Ahead of me, Daisy activated her turn signal and eased off the highway, taking the 135, which angled north and west. I followed. Idly I picked up the map I’d folded into thirds and laid on the passenger seat. A quick glance showed a widespread smattering of small towns, no more than dots on the landscape: Barker, Freeman, Tullis, Arnaud, Silas, and Cromwell, the latter being the largest, with a population of 6,200. I’m always curious how such communities come into existence. Time permitting, I’d make the rounds so I could see for myself.

Daisy’s house was off Donovan Road to the west of the 135. She pulled into a driveway that ran between two 1970s-era frame-and-stucco houses, mirror images of each other, though hers was painted dark green and the one next door was gray. Against her house, bougainvillea grew from thick vines that climbed as far as the asphalt shingle roof in a tangle of blossoms the shape and color of cooked shrimp. I parked at the curb and got out of my car while she pulled the Honda into the garage and removed her suitcase from the trunk. I stood on the porch and watched her unlock the door.

“Let me get some windows open,” she said as she went in.

I stepped in after her. The house had been closed up for days and the interior felt hot and dry. Daisy moved through the living and dining rooms to the kitchen, opening windows along the way. “The bathroom’s off that hall to the right.”

I said, “Thanks,” and went in search of it, primarily because it gave me the opportunity to peek into other rooms. The floor plan was common to houses of this type. There was an L-shaped living-dining room combination. A galley-style kitchen ran the depth of the house on the left, and on the right, a hallway connected two small bedrooms with a bathroom in between. The place was clean but leaned toward shabby.

I closed the bathroom door and availed myself of the facilities-a polite way of saying that I peed. The tile in the bathroom was dark maroon, the counter edged with a two-inch beige bullnose. The toilet was the same deep maroon. Daisy’s robe hung on the back of the door, a silky Japanese kimono, dense sky blue, with a green and orange dragon embroidered on the back. I gave her points for that one. I’d imagined something closer to a granny gown, rose-sprigged flannel, ankle-length and prim. There must be a sensual side to her that I hadn’t seen.

I joined her in the kitchen. Daisy had put a kettle on the stove, flames turned up high to speed along the process. On the table, she’d set out tea bags and two heavy ceramic mugs. She said, “I’ll be right back,” and disappeared toward the bathroom, which allowed me the opportunity to peer out the kitchen window. I studied the neatly kept yard. The grass had been trimmed. The rose bushes were thick with blooms-pink, blush, peach, and brassy orange. Tannie had told me Daisy drank to excess, but whatever angst had been generated by her mother’s disappearance, her exterior life was in order, perhaps in direct counterpoint to the emotional mess inside. While she was gone… as a courtesy… I refrained from peeking into the trash to see if she’d tossed any empty vodka bottles. The kettle began to whistle, so I turned off the burner and poured sputtering water into our cups.

When she returned she carried a manila folder that she placed on the table. She settled in her chair and put on a pair of drugstore-rack reading glasses with round metal frames. She removed a sheaf of newspaper articles, clipped together, and a page of notes, neatly printed, the letters round and regular. “These are all the newspaper accounts I could find. You don’t have to read them now, but I thought they might help. And these are the names, addresses, and phone numbers of the people you might want to talk to.” She pointed to the first name on the list. “Foley Sullivan’s my dad.”

“He now lives in Cromwell?”

She nodded. “He couldn’t stay in Serena Station. I guess a few people reserved judgment, but most thought poorly of him to begin with. He’d been a drinker before she left, but he quit cold and hasn’t had a drop since. This next name, Liza Clements? Her maiden name was Mellincamp. She’s the babysitter who was watching me the night my mother ran off… escaped… whatever you want to call it. Liza had just turned fourteen and she lived one block over. This gal, Kathy Cramer, was her best friend-still is for that matter. Her family lived a couple of houses down-big place and nice, relative to everything else. Kathy’s mother was a dreadful gossip, and it’s possible Kathy picked up a few tidbits from her.”

“Is the family still there?”

“The father is. Chet Cramer. Foley bought the car from his dealership. Kathy’s married and she and her husband bought a place in Orcutt. Her mother died seven or eight years after Mom disappeared, and Chet married some new gal within six months.”