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Especially to the flickering red light, the one telling me my car was running on fumes. I needed to focus on finding a gas station and then getting myself to the post office. Locating Ruby would have to wait.
     
    "Okay, Flash, you can stop biting my ankle. I know you're hungry. So am I, and I'm moving as fast as I can."
    My cat had been hanging on my leg from the minute I came through the front door. She let go when the bowl of dry food was placed on the kitchen floor.
    I made myself a peanut butter sandwich, the crunchy kind. Standing in the middle of the kitchen, munching, I glanced at the mail piled on the dining room table. I'd have to go through that soon. What a nuisance.
    The phone rang.
    "Hello?"
    "Mrs. York?"
    "Speaking." I tried to swallow the big chunk of bread filling my mouth.
    "Mrs. York, this is Lawrence Devin. My office called. I'm told you tried to reach me last night. Did you need to speak to me?"
    "Your office said you were on vacation." I forced myself to speak without resentment. "Weren't you working on Tom Russell's death?"
    "That death was ruled accidental. Unless you have something to add."
    "No. I just wondered about the timing." The timing, sure.
    "I went on vacation right after I filed the paperwork clearing Mrs. Russell of any wrongdoing. If you need to tell me something, though, I'm available. Any time."
    He sounded honest enough. I didn't know what to say. Why was I so tongue-tied?
    "I'm calling from my car. I'll be back in a week and I'd like to have dinner with you if you're interested."
    My tongue stuck to the peanut butter on the roof of my mouth. My brain functioned fine. His stormy gray eyes and the way his buns filled his pants came to mind. This was the best offer I'd had in months. Months? Years.
    "Why don't you call me when you get back and we'll set up a time?" Ask for his phonenumber, stupid. Caller ID showed number unavailable.
    "Good. I'll talk to you then. Bye." Click.
    I stood there, holding the phone, my brain in shock. Then I danced an impromptu tarentella around the spotless kitchen and ended up kicking Flash's bowl. Poor baby. She was probably wondering what had gotten into me.
     
    I sat at the dining-room table, a brown paper bag next to me to recycle the junk mail, with a box for the rest.
    The crystal chandelier cast a circle of light around me. It was a quiet night for a Friday. No pool parties.
    On top of the pile sat a postcard with a smiling dog brushing his teeth. From my dentist. My appointment was next week.
    Bank statement. Must balance my checking account. Black out the account numbers. Trash.
    A letter in Ruby's handwriting. The envelope came from her stationery, but it looked beat up, crumpled. I studied my address. She wrote the wrong zip code. She'd scratched it out and written the right one underneath it. Ruby was always fussy about her correspondence. It surprised me she hadn't replaced the envelope with a new one. She mailed the letter the day before I'd gotten home. Fear resurfaced . I tore the envelope open, pulled out the white paper and two keys fell onto the table. My house and mailbox keys. The paper was blank, except for the two Rs interlaced at the top, like a Rolls Royce logo.
    I kept staring, confused. What did it mean? The glow from the chandelier reflected on the keys. They shone like gold. Why mail the keys? Why not give them to me in person? Was she avoiding me? We'd had lunch the day before my trip; she drove me to the airport and everything was fine. This blank letter, the keys—the whole thing felt like a goodbye of some sort.
    I got up and went to pour myself some Chardonnay. Changed my mind, settled on some bottled water and went back to the mail. I didn't understand any of this. Better to finish with the mail.
    An invitation to a gallery opening. Keep or trash? Think about it.
    Advertisements. End-of-the-month clearance. Bills.
    A refund check from my broker. Good.
    A letter from Mission San Juan Capistrano reminding me of the