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been snorkeling for compliments even though it looked like a pile of straw. I sat down on a step and tried to convince myself that no one was buying my house from under me.
    The door opened, and the woman said, “Mrs. Delmond is not here, and her car is not in the garage. I do not think she slept here last night. I got to clean the house so I can get to my next job.” As she closed the door, she added, “Majors Americanas stupids!”
    I deduced that it was not a flattering remark. I ordered Caron and Inez back into the car and drove to Bartleby-King and Associates. “At least we know one place Angela isn’t,” I said.
    “If she’s driving at sixty miles per hour,” Inez chimed in, “she could be over twelve hundred miles away. She’d already be in New York City or Miami, and close to Los Angeles. If she went to Chicago, she’d be back here by now.”
    Caron does not care to relinquish center stage. “Oh, like she’d drive round-trip to Chicago to buy a pizza or something. Give Me a Break!”
    I was no more pleased than Caron to have the information. I parked in front of the office building that Bartleby-King shared with an orthodontist and an insurance company. I left Caron and Inez both texting with astounding alacrity and went inside, where I was greeted by a young woman. “I’m here to see Angela Delmond,” I said with maternal steeliness.
    She was clearly flustered. “Oh, you called earlier, didn’t you? Angela’s not here, like I said.” She glanced at a closed door. “Mr. Bartleby’s not here, either. I don’t know when to expect him. If you want to write a message, I’ll make sure he sees it as soon as he gets back from, ah, his closing. He may have scheduled a lunch appointment, and he usually goes to the bank on Fridays.”
    “Today’s Wednesday. I do not desire to stay here until Friday afternoon, but I will. I prefer coffee with a splash of cream, and iced cake doughnuts sprinkled with coconut.” I sat down on the couch and reached for a magazine.
    The receptionist scurried down a hallway. I wondered if she was planning to go out the back door. I should have had Caron and Inez guard the exits so that we could, if the situation necessitated it, smoke out the office occupants one at a time. Peter most likely would be upset when he heard about it, I told myself as I watched buttons light up on the receptionist’s phone. When it became evident that I wasn’t getting any coffee, I opened the door in the corner.
    A man looked up from his desk. “Mrs. Malloy,” he said, no doubt having been warned via the intra-office phone line, “as Jennifer already told you, Angela Delmond is not here. Frankly, we don’t know where she is. She failed to show up last evening to meet some clients, and again this morning. If you have any information concerning her whereabouts, I’d like to know.” He glared at me as if I’d kidnapped Angela and was there to demand a ransom.
    “So would I.” I sat down in a leather chair and appraised him. His hairline was receding, and he was dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and navy blue tie. He had the look of a staunch member of the chamber of commerce and the obligatory civic clubs. To his credit, he did seem worried about Angela. “Have you spoken to her husband?”
    “No reason to. Danny’s living in a condo near Thurber Street. He has plenty of friends in the building, since it’s where all the middle-of-a-divorce boys camp out until the property is settled.”
    “He and his girlfriend?” I asked.
    “I don’t know anything about that,” Bartleby said, pretending to be shocked at my insinuation. “You had an appointment yesterday afternoon with Angela?”
    “She showed me a house, and my husband and I want to buy it.” I told him about Angela’s abrupt departure and my attempts to call her.
    Bartleby beamed at me. “That’s wonderful, Mrs. Malloy. Is Mr. Malloy here with you? Tell him to come on in and we’ll get started on the offer. Don’t