floated above everyone else. You could read that two ways. Jealousy being one of

them.” “And there’s something else,” said Puller. He showed her the news

article. “Her husband committed suicide?” exclaimed Knox. “His body was found

the morning after my mother disappeared.

 

But he could have died the same night that she vanished.” “You think they might

be connected?” “I don’t know. But I also don’t know they’re not connected.” “So

this might explain what happened to your mother that night?” “Let’s hope so,

because I’m fresh out of leads and ideas.” * * * This time Puller did not phone

ahead.

 

They arrived at eight o’clock in the morning on the woman’s doorstep.

 

Lucy Bristow answered the door in her bathrobe. She didn’t look happy, but then

neither did Puller. “What do you want?” she said brusquely. “Answers,” said

Puller bluntly. “About what? I’ve told you all I know about your mother.” “Can

we do this inside?” asked Knox.

 

For a moment Bristow looked like she might slam the door in their faces, but

then she stepped back and motioned them in. She led them into the kitchen and

said, “I’m making some tea, would you like some?” Puller declined, Knox

accepted.

 

Bristow poured out two cups and they sat at the kitchen table. “Now what exactly

is this about?” “You didn’t tell me that your husband committed suicide,” said