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from the train was one thing; to feel it and smell it was another. Their mode of transportation was a truck that Butch apologized for. “It ain’t pretty, but it’ll get us there.” Butch was a cheery soul and talked the entire hour and a half it took them to drive down to Lost River. He handed Mr. Campbell his business card, which had a drawing of a big eye in the middle. Underneath was printed:
    BUTCH ( STICK ) MANNICH
PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR
AND PROCESS SERVER
    Oswald was surprised. “Is there a lot of call for private detective work here?”
    “No, not yet,” said Butch, a little disappointed. “But I’m available, ready, willing, and able, just in case.” It was just getting dark as they went over the long Mobile Bay causeway, and they were able to see the last of the sunset. There was nothing but miles of water on both sides and the sun that was now dipping into the bay was so large and orange it almost scared Oswald.
    “Is that normal?” he asked Butch.
    Butch glanced out the window. “Yeah, we get a nice sunset most of the time.”
    By the time they turned off the highway to Lost River it was pitch-black outside. “There’s the store,” said Butch, as they whizzed by. Oswald looked out but saw nothing. They drove about a block and stopped in front of a large house. “Here we are, safe and sound.”
    Oswald took out his wallet. “What do I owe you?”
    Butch’s reaction was one of genuine surprise. “Why, you don’t owe me a thing, Mr. Campbell.”
     
    Just as Oswald reached out to knock on the door, it was flung open by a huge woman, standing at least six feet tall. “Come on in!” she said, in a booming voice, and snatched his suitcase away from him before he could stop her. “I’m Betty Kitchen, glad to have you.” She grabbed his hand, shook it, and almost broke it. “Breakfast is at seven, lunch at twelve, and dinner at six. And if you see a little funny-looking woman spooking around don’t let it bother you; it’s only Mother. She doesn’t know where she is half the time, so if she wanders in your room just chase her out. Let me show you around.”
    The house had a long hallway down the middle, and he trailed behind her. She walked to the back of the house, pointing as she went: “Living room, dining room, and this is the kitchen.” She switched the lights on and then off. She turned around, headed back to the front, and pointed to a small door under the stairs. “And this is where I sleep,” she said. She opened the door, and inside was a closet just big enough for a single bed. “I like to be close to the kitchen where I can keep an eye on Mother. It’s small but I like it; it reminds me of being on a train. I always slept well on a train, and I was on a lot of them in my day. Come on upstairs. I’ll show you your room.”
    As he followed her up the stairs, Oswald felt that there was something familiar about her manner and her way of speaking. It was almost as if he had met her before, but he was sure he had not; she was a person you would not forget.
    “Mother used to be a baker in Milwaukee, specialized in petits fours and fancy cakes, but that was before she slipped on a cigar wrapper.” She turned around and looked at him. “You don’t smoke cigars, do you?”
    Oswald quickly said no. Even if he had, from the tone of her voice he would have quit on the spot. “No, I have emphysema; that’s why I’m here. For my health.”
    She sighed. “Yes, we get a lot of that. Most of the people that come down here have something or another the matter with them . . . but not me. I’m as healthy as a horse.” That was evident as they walked into his room and she heaved his suitcase onto the bed with one arm. “Well, here it is, the sunniest room in the house. It used to be mine before I moved downstairs. I hope you like it.”
    He looked around and saw it was a spacious open room with yellow floral wallpaper and a small yellow sofa in the corner. The brown spindle bed was made