My final search was for the last name Kastle, in hopes of tracking down Shirley Ann’s parents. The only Kastles I found were Norma and Boyd on Trend. I went through the current Polk and the Haines, along with the current telephone book, and came up empty-handed. Oh, well. It was probably unrealistic to expect to score in every single category. I returned the volumes to the shelves, sent the librarian a friendly wave, and went out to my car.

23

Clara Doyle lived in a boxy one-story white frame house with a pitched roof and a row of windows that glassed in the original porch. From the street, it was hard to imagine an interior large enough to accommodate much more than a living room, an eat-in kitchen, one bedroom, and a bathroom. Enclosing the porch had probably added a much-needed hundred and fifty square feet of space. There were two very tall palm trees in the yard, each growing from the center of a circle of white rocks. Green fronds formed feather dusters at the top, while shaggy brown fronds hung down along the trunk almost to the ground. In Santa Teresa, Norway rats will shelter in the crevices if city maintenance crews let too much time pass between trims.

There was no doorbell in evidence. Through the glass in the upper half of the door, I could see a woman sitting at a table in the front room, working on a jigsaw puzzle. I tapped on the glass, hoping I wouldn’t startle her. When she caught sight of me, she pushed her chair back and got up. She was tall and stout, with a round face, thin white hair, and glasses with oversize red plastic frames that made her eyes look enormous. She wore a pink cotton floral-print housedress with a pinafore-style apron over it. She opened the door without hesitation, saying, “Yes?”

I couldn’t believe she was so trusting. How did she know I wouldn’t burst in, smite her about the head and shoulders, and take all her cash? “Are you Clara Doyle?”

“I am, and who might you be?” She had a sturdy set of yellowing teeth, darkly discolored at the gum line, but otherwise looking like the set she was born with.

I handed her a business card. “Kinsey Millhone. I drove up from Santa Teresa this morning hoping you might give me information about Lenore Redfern. Her family lived down the street at 475—”

“I know where the Redferns lived, but they’ve been gone for years,” she said. She slid my card into her apron pocket. “Why have you come to my door?”

“Because of this.” I held up the mailing pouch, the face of it turned toward her, as though I meant to read her a story, pointing to the pictures as I went along. “Do you recognize it?”

“Of course. Why do you have it when it was mailed to someone else?”

“A colleague drove up from Santa Teresa a year ago. I believe he met with Father Xavier.”