The one oddity about Ada’s house was a high platform built behind it, as if she’d created a hot tub level with her attic windows. It was filled now with flowering plants.
Whoever lived here had a child—a swing set stood next to the staircase leading to the platform, and as we walked up the shallow steps to the front door, Alison bent to pick up a stuffed lion.
A screen door was set into a frame that was curiously ornate for so small and poor a house. This wasn’t Chicago: behind the screen, the front door stood open. Before I could ring the bell, a woman around my age appeared. Without opening the screen, she asked if she could help us. The words were cordial, but her tone was forbidding.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Are you Dorothy Ferguson?”
“Why do you want to know?” Her tone moved from forbidding to menacing.
“My name is V. I. Warshawski,” I said. “This is Alison Breen. If you are Ms. Ferguson, I’ll be glad to explain myself. If you’re not, I’d appreciate knowing where I can find her.”
A second woman appeared in the doorway. “Who is it, Meg?”
“Strangers looking for Dorothy Ferguson.”
The second woman moved past Meg and came out onto the small porch. She was in her eighties, with thinning white hair that stuck out in tufts around her head, as if she’d just gotten up from a nap. She was short enough that she had to look up to see me, but despite the wild hair and her age, the eyes under her hooded lids were cold and shrewd.
“Who are you two, and why are you looking for Dorothy Ferguson?”
I looked at her steadily. “It’s Ada Byron that I’m really interested in, but I can’t explain further until I know who you are, and whether I can trust your discretion.”
The woman’s wide nostrils flared—amusement or contempt, hard to tell. A girl of perhaps four came running around the side of the house. Her brown pigtails were tied up in pink ribbons and she had on a Hello, Kitty pink sweatshirt.
“Is it Grace, Auntie Dorothy? Can she sleep over?”
“You get inside, Lily, you stay with your mom until I tell you it’s safe to come out again. And Meg, you go get the shotgun and keep your phone handy in case you have to call the police.”
Auntie Dorothy’s voice was so fierce that Lily put a hand over her mouth and ran past us into the front hallway. I don’t like guns pointed at me any more than the next person, but I suddenly felt too weary to stand, no matter how many muzzles were aimed at my head.
I collapsed on the top step and leaned my head against a scarred post. Alison squatted easily on her haunches.
“Until an hour ago, I had never heard your name,” I said, “but I read it in the will that Ada Byron signed and which you executed.”
“Herman Voles let you read Ada’s will?” Dorothy exclaimed. “How could he be so untrust—”
“Ma’am, anyone can read the will: it’s a public document. I found it in the county courthouse over in LaSalle. I am desperate for information about Ada Byron, and Martina Saginor, and Martina’s great-grandson Martin.” I heard Meg cock the hammer, but didn’t bother to look up.
“Desperate? That’s a strong word to use for something so ephemeral as information.”
“My name is V. I. Warshawski.” I fished in my bag for my wallet and took out my ID.
Dorothy barely glanced at it. “A Chicago detective. Am I supposed to be impressed, or become weak at the knees?”
“You’re supposed to reciprocate with confirmation of your own identity,” I said.
“Hmmph.” She snorted again, this time more obviously in amusement; she called into the house to Lily, telling the little girl to find her big pocketbook and bring it to Meg.
Lily found the heavy purse and dragged it to her mother. Meg slipped the driver’s license through the screen door: Dorothy Ferguson, eighty-six years old, living at 2714 Tallgrass.
I accepted the charade, although it would have been easy for me to go into the house, disarm Meg and look around for myself. They were very vulnerable, these two tough-talking women.
“This is a long story, Ms. Ferguson, and I am taking a calculated risk in trusting you,” I said.
“Go on,” Dorothy said.
“We are looking for a young man named Martin Binder.” I pulled his photo from my case and handed it to Dorothy. She glanced at it, but laid it on the porch railing without saying anything.
Alison looked anxiously at Dorothy. “Please: if you’ve seen Martin, please tell me—tell us!”
“Are you his girlfriend, then?” Dorothy asked.
Alison flushed. “A friend. A coworker, at least, we worked on a project together this past summer. He was at my house right before he disappeared, and I’m terribly worried about him.”
“Easy to say, young lady, hard to prove.”