Dating Is Murder

The goose, affronted by the slap, intensified its demented honking and came after me. We ran around to the back of the house, and I spotted the garage. It was a six-car garage, with five cars in residence. I jumped into the back of a pickup truck, a Toyota Tundra, and ducked.

I’ve been in some undignified situations in my life, but hiding from poultry was a low watermark. It worked, though. The goose gave a few more honks, but they lacked conviction. It must have seen me jump into the truck, but either geese have short memories or it felt I’d conceded the fight, because it waddled off toward the house. I know this because I peeked.

Suddenly I heard the song “Anatevka,” from Fiddler on the Roof, coming from somewhere behind the house. I climbed out of the pickup and saw drops of blood; the palm of my hand was wounded. Happily, the Toyota was red. There was also a minivan, a bright green Volkswagen bug I’d seen A

“Anatevka” grew louder. I followed the sound across the lawn and came to a structure that appeared to be some sort of guesthouse or artist’s studio. The door was open. I looked in.

The structure was a high-ceilinged, skylit room. Along one wall was a kitchen, dominated by a granite island work surface. The rest of the space was a hobbyist’s dream: power tools, gardening supplies, sawhorse, sewing machine, kiln, easel, loom, and computer artfully arranged, a masterpiece of organization and aesthetics. A working fireplace occupied the wall opposite the kitchen. Autumn leaves and pomegranates covered the granite work surface, a wreath-making project in progress.

Across the room, a woman with her back to me stood on a ladder. She wore heels. She was stacking glass bottles in compartments on floor-to-ceiling shelves. Dozens of bottles filled the shelves, the kind used for lotion or bath oil, Art Deco-looking things in amber, violet, and moss green. A subtle scent, spice or oil or potpourri, permeated the room. It reminded me of A

“You are making Mommy a little crazy,” the woman said, without pausing in her jar arranging. “Please stop.”

“Dora the explorer, Dora the explorer, Dora the explorer,” the little girl chanted.

“If you watch Dora the Explorer now, you can’t watch Sesame Street in half an hour.”

“Dora the explorer. Dora the explorer. Dora the exp-”

“Okay, okay, okay. But no more TV till bedtime, when Mommy’s at pastry class. Run into the house and tell Lupe you can watch Dora.”

The little girl jumped up, then caught sight of me and stopped. I smiled. She didn’t smile back, but when I gave her a little wave, she raised a hand in response, opening and closing her fist in a toddler like gesture. The woman saw it and turned.

“Hi.” I sneezed. “Sorry to barge in. I tried the house, and nobody answered, so…”

An overfed yellow cat jumped with a thump onto the granite work surface and sniffed at the leaves. The woman on the ladder and the child looked at it, then turned back to me, as if it was still my turn to speak. They were both blond, with wide faces and peaches-and-cream complexions. They wore light blue work shirts and white jeans. I tried to recall if I’d ever seen a mother and daughter wearing matching outfits outside of a catalog.

“Mommy, that lady has blood.”

I looked down. Three drops of blood lay on the white tile floor, from my hand. It didn’t seem polite to say their bird had assaulted me, so I closed my fist over the bleeding palm and said, “My name is Wollie. I called yesterday and left a message. I’m a friend of A

“Of course.” The woman climbed nimbly down the ladder, someone who obviously lived in high heels. “I’m Maizie. I’m so sorry, I was writing down your number last night and little monkey here hit the delete button. Emma, love-” She frowned at the girl, now chanting something that sounded like alla myna engine. “Emma, why don’t you run in and watch Dora?”

“Emma want to stay with Mommy.”

Maizie looked like she might argue the point, then turned to me. She had an attractive face, with good bones. “So. A

“Yes.” I sneezed again.

“Allergic to cats?” she said. “Sorry. This guy wandered in and adopted us. Adopted A

My stomach clenched, thinking of the last time I’d seen her. I nodded. “She’s like a little sister. A smarter sister. She’s been tutoring me in math. We met on the set of a TV show.”

“She is smart.” Maizie smiled, dimples softening her face. “It sold my husband on her. He respects intelligence.” She ruffled her hair. It was thick hair, well cut. “We’ve been out of town; A

“Where?” I said.

“I can think of a few places.” Maizie glanced down at her daughter, who followed the conversation with the intensity of a cub reporter. “But there’s a lot in her life I’m not privy to. A boy she’s quite taken with; I’ve been trying to remember his last name. And there’s-well, she’s on duty with Emma from six A.M. until four in the afternoon, eleven on Fridays, which leaves a lot of free time. And she fills up those hours. It’s one of the things we love about her, her independence, but it makes it hard to-narrow it down.”

Emma spoke up. “A

“No, she’s not, bu

“Where is A

“We don’t know. That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”

“We better go find her, Mommy.”

My sentiments exactly. “Is her stuff still here?” I asked.

Maizie took a moment, then nodded. “Come see for yourself,” she said.

4

We entered the house through the back door. There was no sign of the killer goose, but Mr. Snuggles approached in a frenzy, the kind small terriers excel at. Maizie gave me a treat for him, a miniature faux T-bone steak. Mr. Snuggles ate it and accepted me into the pack.

“Emma feed him,” Emma said. “One scoop. His bowl is yellow.”

“Oh,” I said. “How old are you, Emma?”

“Two and three-quarters.”

“Two and eleven-twelfths, if you want to get technical,” Maizie said. “Santa brought you to me.” We trooped single-file through a laundry room and hallway to a staircase. I wanted to study details, but with Mr. Snuggles setting the pace and the two blond Qui

“Beautiful house,” I said, on the landing.

“Thanks,” Maizie said. “We love it. Bought at the bottom of the market, and we’ve put a lot into it over the years. Horrible commute, but I tell my husband he’ll have better luck moving his office building than moving me. One more flight up,” she said, as Mr. Snuggles raced down the second-floor hallway. Emma barreled after him, calling, “Loo-pay, Loo-pay, alla myna engine!” From a distant room, a vacuum cleaner switched off. Maizie led me to what looked like a closet, closed with a hook-and-eye latch up high, out of reach of small fingers. This turned out to be the door to another stairway.

The third floor was an attic room, wallpapered and wood floored and charming.

A