Midafternoon, I was tooling the powder-blue Lincoln up rutted Featherbed Lane to the whitewashed stone house where a child, not so long ago, had been stolen. Evalyn rode in front this time, and I wasn’t in the natty gray uniform with the black buttons. She was a little depressed and, frankly, so was I. “Not a word to Colonel Lindbergh,” I cautioned, “about Hassel and Greenberg. I don’t want to go making any more accomplices-after-the-fact than I already have.” She nodded. She looked with hooded-eyed interest at the bleak, weedy grounds of an estate that to her must have seemed modest indeed. “Look at the hillside beyond the house,” she said, distractedly, searching out some beauty in the barrenness. “The white and pink dogwood against the dark cedars…lovely.” The thought didn’t seem to cheer her up much. She wore a black fox stole and a smartly cut black suit with a white silk blouse and pearls, dark silk stockings, and a soup-dish black hat with no veil; she looked like a wealthy widow, in token mourning.
