an instant and then I could see recognition spark. "Charisse?"

"That's right. I don't know if Cornell mentioned this, but we're investigating a murder..."

"That's what he told me, but surely you're not talking about her."

"We don't have a positive ill yet, but it does look that way."

"I don't believe it. What happened?"