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Age could not conceal her. She was heavier and grayer, but still poised. Her hair was rolled into a French twist. Although unapparent in the photograph, a pencil-line scar cut diagonally across her forehead, through her brow and eyelid as if she had once been gashed with a razor. Whatever the cause, it had miraculously missed her eye. |
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And that was what gave her away: her eyes. No matter what indecencies time inflicts on the flesh, the eyes, Jerry always said, preserve the individual to the grave. In black and white it was impossible to guess the exact color. He had bet bluish gray, but they were light green peridots with yellow sparks at the center. |
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"Yes?" She held open the door. |
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"My name is Jerry Mars." Again he had dressed for the occasion. A red polo shirt, gray linen jacket, white slacks and Docksiders. Cape Cod gentry. "First of all, I'd like to say what a lovely home you have." |
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It was a Victorian house with a slate mansard roof and fussy gingerbread details. Painted teal blue with white trim, it looked like a piece of Wedgwood china. On the front porch were large clay pots bursting with geraniums. The house sat staunchly on a bluff overlooking the Sandwich Harbor. In the distance white sailboats cut across the blue expanse of water warming in the high spring sun. The nearest house was over half a mile away. It was a secluded spot on a dirt road through scrub and oaks. A two-day stakeout told him that she was alone in the house. |
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