I pulled out the phone book and looked up the number for the Presbyterian church where Foley was employed. I picked up the handset and then found myself hesitating. I didn’t want to have to drive to Cromwell, but it didn’t seem smart to question him by phone. Better to be present so I could see his reaction. There’s sometimes much to be learned from observing body language and facial expressions. Aside from that, I was hoping Ty Eddings would call, and if I tied up the line, he wouldn’t be able to get through. I made sure the message machine was on, shoved the file in my bag, then grabbed my car keys and headed out the door.

I found Foley in the sunny church kitchen, using an oversized polisher to buff the mottled beige-and-white vinyl floor tiles. He moved with the awkwardness of a man in pain. He was a mess. His facial swelling had diminished some, but that didn’t improve his looks. The adhesive tape was peeling from the splint on his nose. His eye sockets were deep lavender, as though he’d used eye shadow to intensify the blue of his eyes. The bruising had migrated down his cheeks, the pull of gravity creating a beard of subcutaneous blood that darkened the lower portion of his face. Black sutures sprung from his still-puffy lips like the whiskers on a catfish.

When he realized I was in the room, he shut down his machine and sank gratefully onto a kitchen stool.

I pulled out a second stool and perched. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“I don’t like being idle. It’s better if I work so I can earn my keep. What brings you this way?”

“I’ve been thinking about the lace curtain the body was wrapped in.”

He dropped his gaze to his hands. “I wish I hadn’t torn those curtains down. That’s what drove her away. I know there’s no changing what is, but if she hadn’t left when she did, she might still be alive.”

“That’s not where I was heading, Foley. I didn’t drive all the way out here to make you feel bad,” I said. “When did your trash usually get picked up?”

He had to stop and think. “Fridays.”

“But it couldn’t have been picked up that Friday because of the holiday, right?”

He shrugged. “I’ll take your word for it. It was too many years ago.”

“Well, think about it. The banks were closed. No mail delivery, no government offices open, and no city services, except maybe the bus line if Serena Station had a bus back then.”

“That sounds right.”

“Which means the curtains were sitting in the trash for two full days-all day Friday and all day Saturday-before they landed in that car. The Bel Air wasn’t buried until after nine thirty that night.”