The next afternoon I was vacuum cleaning the honored guestroom, sunny and harmless now, singing along with Calm Sea and Prosperous Voyage, imperfectly reproduced on my new hi-fi, when I got a call. The woman thought she had the wrong number when she heard my voice. She wanted to speak to Beth Anderson. I identified myself as the next-door-neighbor. I was watering Mrs Anderson’s plants. I’d promised to do that once a day for as long as she was away. Away? Did I know where? And for how long? I said I’d understood it was an emergency. Her sister had been hospitalized.
“Oh, you got it wrong, thank God. To my knowledge I’m the only sister Beth has and I haven’t been hospitalized. Not this year, touch wood. That happened last year. She’s supposed to come over next week like she does every summer. I just wanted her to confirm. As soon as she comes back could you tell her Martha phoned? Thank you.”
There had to be a clue somewhere in the house. I ploughed through her things, from top to bottom, riffled all the drawers and shelves in the house, riffled her books and chucked them on the floor, burrowed into the blue and pink sheets in the closet, left everything in turmoil.
I finally found the answer in the imitation 18th century jewel-box with the shepherdess and the swain. The tube of Valium was gone. I unfolded the crazy leaflet and read the scribbled flight number with take-off time and the destination and also the hotel reservation.