Mary checked the phonograph: the Christmasy Corelli concerto had another two inches to go before she’d need to change the record. But one of Jerry’s daughters, she now noticed, was struggling with a hem that had fallen. Maybe the hard-drinking mother had dropped a few stitches. “Honey,” called Mary, coming to the rescue, “let me get you a little old safety pin.” Inside her bedroom, while she rummaged the sewing box, Mary’s glance was drawn through the window, to a scene made visible by the streetlamp two houses down P Street. Hawkins Fuller, dressed for her party and holding a small brown bag,
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