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that.”
    â€œI’d like to be there,” I said.
    â€œThat would be lovely,” she said. “I know he’d appreciate that. You can let yourself out when you’re done. I have to give Dorothy her shot.”
    I repeated my thanks, but she was already moving on to the next chore. She smiled at me pleasantly and closed the door behind her.
    I spent the next thirty minutes unearthing every file that seemed relevant to Isabelle’s murder and the subsequent civil suit. Lonnie would have had a fit if he’d known how haphazardly Morley went about his work. In some ways, the measure of a good investigation is the attention to the paperwork. Without meticulous documentation, you can end up looking like a fool on the witness stand. The opposing attorney loves nothing better than discovering that an investigator hasn’t kept proper records.
    I packed item after item in the grocery bag—his calendar, his appointment book. I checked his desk drawers and his “in” and “out” boxes, making sure there wasn’t a stray file stashed somewhere behind the furniture. When I was confident I’d lifted every pertinent folder, I put his key ring in my shoulder bag and closed the study door behind me. At the far end of the hall, I could hear the murmur of voices, Louise and Dorothy conversing.
    As I returned to the front door, I passed the archway to the living room. I made an unauthorized detour to what had to be Morley’s easy chair, upholstered in ancient cracked leather, the cushions conforming to his portly shape. Therewas an ashtray that had been emptied of cigarette butts. The end table still bore the sticky circles where his whiskey tumblers had sat. Snoop that I am, I checked the end-table drawer and felt down in the crevices of the chair. There was nothing to find, of course, but I felt better for it.
    Next stop was Morley’s office, located on a little side street in “downtown” Colgate. This whole residential section had been converted into small businesses: plumbers’ shops, auto detailing services, doctors’ offices, and real estate brokerages. The former single-family dwellings were identical frame bungalows. The living room in each now served as the front office for an insurance company or, in Morley’s case, a beauty salon from which he rented a room with a bath at the rear. I went around to the outside entrance. Two steps led up to a small concrete porch with a small overhanging roof. The office door had a big pane of frosted glass in the upper half, so I couldn’t see in. Morley’s name was engraved on a narrow plaque to the right of the door, the kind of plate I could imagine his wife having made for him the day be went into business. I tried key after key, but none of them fit. I tried the door again. The place was locked up tighter than a jail. Without even thinking about it, I walked around to the rear and tried the window back there. Then I remembered I was playing by the rules. What a bummer, I thought. I’d been hired to do this. I was entitled to see the files, but not allowed to pick the lock. That didn’t seem right somehow. What were all the years of breaking and entering for?
    I went back around to the front and entered the beauty salon like a law-abiding citizen. The windows had been painted with mock snowdrifts, two of Santa’s elves holdinga painted banner reading MERRY X-MAS across the glass. There was a big decorated Christmas tree in the corner with a few wrapped boxes under it. There were four stations altogether, but only three were occupied. In one, a plastic-caped woman in her forties was having her hair permed. The beautician had divided the damp strands into sections, inserting small white plastic rollers as dainty as chicken bones. The permanent wave solution filled the air with the scent of spoiled eggs. In the second station, the woman in the chair had her head secured in a perforated bathing