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one easy motion. “Go on, go on,” she said impatiently, motioning us up an overgrown path toward her back door. Peters gave me a slight shrug, then led the way.
     
    “You certainly took long enough over there,” she muttered accusingly as we climbed a flight of steps. “I didn’t enjoy a single one of my TV programs today because I was watching for you. I was afraid I’d miss you when you left.”
     
    We entered through the kitchen. A large gray cat, standing in the sink lapping water from a leaky tap, eyed us speculatively. Our hostess made no effort to chase him out of the sink. “That’s Henry, Henry Aldrich. He doesn’t talk much but he’s good company.”
     
    She directed us into a living room. On a blaring black-and-white television set an announcer was gearing up for another episode of “General Hospital.” So she had been willing to risk missing her soaps in order to catch us. I gave her credit for making a considerable personal sacrifice.
     
    She settled into an ancient rocking chair, while we attempted to sit on an overstaffed and lumpy couch that had been built with no regard for human anatomy. “Since you’re not wearing uniforms, I suppose you young men must be detectives. I’m Sophia Czirski,” she announced, “but you can call me Sophie. What can I do for you?”
     
    Peters looked at me helplessly. It was time for him to earn his keep. I shrugged and said nothing. Peters cleared his throat. “I don’t know, Mrs. Czirski…Sophie…. You invited us.”
     
    “Oh, that’s right. How stupid of me.” She wore ill-fitting dentures that rattled and clicked when she spoke. I was afraid they might fall out altogether. Bright red hair gave the illusion that she was much younger than she was in actual fact. Upon close inspection I would have guessed she was pushing the upper end of her seventies. She was tough as old leather, though, and any lapses in thought were only temporary.
     
    “Did you arrest her?”
     
    “Arrest who?” Peters asked.
     
    “Well, Suzanne Barstogi, of course. Her and that phony preacher friend of hers.”
     
    “No ma’am,” Peters said carefully. “We haven’t arrested anyone. This is Detective Beaumont, and I’m Detective Peters.”
     
    “Well,” she sniffed, “I’m glad you have enough good manners to introduce yourself. What about your friend—Beauchamp, did you say? Can’t he talk?”
     
    Peters looked at me and grinned. “Beaumont,” he corrected. “No, he’s really shy around women. I usually have to do most of the talking.”
     
    “You go ahead and ask me anything you like then, Detective Peters. Your friend there can take notes.” Obligingly I got out a notebook and a stub of a pencil. Somehow I knew I’d get even; I just didn’t know when.
     
    Sophie Czirski didn’t require any prompting. “I saw that child outside in February. February, mind you! Without so much as a jacket or a pair of shoes! I could see her, you know.” She indicated the living room window, which, from her chair before the television set, offered an unobstructed view of Barstogi’s front yard. “I can see everything that goes on there, people coming and going all hours of the day and night. All that stuff about prayer meetings and fellowship. I don’t believe it, not for one minute.”
     
    “Excuse me for interrupting,” said Peters, “but you asked if we had arrested Suzanne Barstogi. Is there some reason you feel she should be under suspicion?”
     
    “Goodness, yes. People who would mistreat a child like they have wouldn’t hesitate to kill her. And all the time they pretend to be so holier-than-thou. But they don’t fool me, not for a minute.”
     
    The gray cat meandered in from the kitchen. He favored us with an insolent look, then leaped to the back of the couch. Once there he stretched out, languidly settling himself directly between Peters and me. I wondered how much gray cat hair would be on my brown jacket and trousers when I stood up.