I admired the flowers in the garden, which looked as though it had just been weeded, mounted the two steps up to the porch, walked past some white wicker furniture, and knocked on the front screen door. Leaned up against the house, next to the door, were a garden rake and a small shovel, fresh dirt still clinging to it. Inside the house, I heard movement, and then the main door, beyond the screen, opened.

At first I thought Trixie had done something with her hair.

It was blonde now, instead of black, with some streaks of gray in it. She was wearing jeans, with a denim shirt tucked in, the sleeves rolled up. A wisp of hair hung over her forehead and across one eye, and when she used the back of her wrist to move it away, I could see that I had made a mistake.

This was not Trixie. But her face, the shape of her nose, something about the chin, it almost could have been. But this woman was older. Not by much. Three or four years, maybe, but no more. She was lean, and her forearms, where the sleeves had been rolled up, were ropy and muscular.

“Yes?” the woman said.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I—”

And I realized I had no cover story worked out. Maybe if I just told the truth.

“Are you Mrs. Bennet?” I asked, pointing to the mailbox out front.

I guess, what with her name out there by the road and all, she couldn’t see much point in denying it. “Yes,” she said, hesitantly.

“Mrs. Bennet, I’m looking for someone,” I said, my voice full of apology. “I don’t know whether I have the right place, but, uh, I’m looking for a woman by the name of Trixie Snelling.”

Mrs. Bennet’s eyes seemed to widen, then go back to normal, all in a thousandth of a second.

“I’m sorry, there’s no one here by that name,” Mrs. Bennet said.

“Well, that’s possible,” I said. “I might have the name wrong. I don’t even know that that is her name. It might actually be Candace something. You see, I know her as Trixie, we used to be neighbors, she’s a friend of mine, and—”

“Mister,” Mrs. Bennet said, starting to close the door, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m afraid if you have any more questions, you’ll have to talk to my husband.”

I nodded agreeably. “That would be fine. Could I speak to him please?”

“I’m afraid he’s not here right now. You’d have to come back another time.”

From somewhere down the highway, the sound of an approaching truck.

“Mrs. Bennet, please, I’m sorry, I haven’t even told you my name. I’m Zack—”