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house while they were taking evidence. They wouldn’t want her there getting in the way, maybe destroying something they felt was important.
    As Garza turned away, a plain green Chevy pulled up the drive, parking beside Susan’s car. Detective Juana Davis got out, a squarely built Latina woman in her mid-fifties with short black hair. She smiled and waved to Susan, and went inside with Garza. Susan sat in her car thinking about having to clean up that mess, and about this loss to the Senior Survival club fund. They’d had no one item of value, but many small treasures that altogether would have brought a nice sum on the Web—now all shattered and destroyed. And she thought about the five members of the Senior Survival club buying a house together, wondered if five women living together might be more secure, maybe take better precautions—or if five lone women in a house would be sitting ducks for anyone who wanted to harm them.
    I’m getting paranoid, this is crazy, this is not the way I look at life. She stroked Lamb and looked into his eyes, and saw such steadfast courage that she was ashamed of her own cowardice.
    It was half an hour later that Davis came out to tell Susan that the trail of blood led across her backyard, across her neighbors’ side yard, and disappeared at the curb of the street below her house.
    â€œThe victim may have gotten into a car. Do you remember a car parked down there?” Davis pushed back her short hair. She was in uniform, though usually the detectives dressed in civilian clothes.
    â€œI didn’t come home along the lower street,” Susan said. “I came up the other way, directly from the village. Walking. I’d been walking Lamb, on the beach.”
    Davis nodded. Her dark Latin eyes warmed to Susan, and she reached to pat her arm. “You’ll continue to wait until Detective Garza can talk with you again? Are you comfortable?”
    â€œOf course,” Susan said, badly wanting her coffee.
    The detectives spent nearly two hours going over the scene, photographing, dusting for prints, taking blood samples from several locations, and taking Susan’s own fingerprints for comparison. After about an hour, Davis asked her if she wanted to come in and make coffee.
    As she sipped that first, welcome cup, Detective Garza sat with her in her living room, refusing coffee, asking endless questions. She allowed him to examine her hands and arms for any cuts or scrapes or bruises.She tried not to let that ruffle her. This was part of his job, to be sure she hadn’t been involved, that she wasn’t holding back information.
    â€œWho knows your routine, Mrs. Brittain? Who would know that you are in the habit of walking early in the morning?”
    â€œAll my neighbors know that. And my women friends. Wilma Getz…Shall I give you a list?”
    â€œYes, with addresses and phone numbers, if you would. Anyone else?”
    â€œOther dog walkers would know. Anyone used to seeing me and Lamb in the village or on the beach. This is a small town, Detective Garza. Everyone knows your business.” Garza had only been in the village a few months; but surely even working in San Francisco, he’d be aware that some of the neighborhoods were like a small town, where everyone knew everyone else. And Garza knew the village, he had vacationed here for years.
    â€œWhen can I begin to clean up?” she asked. “Do I have to leave that mess?”
    â€œFor a while you do. We’ll be putting up crime scene tape, we’ll want everything left untouched until we notify you. Can you stay with a friend for a few nights? Stay out of the house until we’re finished?”
    â€œI’ll call Wilma. I’m supposed to meet her and some friends for brunch, but I…”
    â€œIt might help to have friends around you. And please don’t leave your dog here, for his own safety.”
    â€œNo, I wouldn’t leave Lamb.