. . I took the one to the right, which put me back on Camargo Pike, heading south. I'd been driving through Indian Hill for better than ten minutes, trying to find a little side street called Woodbine Lane. The woman who'd phoned me early that snowy Sunday morning had said to watch for an antiques shop on the left-hand side of Camargo. An antiques shop—like a gas station in the sticks. With the snow blowing and the tires skating along the frozen blacktop I'd had trouble staying on the road, much less finding her antiques shop. It would have helped if the side streets had been clearly marked, but the only signs in that rich, Byzantine neighborhood were planted along the main drag. Everything else was private property—unnamed access roads that ran screaming oil into the woods the moment they spotted you, tar drives that turned their backs behind gateposts or rested their elbows on hedgerows and glared through the brambles as you drove by. Nothing as mundane as a name on a mailbox. Not that I could have seen a mailbox in the snow.
