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hieroglyphic bearing. It cocks its head and emits a quiet, inquisitive meow.
    “That’s the cat,” says Manning, transfixed by the animal’s gaze.
    “What cat, Mark?”
    “The cat in the magazine with your sister—when they won the big award.”
    “Heavens no,” Margaret tells him with a laugh. “That was this cat’s grandfather. He’s gone. This is Fred.”
    “Fred?” he asks with a tone suggesting he expected something more exotic. He leans forward and extends a hand to stroke the cat’s head. Fred nuzzles forward, erupting into a well-tuned purr. At that moment, a second cat appears from behind the chair.
    “And who’s this?” Manning asks.
    “Ethel.”
    “Married?”
    “No,” says Margaret, feigning shock. “They’re brother and sister!”
    They both laugh heartily while Fred and Ethel explore Manning’s shoes. Finding little worth sniffing, the cats turn their tails to Manning and drop themselves in front of the fire, Fred sprawling, Ethel curled.
    “They’re beautiful,” says Manning. “I’ve never seen an Abyssinian—at least not until last week when I saw that magazine picture.”
    “I’m not surprised,” she tells him. “Abyssinians are still rare. The breeding is controlled, and the litters are small.”
    Manning sips his coffee. A burning log shifts in the grate and pops, spraying sparks, breaking a momentary lull. Manning tells Margaret, “Your home is in a much calmer state than when I last saw it, the day after the disappearance.”
    “Oh, I remember it well. Such a commotion it was,” she tells him, fluttering both hands. “I was in something of a state that day. What with the shock and the uncertainty and the police and the lawyers and reporters —no offense, Mark, but it was an ordeal.” She thinks for a moment, then adds, “You, however, were very considerate.” She reaches over and pats his knee.
    “I’m glad to hear that I behaved myself.” He finishes his coffee and sets the cup on the table. “Tell me, Margaret. It’s been nearly seven years since Helena disappeared. Surely you’ve given the mystery a lot of thought. Do you have any idea what may have happened?”
    She sighs demurely, shaking her head. “I’m afraid I don’t. So many people seem so sure that Helen is dead, sometimes I almost wish I could believe that—‘closure,’ you know. But I simply can’t imagine why anyone would want to harm Helen. Sure, there’s the money”—she gestures vacantly at their surroundings—“but it hasn’t done anyone any good.”
    “If she’s not dead, where do you think she might be?”
    “I don’t have any idea at all. Not anymore.” She pauses in thought. “I used to have a … theory, but it was only an empty hunch.”
    “What was it?”
    “It seems silly now. I’d prefer that you not write about this.”
    Manning sets his pen and notebook on the table.
    Margaret tells him, “I’m sure you already know that Helen was very religious. I found it amazing—sort of inconsistent—that she could combine her staunch faith with so many worldly interests. Actually, I thought she took the whole church thing a bit too seriously, but that’s not an opinion I felt I could express to her.
    “We were, of course, brought up Catholic. Papa was a railroad man—a hard worker and a good looker and a pretty good drinker too. All told, he was a fine father. He always showed real love and affection for Mama, Helen, and me. But he wanted a big family. After the twins were gone, Mama just put her foot down and said she was through trying. Well, that never set well with Papa, and we always sensed that he felt sort of cheated. We were comfortable enough, living down near the rail yards, but never what you’d call ‘well off.’ I think he hoped that another child—a son—might grow up to be a doctor or a professor or maybe a tycoon, and that would have made him the happiest man around.”
    She pauses a moment, picks up her coffee cup, then returns it to the