The neighborhood had slowly changed over the years. Babysitters now outnumbered their potential customers, as fami­lies with young children could seldom afford the little three-bed­room "Norman," much less "The Saxon" or the bi-level "King Richard." Nowadays, not even the models looked alike, altered by porches and additions and a variety of landscaping tastes.

One hundred fifty-six Maid Marian Lane was a neatly kept ranch to which a one-car garage had been added. Rows of red tulips stood like sentinels along the walkway, struggling to survive against the encroachment of summer. Dean pulled into the empty driveway. The detective's knock was answered by a woman who introduced herself as Janice Riley, the neighbor he had spoken to on the phone. She was in her early thirties, overweight, dimpled, and dressed in a flowered shirt and slacks. Dean entered a living room, furnished tastefully but on a limited budget. A bookcase containing a dozen baseball trophies highlighted the far wall of the small room.

"Cindy's in the john," Mrs. Riley said nervously. "She's so upset-all this waiting, and still no word." She looked at Dean as if to ask.

Dean shook his head no just as the phone rang from the front hall. Mrs. Riley jumped at the sound and bit her lip. "My heart's in my mouth ever time it rings," she said and added an apology as she moved to answer it, just as Cynthia Byrne entered the room.

Years later Dean would think back to this first time he saw Cynthia Byrne. Her size surprised him. She was no more than five foot one, he guessed, but she moved with the grace of a much taller woman. She wore neither makeup nor jewelry, but her blouse and skirt demonstrated that she had made a half-hearted attempt to dress for company. Her hair was short and dark and worn in an easy style that seemed to require little care. Cynthia Byrne, in spite of reddened eyes and trembling nervousness, was a very attractive woman. And, if first impressions meant anything, as Dean believed they did, this woman was sincerely distraught over her husband's disappearance. He felt it in the quiver of her hand­shake and saw it in the empty look in her eyes.

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"I'm sorry. It's pretty hectic around here," she said, motioning toward the phone. "I don't know what I'd have done without the neighbors-they've been unbelievably kind."

Dean offered his condolences just as the doorbell rang. Mrs. Riley set down the phone and moved to the door to answer it. Mrs. Byrne, looking embarrassed at the confusion, suggested that she and Dean might be better off talking on the back deck. She led the detective through a kitchen cluttered with coffee cups, soiled plates and two half-eaten cakes.




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