“Brucie! Quit messing around and get back in the house!” Mildred’s voice snapped as she held the screen door open for Brucie.

Vivian inhaled deeply through her nostrils and thought that little dog deserved a better name. What kind of a stupid name was Brucie for a dog? B-R-U-C-I-E. It didn’t work with the tune. Stupid name or not, Brucie obeyed Mildred and plopped back onto all fours and tap-tap-tapped his way back inside the house on those dirty paws that’d probably left marks on Vivian’s best skirt. Vivian grabbed the pencil and yanked it from the mess in her purse and then flipped the top page, which she had left intentionally blank, over the back of the clipboard.

“You were living in this same house in 1950?”

“Yeah.”

“Fine, fine. And your full name?”

“Mildred Rose Fischer.”

Vivian scribbled with the pencil, waiting for Mildred to say one or both of her married names, but she didn’t.

“Mmm-hmm, could you spell ‘Fischer’ for me?”

“F-I-S-C-H-E-R.”

“Thank you. And, miss, missus? Fischer, are you currently married?”

“No.”

“Have you been married previously?”

“Yes.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Vivian didn’t think she’d be able to get away with asking “To whom?” or anything else specific about Mildred’s previous marriages, so good old Shirley Smith would have to leave it at that.

“Who else lives at this address with you?”

“Just me.”

Vivian kept her head down as she wrote on the page. The Daily Record article had mentioned that Mildred and her second husband “had a youngster,” because that was what Edward had told Vivian. She wondered where that youngster was now. He or she would’ve been younger than Charlotte. Cooped up inside, Brucie had gone back to barking from what was probably the living room, and Vivian thought if Mildred were a friendly sort she might’ve made a joke about Brucie living there with her. She wasn’t, and she didn’t.

“And in 1950? Was there anyone else living here then?”

“No.” Mildred drew on the cigarette, then blew the smoke over Vivian’s head. “My son was here a few times, but the landlord knew all about it.”

“Ah.” Vivian tensed at the mention of the son. “That’s fine. We don’t share these results with the landlords. That is not our business. So, children. How many children do you have?”

“Just my son. YOU SONS OF BITCHES!” Mildred’s attention had gone from Vivian and the clipboard to something just to the left of the porch and she marched through the piled-up snow to lean over the rail. “GET OFF OF THERE!”

Vivian followed Mildred’s shouting to the birdhouse with a feeder that stood in the side yard. A couple of squirrels had been chitter-chattering and snacking on the bird feed, but scattered with Mildred’s bellowing.

“Durn rodents,” Mildred muttered as she clomped her way back to stand in front of the screen door, stomping her feet and brushing the snow from her ankles. Vivian’s attention stayed on the birdhouse.

It sat on top of a wooden post and was shaped like a little bungalow. Her heart gave a pained squeeze as she recognized Edward’s handiwork. She’d seen enough of the things he made on his workbench to know he’d been the one who’d made that birdhouse. The little curved eaves of the house. The shape. He’d even added a chimney, which he loved to do. The dollhouse he’d made for Charlotte had a real chimney. And their birdhouse in the backyard did, too. “Makes it look like a real house. The birds’ll love it!” Oh, goddammit, Edward.