After the third timid knock I realized someone might desire the services of Benson Keirstad Investigations. “Door’s open,” I called. When nobody entered, I figured it was either a prank or an exceedingly shy visitor. I sighed and went to open the door myself. A short, plain, middle-aged woman, wearing a simple black dress that failed to conceal her considerable girth, stood before me and bit her lip. I bade her good morning and suggested she enter the office. The woman gave me a brief nod and a grimace that conveyed a mixture of gratitude and anxiety, and trod past me into the room. “I’m Fran Drummond,” the visitor said after I’d introduced myself. I waited a moment, expecting to hear about the reason for her call. When the silence threatened to turn from expectant to awkward, I said, “Ms. Drummond—” “Mrs.” “What?” “It’s Mrs. Drummond.” Okay. “Well, Mrs. Drummond, what brings you here?” She folded her hands in her lap and sat up straight, as if teacher had called upon her to recite a poem.
