me."
"How'd you do on the phone?"
"Not very well," he said. "No one knew where she was. Some of the calls were from real estate customers who don't know anything about her. One woman said she was my mother's best friend. I figure she's worth a visit."
"She know anything?"
"She was late for aerobics, she said. But I could call later."
"Better to visit," I said. "Where is she?"
"Lives in Concord. She gave me the address."
"Okay. I'll run out and have a talk with her," I said.
"I'll go with you."
"No need to."
"Yes," Paul said. "There is a need to."
"Okay."
"You took care of everything when I was fifteen," he said. "I'm not fifteen now. I need to do part of this."
"Sure," I said. Paul's presence would make it harder. People would be less frank about Patty in front of her son. But he wasn't fifteen anymore and it was his mother. Pearl had gotten herself up onto the narrow client's chair and was curled precariously, mouthing the yellow tennis ball she'd tracked down on a walk in Cambridge. Her eyes followed every movement I made. I got her leash and snapped it on and took her to the car and drove her and Paul to Concord.
Most of the way up Route 2 she had her head on my left shoulder, her nose out the open window, sampling the wind.
"It is not entirely clear," I said to Paul, "why I am bringing this hound with me everywhere I go."
"Cathexis," Paul said.
"I knew you'd know."
"What did they say about my mother?" he said.
"The people at Chez Vous?"
"Oui. "
"They had no real idea where she might be."
"I know, you told me that. But what did they say?"
"They said she worked, usually, three or four days a week, on commission.
That she had brought Rich to a Christmas party last year and that he was very good looking."
"That all?"
"They didn't exactly say, but made it quite clear that they thought that your mother's choices of men were often ill-advised."
"Many men?"
"They suggested that she needed to be with a man, and that if we found Rich we'd find her."
"Did they talk about her need to be with men?"
"Not a lot. They seemed to record it as a fact of your mother's nature that she wasn't likely to go very far, very often, without the company of a man."
"That could get you in trouble," Paul said.
I nodded. We left Route 2, onto 2A, which was the old Revolutionary War road, where the embattled farmers sniped at the redcoats from behind the fieldstone walls. We passed historic houses-the Wayside, the Alcott
House-all the way into Concord center.
Not all of the historical places in Massachusetts look the way you'd like them to. But Concord does. It has overarching trees, spacious colonial homes, a green, a clean little downtown made mostly of red brick, a rambling white clapboard inn that looks as if stagecoaches should still be stopping there. There are the historic sights, the academy, the river where one can rent a canoe and spend a day of transcendental paddling, as Susan and I had occasionally done, pausing to picnic one day almost beneath the rude bridge that arched the flood.
The address we wanted was a recycled jelly factory in downtown Concord.
They'd sandblasted the brick and cleaned up the clock tower and gutted the interior and built blond-wood-with-white-walls condominium apartments inside. Out back was a big parking lot. A hopeful sales office was still open on the first floor of the building.
The woman's name was Caitlin Moore. She answered the bell in a pink spandex leotard, white sneakers, and a pink sweatband. She was built like the cheerleaders of my youth, chunky, bouncy, not very tall. Her extremely blonde hair was caught into a ponytail. She had on green eye shadow and false eyelashes and whitish lip gloss, which made her look a little spectral.
"Hi," she said, friendly. "I'm Caitlin. You must be Paul, who I talked with on the phone."
Paul said he was, and introduced me.
"You're a detective?"
"Yes."
"Could I see something?"
"Sure." I gave her my license, she looked at it for a
"How'd you do on the phone?"
"Not very well," he said. "No one knew where she was. Some of the calls were from real estate customers who don't know anything about her. One woman said she was my mother's best friend. I figure she's worth a visit."
"She know anything?"
"She was late for aerobics, she said. But I could call later."
"Better to visit," I said. "Where is she?"
"Lives in Concord. She gave me the address."
"Okay. I'll run out and have a talk with her," I said.
"I'll go with you."
"No need to."
"Yes," Paul said. "There is a need to."
"Okay."
"You took care of everything when I was fifteen," he said. "I'm not fifteen now. I need to do part of this."
"Sure," I said. Paul's presence would make it harder. People would be less frank about Patty in front of her son. But he wasn't fifteen anymore and it was his mother. Pearl had gotten herself up onto the narrow client's chair and was curled precariously, mouthing the yellow tennis ball she'd tracked down on a walk in Cambridge. Her eyes followed every movement I made. I got her leash and snapped it on and took her to the car and drove her and Paul to Concord.
Most of the way up Route 2 she had her head on my left shoulder, her nose out the open window, sampling the wind.
"It is not entirely clear," I said to Paul, "why I am bringing this hound with me everywhere I go."
"Cathexis," Paul said.
"I knew you'd know."
"What did they say about my mother?" he said.
"The people at Chez Vous?"
"Oui. "
"They had no real idea where she might be."
"I know, you told me that. But what did they say?"
"They said she worked, usually, three or four days a week, on commission.
That she had brought Rich to a Christmas party last year and that he was very good looking."
"That all?"
"They didn't exactly say, but made it quite clear that they thought that your mother's choices of men were often ill-advised."
"Many men?"
"They suggested that she needed to be with a man, and that if we found Rich we'd find her."
"Did they talk about her need to be with men?"
"Not a lot. They seemed to record it as a fact of your mother's nature that she wasn't likely to go very far, very often, without the company of a man."
"That could get you in trouble," Paul said.
I nodded. We left Route 2, onto 2A, which was the old Revolutionary War road, where the embattled farmers sniped at the redcoats from behind the fieldstone walls. We passed historic houses-the Wayside, the Alcott
House-all the way into Concord center.
Not all of the historical places in Massachusetts look the way you'd like them to. But Concord does. It has overarching trees, spacious colonial homes, a green, a clean little downtown made mostly of red brick, a rambling white clapboard inn that looks as if stagecoaches should still be stopping there. There are the historic sights, the academy, the river where one can rent a canoe and spend a day of transcendental paddling, as Susan and I had occasionally done, pausing to picnic one day almost beneath the rude bridge that arched the flood.
The address we wanted was a recycled jelly factory in downtown Concord.
They'd sandblasted the brick and cleaned up the clock tower and gutted the interior and built blond-wood-with-white-walls condominium apartments inside. Out back was a big parking lot. A hopeful sales office was still open on the first floor of the building.
The woman's name was Caitlin Moore. She answered the bell in a pink spandex leotard, white sneakers, and a pink sweatband. She was built like the cheerleaders of my youth, chunky, bouncy, not very tall. Her extremely blonde hair was caught into a ponytail. She had on green eye shadow and false eyelashes and whitish lip gloss, which made her look a little spectral.
"Hi," she said, friendly. "I'm Caitlin. You must be Paul, who I talked with on the phone."
Paul said he was, and introduced me.
"You're a detective?"
"Yes."
"Could I see something?"
"Sure." I gave her my license, she looked at it for a
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