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Paul Bouvet had discovered on his first trip to Rossiter that the café next door to the Delaney mansion functioned as a sort of town club. He’d have to find some way to be—if not accepted—at least tolerated by the locals who ate there regularly. If his mother had come as far as Rossiter before she disappeared, someone might remember seeing her. After all, thirty years ago there couldn’t have been too many strangers showing up in Rossiter.
He didn’t have a clue how to find out. He didn’t dare come straight out and ask. Nobody could know who he was or why he was there. The P.I. his uncle had hired had never been able to trace Michelle Bouvet’s movements beyond the bus station in downtown Memphis. The trail had gone cold at that point and had stayed cold until six months ago.
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“Sure.” Buddy grinned. “First time you’ve used it?”
“Since I had the new locks installed.” The front door was original, complete with an etched-glass oval in the center. Although the original brass lock remained, the shiny new Yale lock was the one that worked. Paul thought he’d feel a surge of triumph when he stepped into the house again. He felt nothing.
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