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Cassie. He said she wasn’t there. I asked where she was, did he expect her back soon, I could call again. He says, ‘You better tell me who’s calling.’ So I take a deep breath and I say, ‘This is Moses Crandall, sir. I’m Cassie’s father.’ And with that, he says to me, ‘Listen, whoever the hell you are. I don’t know what you’re after, but you better leave us alone and not call here again or I’ll call the police.’ ” Moze looked up at me. “Then before I could say anything else, the sonofabitch hung up on me.” He looked at me. “What do you make out of that?”
    â€œNot a very friendly fellow.”
    Moze nodded. “Nope.”
    â€œWere those his exact words, Uncle Moze?”
    â€œDamn close to it.”
    â€œIt sounds almost like…like he didn’t believe you.”
    Moze nodded.
    â€œLike he thought you were lying about who you were.”
    He shrugged. “I don’t like him much.”
    I smiled. “Did you try calling again?”
    He shook his head. “I s’pose I should, but I really don’t want to talk to that man again.”
    â€œI’ll do it,” I said. “I’ll see if I can talk to Cassie. Okay?”
    He nodded. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
    â€œI’ll try to figure out what’s going on.”
    He smiled. “Just tell her her old man misses her something fierce. Whatever’s going on, don’t matter to me. I just want to connect with my little girl again.”
    â€œDo you have a recent picture of her?”
    â€œHuh? What for?”
    I shrugged. “So if I see her, I’ll know it’s her.”
    He shrugged. “Sure. Hang on.”
    He got up and left the room.
    He was back a few minutes later. He handed me a four-by-six color snapshot. It showed Moze and a strikingly pretty dark-haired woman sitting side by side on what appeared to be a park bench. “Me and Cassie,” he said. “About three years ago. We were having dinner in Portsmouth. Cassie had a camera with her, asked a lady to take our picture. She mailed it to me a couple weeks later. I’d like to have it back.”
    â€œI’ll take good care of it,” I said.

Three
    It was a little after six that Saturday evening when I got home from my visit with Uncle Moze. I left my car in its reserved space in the parking garage on Charles Street, walked the six blocks to Mount Vernon Street, climbed the hill, went in the front door, and called, “I’m home, kids.” When Evie didn’t answer and Henry didn’t come bounding out to greet me, I snagged two bottles of Sam Adams from the refrigerator, picked up the cordless telephone, and headed for the garden.
    When I opened the back door, I saw Evie on her hands and knees with her butt sticking up in the air, pulling weeds from the garden. She was wearing sneakers and overalls with, as far as I could tell, nothing underneath. Even in those baggy overalls, you could see that she had a perfect butt.
    Henry was snoozing under the table. When I stepped through the doorway, he raised his head, yawned, and started to scramble to his feet, but I pointed at him and held up my hand, and he lay back down.
    Evie continued weeding. She hadn’t heard me. So I put the beer bottles on the table, tiptoed up behind her, bent down, and stroked my hand over her ass and down between her legs. I expected her to jump, but her only reaction was to stick her butt up higher and push back against my hand.
    She remained there on her hands and knees and murmured, “Umm. Whoever you are, don’t stop.”
    I knelt beside her, leaned over, and nuzzled the back of her neck. “It’s me again,” I whispered. “Your friendly UPS deliveryman.”
    Without turning, she reached behind her and ran her fingers up the inside of my leg and over the front of my pants. “So it is,” she said.