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root me to the spot. On one side of the yard a crab apple flowered in cotton candy puffs, and underneath it, drifts of daffodils outlined the walkway to the porch. Beside the front door a deacon’s bench sported two life-sized rag dolls dressed in Amish clothing and posed back to back.
    I know from my tour that Maura changes the dolls’ clothing whenever she feels the whim. She has an entire guest room closet filled with everything from yellow rain slickers to a ball gown and tux. The day of the brunch they had been dressed as Romeo and Juliet. Today the dolls looked as if they were about to head down to the barn for the morning’s milking. Mama would come back with enough cream to churn the day’s butter.
    “It’s all just so strange,” I told Ed as reluctantly, I lifted the pineapple door knocker and let it fall above a shiny brass plate that said The Wagner Family.
    “I know.”
    “How do you get from this to belting out ‘Dark Lady’ at the Pussycat Club?”
    “One agonizing step at a time, I guess.”
    The door opened, and Maura stood at the threshold. There was no sign of emotional trauma. She looked much as she always did. Maura is slender and small, with pert features offset by amazing blue eyes. Her naturally curly blonde hair was neatly combed, each curl a shining tribute to the masses. She wore a pale blue twinset and camel-colored slacks. I was most impressed that under the circumstances, she had still found the presence of mind to add a gold chain, small hoop earrings, and an impressive watch.
    “It’s bad news, isn’t it?” She looked vaguely puzzled, as if hearing bad news was so far from her universe that this moment was akin to preparing for an alien invasion.
    “We haven’t found Joe,” Ed assured her, “but we need to talk to you.”
    “Of course.” She stepped aside and gestured us in. “I have a fresh pot of coffee and a cinnamon coffee cake.”
    Had my own husband disappeared, I probably wouldn’t think to break out the lemon Pledge. But the telltale aroma proclaimed that Maura had just polished the furniture. In one glance I could tell the house was spotless. She could serve us coffee cake on the foyer’s maple floor without concern. As we passed the living room I was fairly sure that the needlepoint pillows on the sofa and love seat had been recently plumped, and the collection of antique mantel clocks had all been wound.
    In the blue and yellow kitchen she gestured us to the table by a bay window and without speaking set botanical-themed dishes in front of us.
    “Maybe you should sit down, too,” Ed said gently.
    “Oh, I will in a minute. Just let me get organized.”
    Organized meant five long minutes, a silver tea tray with a coffeepot and all the accoutrements, the aforementioned coffee cake, a vase with one fragrant narcissus to adorn the center of the table, and napkins straight from Provence. By the time she joined us, I had taken stock of everything in the room and was fighting back the urge to report Maura to some higher female authority. Not a thing was out of place. No keys on the counter, no newspapers on the table, no dishes in a drainer. No drainer, in fact. I suspected she washed, dried, and put away every single dish without the need for one. Next to Maura, the Stepford wives were slobs.
    Everything in plain sight had been placed there with care. The walls were embellished with cheerful embroidered sayings augmented by kittens or cherub-cheeked children. Shining red apples filled a pottery bowl. From an uncapped crystal jar, potpourri added its rose scent to the lemony air. I had a sneaking suspicion Maura had spent more time folding and ironing her dish towels than I had spent remodeling the parsonage.
    We were both relieved when she finally sat. Me because I could stop imagining how often she cleaned out her refrigerator, and Ed because he needed to get Joe’s story out in the open.
    She sliced the cake and we accepted pieces. She poured coffee, then cream.