“Of course, we always thought she was a widow.”

“So did she,” I said. I gave a quick synopsis of the rumored change in Dana Jaffe’s marital status. “Did Jerry show you the picture?”

“Yes, but I haven’t had a chance to study it.”

Jerry straightened the flier on his desk, lining up the page with the bottom edge of his blotter. “We read about Brian in the papers. What a mess that boy’s made. We see police over there every time we turn around.”

Lena interjected a change of subject. “Would you like a cup of coffee or some lemonade? Won’t take but a minute.”

“I better not,” I said. “I have a lot of ground to cover yet. I’m trying to get these fliers out in case Wendell puts in an appearance.”

“Well, we’ll certainly keep an eye out. This close to the freeway, we get a lot of cars through here, especially during rush hour with people looking for a shortcut. The southbound off ramp’s just a block in that direction. We have a little strip mall down the street, so we get foot traffic, too.”

Lena added her comment, cleaning dirt away from her cuticles. “I run a little bookkeeping business from my office up front, so I’m sitting near a window several hours a day. We don’t miss much, as you can probably tell. Well, now. I’m glad we had a chance to meet. I better finish up out back and get some work done since I mentioned it.”

“I’ll be on my way, then, but I’d sure appreciate the help.”

She walked me as far as the front steps, a copy of the flier and my business card in hand. “I hope you don’t mind my getting personal, but your first name’s unusual. Do you know the origin?”

“Kinsey is my mother’s maiden name. I guess she didn’t want to lose it, so she passed it on to me.”

“The reason I ask is that’s what Jerry’s been doing since he took early retirement. He researches names and family crests.”

“I gathered as much. The name is English, I think.”

“And what’s the story on your parents? Do they live here in Perdido?”

“Both died years ago in an accident. They lived up in Santa Teresa, but they’ve been gone now since I was five.”

She pulled her glasses down from her head, giving me a long look above the half-moon of bifocal lenses. “I wonder if your mother was related to Burton Kinsey’s people up in Lompoc.”

“Not as far as I know. I don’t remember any mention of a name like that.”

She studied my face. “Because you look an awful lot like a friend of mine who’s a Kinsey by birth. She has a daughter just about your age, too. What are you, thirty-two?”

“Thirty-four,” I said. “But I don’t have any family left. My only close relative was my mother’s sister, who died ten years back.”

“Well, there’s probably no connection, but I just thought I’d ask. You ought to have Jerry check his files. He has over six thousand names in his computer program. He could research the family crest and run off a copy for you.”

“Maybe I’ll do that the next time I’m down. It sounds interesting.” I tried to picture the Kinsey family crest emblazoned on a royal banner. I could probably mount it near the suit of armor in the great hall antechamber. Might be the perfect touch on those special occasions when one hopes to impress.

“I’ll tell Jerry to do the research,” she said, having made up her mind. “This is not genealogy …he doesn’t trace anybody’s family tree. What he gives you is information about the derivation of the surname.”

“Don’t have him go to any trouble,” I said.

“It’s no trouble. He enjoys it. We work the art show up in Santa Teresa every Sunday afternoon. You ought to stop by and see us. We have a little booth near the wharf.”

“Maybe I’ll do that. And thanks for your time.”

“Happy to be of help. We’ll keep an eye out for you.”

“That’s great, and please don’t hesitate to call if you see anything suspicious.”

“We surely will.”

I gave her a quick wave and then moved down the porch steps. I heard the door close behind me as she went back inside.

By the time I’d distributed fliers up and down the block, a locally owned moving company with a bright red van had arrived at Dana’s house and two burly guys were in the process of angling a box spring down the stairs. The screen door was propped open, and I could see them struggle with the turn. Michael was pitching in, probably in an effort to speed the process and thus cut costs. A young woman I guessed to be Michael’s wife, Juliet, wandered out of the house from time to time, the baby on her hip. She’d stand out in the grass, in a pair of white shorts, rocking and jiggling the baby while she watched the movers work. The garage doors were open, a yellow VW convertible parked on one side, the backseat piled high with the sorts of odds and ends no one wants to trust to the movers. There was no sign of Dana’s car, and I had to guess she was out running errands.