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what to do next. Then I remembered something I’d read in college. Samuel Johnson wrote, “Knowledge is of two kinds. We know a subject ourselves, or we know where we can find information upon it.”
    I scooped up the phone to call Wes.

    “Whatcha got?” Wes asked.
    “I wanted to know what you’ve found out.”
    “We should meet.”
    I glanced at the clock again. It was almost six thirty. Ty was driving in from Vermont and wouldn’t be home until eight or even later. My next-door neighbor, landlady, and friend, Zoë, and her kids were scheduled to come to dinner. I’d told her to come over around seven, but I could call and change it to seven thirty. The kids would already have eaten anyway, and Zoë, I knew, was completely flexible. I could get what I needed at the gourmet shop in five minutes flat.
    “Can you meet me at Shaw’s in Rocky Point?” I asked, naming the super-sized grocery store near my house. “In ten minutes?”
    He agreed, and I tore through the gourmet store en route.

    Wes was leaning up against his car when I pulled into a space next to him at the far end of the parking lot. His eyes were as intent and watchful as usual.
    “So about the dead guy—nothing yet,” he said, jumping in without saying hello. “ID’ing him is a tough one. According to my police source, his pockets were empty and his fingerprints aren’t in the New Hampshire or federal system.”
    “How can he be identified, then?”
    He shrugged. “Lots of ways. Mug shots, collection agencies, missing persons reports—but it takes time. I’m approaching it from the other way. I want to know how he came to be in Gretchen’s apartment. Do you have any idea?”
    “Me? I don’t know anything.”
    “Maybe he was her boyfriend,” Wes speculated.
    I made a gesture of helplessness. “He could be, I guess. Although no one seems to recognize him, and you’d think that someone would if they were a couple. Have you learned anything about the car?”
    Wes took a folded-up piece of lined paper from his inside pocket, turned it over, and read from his notes. “Chevy, Tennessee plates. Registered to a Sal Briscoe. His address is an SRO—single room occupancy—in Memphis. No one down there seems to know him. He arrived about four years ago, always pays in cash. The car was bought used last week, also for cash.”
    “It sounds so peculiar.”
    “Yeah. So what’s your take on the situation?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “You keep saying that! Come on, Josie.”
    Knowing Wes, I understood that unless I gave him something, I wouldn’t get anything. I swallowed my disinclination to gossip and told him about Gretchen’s friend Mandy and the belt buckle we’d be appraising.
    “Thanks, Josie. This is great stuff. Love the buckle. Shows the three-dimensional nature of an investigation. Can I get a photo?”
    “No! Of course not!”
    “It doesn’t have to be top quality. You can use your cell.”
    I shook my head, but he wasn’t looking at me; he was reviewing his notes.
    He looked up. “Please? I won’t say I got it from you.”
    “Maybe later,” I said, holding out the possibility as a carrot. “Not now.”
    He sighed, Wesian for acquiescence.

    Before I started shopping, I called Zoë.
    “Seven thirty’s fine,” she said. “I’ll feed the kids now. I’m making apple martinis.”
    “I’m not sure apple martinis go with what I’ve planned for dinner.”
    “What’s that?”
    “Linguine with Black Truffles.”
    “Sounds delish, very chichi—but I’m surprised that you didn’t know that apple martinis go with everything. I’ll feed the kids and bring dessert. See ya soon!”
    Driving home, I speculated on Gretchen’s whereabouts and Mandy’s unexpected reticence. I was beyond eager, I was desperate, to know that Gretchen was safe and to understand why she’d disappeared. I couldn’t picture Gretchen as a killer. I just couldn’t. Of course, if she’d been threatened or attacked, maybe she’d struck back