was popped by a pissed-off ex. Frankly, I would be a little disappointed; also, a lot relieved.
Well, we would see.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The house was on South 28th Street, a winding lane of small, double-storied, red-brick colonial homes that looked like two long lines of red-coated soldiers. The lots were tiny quarter-acre jobs, with mature oaks and elms; everything looked tidy and well-kept. The street held an old-fashioned charm; the homes were uniformly older, constructed in the late forties or the early fifties, a middle-class enclave for men who had just survived and returned from a world war, relieved to be in one piece, ready to enjoy peacetime employment, build families, and get on with their lives. It still looked wholesome, yet dated enough that any second I expected to see Wally Cleaver come dashing around a corner chasing the Beav.
I parked the Crown Vic directly in front of Theresa's house and Bian and I got out. Cliff was right; Theresa's yard was unkempt and overgrown with weeds, a swath of tiles was missing from the roof, and the Chrysler minivan in the driveway was long overdue for a paint job, probably an oil change, a tire rotation, or better yet, a complete replacement.
Bian and I proceeded to the front stoop. I pushed the bell and we waited. After a few seconds, a woman opened the door, dressed casually in dark sweatpants and a ratty T-shirt festooned with a snarling Georgetown University bulldog and the words "Up Yours." Bian handled the introductions, remaining deliberately vague about our purpose, and very politely asked if we could step inside.
It took a stretch, yet from the photograph in Clifford's apartment, I recognized the lady. She had aged considerably, or, more charitably, her face had acquired a new character since the photograph. It was Winston Churchill who said that by the time a person reaches fifty, the story of their life is written on their face. Apparently not always, because the smiling Theresa Daniels I had observed in the photo was about fifty then; somehow, in a few intervening years, a whole new story had been etched on her face.
I guessed she had once been moderately attractive--not necessarily pretty, not even sexy, but striking in a certain sharp-featured way. Cliff, as I mentioned, was fairly plain in appearance, so at least physically he had married above himself.
She was of medium size, possessing a narrow face with good bone structure, high but overly sharp cheekbones, attractive blue eyes, and a trim figure, with thin hips and wide shoulders. But, as with her house and her car, Theresa Daniels had let things slide. Her leathery skin and husky voice suggested she was a heavy smoker, possibly a heavy drinker, and we had caught her sans makeup, which, for all concerned, was seriously unfortunate. In the photo, I recalled, her hair had been brunette and coiffed in a stylish pageboy cut; it now hung below her shoulders, gray, untended, shaggy--less a bad hair day, more a bad hair decade.
Also, I detected something in her posture and movement, a disjointed looseness, as if the spirit inside the body had run out of breath.
Anyway, she had a wary expression as she studied us, Bian in her Army field uniform and me looking natty and businesslike in my blue Brooks Brothers suit. She asked Bian, "Would you tell me what this is about?"
"I . . . it would be better if we discussed this inside."
Mrs. Daniels hooked a languid hand and we followed her inside, turning right into a living room that was small and cramped. To our left, a pair of French doors led to a matchbox dining room, and to our rear a narrow staircase led to the second floor; this was a home designed to induce claustrophobic fits.
That aside, the interior was nicely decorated--overdecorated, actually--and, to the extent I can judge these things, the furniture, which looked colonial in motif, was fairly expensive, tasteful stuff. Also there was a lived-in feel, which is a polite way of saying the house smelled moldy and musty. This was a home, and possibly a life, in need of a good airing out.
Theresa fell into a high-backed, green-and-red-striped chair beside the fireplace, and she motioned for us to be seated on a plush brown couch against the wall. She crossed her legs and her head lolled backward, with her chin pointed upward. She did not offer us refreshments, indicating she either recognized our visit was official or her hospitality, like her home, needed