I tried the front door. It creaked open. “Hello?” I said, and walked in. Silence. “Anyone home?” I asked. In the stillness of the living room, books covered the walls. Ferns lined a stand under the picture window. The stereo, the size of a deep freezer, could fit a body. I flipped through her record collection: Tchaikovsky, Bach, more Tchaikovsky. Mrs. Gustafson shuffled down the hall as if she’d awoken from a nap. Even alone at home, she wore a dress with her red belt. In her stockinged feet, she seemed vulnerable.
