CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVEThe brick rambler was set back on the far side of half an acre of lawn, upon which robins hopped. I pulled into the driveway and parked near the two-car garage. A bird twittered in a dogwood tree, where delicate pink flowers were starting to drop off as new leaves grew in. A sudden breeze kicked up, bringing a quick chill to the warm, sunny spring day.
I walked up the path to the front patio, rang the bell, and waited. After a while, I knocked on the wooden door, peering through one of the three rectangular windows that ascended from left to right across the top, to see if anyone was answering.
From behind me, someone said, “Hello!”
I jumped and turned in one movement. Sylvia Adams stood at the opposite end of the path, smiling. She wore faded jeans, a dark blue T-shi
