“We should all go out at the same time,” said Nancy. “You go,” she said, pushing me out the front door, stuffing a set of keys into my hand. Then let us in the back door.”
Once inside, I closed the Venetian blinds. Stephen turned on the table lamp next to the couch.
“Look for her address book,” said Nancy.
“Too late, her sister took it to call people about the funeral."
“Which is?” asked Stephen.
“Tomorrow, 11”
“Patterson’s?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Photo albums,” said Nancy. “Scrapbooks.” She directed Stephen to examine the books on the living room shelves. I moved to the kitchen where I examined the photos and memoranda mounted on the refrigerator. Nancy ran up to the second floor where I could hear her in the small bedroom, opening drawers.
"Hey, wasn't there a framed picture in here?" asked Stephen, standing in the doorway.
"In where?"
"By the couch, Abigail and another woman on a dock."
I looked around the room, dropping to my hands and knees to search beneath the sofa.
"Maybe Susan took it," said Stephen.
"I don't think so, unless she was back without me, which is possible."
He shrugged. "It'll probably turn up."
"It wasn't a very good picture, was it? There was a long shadow cutting down the middle. The guy who shot it, I guess."
"Maybe that's why she framed it. It's a picture of Ken."
"That's a great idea. They were probably having a secret affair and that's all she could show off."
"But who took it? There are plenty of other pictures around, so I don't think Susan, whenever she's been here, was packing up the photos. There are still albums and year books on the shelves.
We seemed to get the same idea at once. If the photograph was out in the open all this time, what else was in plain view?
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