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Kerry started contacting neighbors without definite cause. Just keep trying until she answered.
    Bill was in high spirits when he appeared and Kerry didn’t want to dampen them by voicing her concerns about Cybil. He was wearing old clothes, his hiking boots, and that godawful droopy green hat with the moldy feather he’d dredged up out of the trunk of the car—his standard fishing outfit.
    “I’m ready to head out,” he said, “do battle with some trout. Sure you won’t come along?”
    “I’m sure.”
    “It’ll be cooler down in the valley.”
    “I don’t mind the heat as much as you do,” she said. “I made you a couple of sandwiches. They’re in the fridge.”
    “ Grazie. What would I do without you?”
    “Make your own sandwiches and load them up with too much butter and mayonnaise.”
    He laughed. “So what’re you going to do with yourself here alone?”
    “Read, relax. Maybe take a walk in the woods.”
    “Watch out for bears.”
    “Uh-huh. Bears. If I see one, I’ll imitate one of your growls and scare the wits out of it.”
    As soon as he was gone, she tried Cybil’s number again. Still no answer. Oh, Cybil, come on! she thought. Then chided herself for being such a worrywart. But when you had an elderly, fiercely headstrong, frail, and fall-prone mother that you loved dearly, it was increasingly difficult not to worry.
    She read for a while, stretched out on one of the deck chairs, but she couldn’t seem to concentrate. Another unanswered call. An unbidden image of Cybil sprawled out on the duplex floor flashed across her mind; immediately, she blanked it out. Too much imagination, dammit, inherited from Cybil—one of the 1940’s most accomplished pulp fiction writers and the author of two well-received mystery novels written in her late seventies. The Writing Wades, mother and daughter. Although in Cybil’s not-so-humble opinion, a series of stories and two books about a tough-talking private eye named Samuel Leatherman was superior work to the creation of advertising slogans and campaigns. “We both write fiction,” she’d said once, “but when you get right down to it, my kind’s more honest.” Well, maybe she had a point. A debatable one, anyway.
    Lunch was a dish of strawberries. At one o’clock, another call went unanswered. Then, at one-thirty—
    “Hello?” Cybil’s voice, sounding perfectly fine.
    “There you are,” Kerry said, relieved. “I called a couple of times earlier—”
    “Did you? Why?”
    “Oh, just to let you know that we’re still in Green Valley—”
    “Where?”
    “Green Valley. In the Sierras near Placerville.”
    “What’re you doing up there?”
    Oh, Lord. “Looking for a second home. I told you that the last time we talked, remember?”
    “Of course I remember. I think it’s a good idea.”
    “What is?”
    “That you have a second home.”
    “Well, I think we finally found one that suits us. That’s why we’re still here—staying a few days to make sure we like the place enough to make an offer. It’s a hillside cabin with a valley view—”
    “Good, I’m glad. You can tell me all about it when I see you. When are you coming home?”
    “Well, we’re not sure yet. We were planning on Thursday, but we may stay over the Fourth and drive back Saturday. If there’s anything you need—”
    “Why should I need anything?”
    “I just thought there might be.” Don’t ask where she’s been, Kerry thought. But a question slipped out in spite of herself. “Were you out shopping?”
    “Shopping?”
    “This morning … today.”
    “Yes. Jane Greeley and I went to lunch afterward. Why?”
    “I just wondered.”
    “Where I was and what I was doing. Checking up?”
    “No, no…”
    “Yes, yes. Well, I’m fine. No falls lately. But I did cut my thumb slicing a tomato last night. Bandaged it all by myself, too.”
    “Don’t be testy, Cybil. I was just—”
    “I’m not testy. When did you say you were coming home? After