Lennie Root's small white frame house sat on pylons of raw cinder block, thus creating the crawl space he used to store his miscellaneous painting equipment. There was a flowery ceramic plaque affixed to the wood frame above the front door that read THE ROOTS, MYRA AND LENNIE.

Lennie responded to my knock. He was a man in his sixties with a narrow, sagging face and heavy bags beneath his eyes. His bushy gray hair was peppered with tiny specks of dried red paint. Over his chinos and white T-shirt he wore a full-length apron with a ruffle around the bib. He held a wrinkled white dress shirt like an errant tomcat he intended to boot out the door.

"Mr. Root? My name's Kinsey Millhone. I'm hoping you can answer a few questions about a former employee. You remember Frankie Miracle?"

"What makes you ask? Because if you're working for OSHA or state disability insurance, I want it on record-the injury was fake."

"I'm not here about that. I'm actually a private investigator, doing follow-up on a homicide investigation. This was August of '69. Frankie says he worked for you shortly before that."

He blinked. "How much do you know about ironing?"

"Ironing?"

"My wife's out of town at her mother's until next Monday and I'm supposed to be at my daughter's for supper tonight. I need to iron this shirt, but I don't know how. My wife always sprinkles 'em with water and leaves 'em in a wad, but I never paid attention to what comes next. You show me how to do this and I'll tell you anything you want to know."

I laughed. "Mr. Root, you're in luck. You got a deal."

He handed me the shirt and I followed him through a modest living room to the kitchen at the rear. There were dirty dishes piled in the sink, and the counter was littered with additional glasses, flatware, and plates. On the breakfast table, there was a large broken-rimmed plastic basket piled with freshly laundered clothes. The door to the utility room stood open and Lennie crossed the kitchen to retrieve an ironing board with a floral padded cover and scratched metal legs. When he opened it, the sustained screech of metal on metal sounded like the mating call of an exotic bird. He plugged in the iron. I moved the setting to Cotton and waited for the iron to heat.

"My aunt Gin taught me to do this when I was seven years old, primarily because she hated to do the ironing herself." I licked an index finger and touched it to the hot iron. It made a spatting sound. "Watch this." I took the dampened shirt by the yoke, holding it between my hands, and straightened the puckered seams with one efficient snap.

"That's first?"