When I rang the front bell, I found myself staring at one of Felix’s stained-glass panes in the door. The design must have been one of his early ones, a simply rendered cluster of grapes beside a wineglass, shaped like a U on a stick and half filled with red wine. This was a portent since the woman who answered the door carried a wineglass much like it, only cloudy with fingerprints. In her other hand she held a cigarette. Her eyes were brown and her hair was a dark carroty red, cut into short wispy strands that curled up around her head like flames. I placed her in her fifties, though she might have been younger and suffering the aging effects of booze and smokes. She was barefoot and wore a vibrant green silk kimono.

“Mrs. Jent?”

“I am.”

“Felix suggested I talk to you . . .”

Her movements were liquid and she swayed in my direction. “Sure. I can do that. You have a name?”

“Kinsey Millhone.”

“You caught me at the cocktail hour. Would you care to join me?” Without waiting for a reply, she turned and the kimono blossomed out around her like a matador’s cape. Fortunately, she had her back to me by then so I wasn’t subjected to anything unseemly. Was she wearing underpants? She padded down the hallway, talking over her shoulder while I followed in the wake of smoke and alcohol fumes.

Surreptitiously, I checked my watch. It was 2:30.

“Don’t be a fussbudget,” she said, apparently catching my move out of the corner of her eye.

“Sorry. Wine would be great.”

“White or red?”

“White.”

“Chardonnay or Sauvignon Blanc?”

“Chardonnay.”

She held a finger up. “Bingo! That’s correct.”

The interior of the house was surprisingly modern. The living room walls were painted cobalt blue and the hall was done in rust. The floors were polished hardwood and the furniture design was stark and uninviting. The paintings were oversized and abstract, bright splashes of red, white, and yellow.

“I’m Avis, by the way. That ‘Mrs. Jent’ malarkey is for the birds. Archie Jent was my third. I was married to him the longest, but I’m not anymore. He was an engineer, if you know the type. He walked around looking like he was trying to shit a bowling ball. I went on the wagon for a while and realized I liked him better when I was drunk. I decided to keep his last name as long as he’s paying my rent. Are you married?”

“Not now.”

“How many times?”

“Twice.”

“Oh, good. We can compare notes. I had a couple stinkers. How about you?”

“I wish I could say they were at fault, but I carried half the blame.”