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house had rather elaborate plantings as well and a Japanese red maple in the center of the lawn. Someone obviously cared and put time into gardening.
    My ring was answered by a middle-aged woman in a housedress. She looked at me with that mixture of curiosity and apprehension that I was to find frequently in New Yorkers who encounter strangers.
    “Good morning,” I said. “My name is Christine Bennett and I’m looking into something that happened in this area in 1950. I know that’s a long time ago, but I wonder if you or anyone in your house might remember and be able to help me.”
    She sized me up for a long moment. “You mean the murder?” she asked.
    I felt a surge of hope. “The Talley murder, yes.”
    “I was very young at the time,” she said, and I knew she didn’t want to tell me how old or I might figure out her age. “My father would remember it better than I would.”
    “I would be so grateful if you would let me talk to him, and to you, too, if you wouldn’t mind.”
    She thought about it. “Who did you say you were?”
    “Christine Bennett. I can show you some identification.” I took my wallet out of my bag and pulled out my driver’s license, glancing at it as I did so. I stopped, holding it in midair. The picture showed a smiling nun.
    Before I could withdraw it, the woman had taken it from my hand. “Oh, you’re a nun. Come in, Sister.”
    I had a quick attack of conscience. The last thing I wanted to do was deceive. “I’m not a nun anymore,” I admitted, hoping I wasn’t destroying my chance to talk to her father. “I’ve left the convent.”
    “I see. Well, come in. I’m Mrs. Cappicola, and my father’s name is Antonetti. Wait here and I’ll get him.”
    She walked off with my license, and I remembered Aunt Meg saying that Italians were such good gardeners. It was a stereotype I thought they might be proud of.
    Mrs. Cappicola returned a few minutes later with a small old man with white hair and a white mustache. We said hello and she handed my license back. The three of us sat in the living room.
    “You wanna know about the murder?” the old man asked from his easy chair.
    “Yes, please.”
    “You wanna tell me why?”
    “I’d like to find out if the twins really did it.”
    “They went to jail, didn’t they?”
    “Yes, but there was no trial, and I’m not sure there was much of an investigation.”
    “I think they done it.”
    “You do.”
    “Yeah.”
    “Did you ever see them, Mr. Antonetti?”
    “Oh, sure. Saturday and Sunday they used to walk sometimes on the street. I was a young man then, forty-four years old. I didn’t sit in the house and look out the window like I do now. But I saw them.”
    “Were you afraid of them?”
    “Not for myself, no. But for my wife and daughters, sure.”
    “I was afraid.” It was the daughter.
    I turned to her. “Why?”
    “They didn’t look—right.”
    “But did they ever do anything to make you afraid? Did they grab at people or talk to people in the street or fight with their mother?”
    “Nah,” the father said. “They walked, one on this side o’ her, one on that side. That’s all.”
    “I used to see them with the girl sometimes,” Mrs. Cappicola said. “The blond girl. She’s the one that found them.”
    “Were you here when the police came?”
    “We was in church,” the old man said. “It was Easter. We come home, the whole side of the street was filled with blue-and-white police cars.”
    “I saw them carry the body out,” Mrs. Cappicola said in a low voice. “I never saw anything like that ever again. I saw them take those twins out. They had handcuffs on.” She shook her head. “To think something like that happened right here.”
    “You didn’t happen to know Mrs. Talley, did you?” I asked.
    The old man smiled. “There’s a million people livin’ in those buildings. They’re all strangers. Every one of them.”
    I had only one more question. “What about the father? Did you