The Bohemian Connection by Susan Dunlap

Alison had described. He was tall and very thin. There was a space between his front teeth that made him look a little younger and more vulnerable. His hair was a bit curly, a bit long, a bit uncared for, as if he had no time for such inessentials. But as he looked toward the sign, his eyes were piercing. He held it with both hands, his arms stretched away from his body like he was making a religious offering. And yet there was something in his relation to the sign that focused the viewer’s attention not on it but back to him. Michelle stared at him; the sign reflected him. He was the center of the snapshot.
    But with the picture in front of me, I couldn’t be sure this was the man I had seen next door earlier. It was, after all, eight years old. The man leaning on the railing next door might well have been Ross. Eight years was plenty of time for his unsavory San Francisco associates to forget about him. As Alison had said, he would have no fear of coming back here now.
    I looked at the picture again, but by now my recollection of the man next door had become blurred. The more I tried to bring it into focus the faster it faded, until I couldn’t recall a single feature clearly.
    Michelle and Craig’s closet was also as it had been two hours ago—jammed. Nothing had been removed. Did that mean Ross had not come for clothes but for something else? Household money perhaps? Or maybe he had had second thoughts and not come in at all. Or maybe he wasn’t Ross.
    I sank down on the bed. In the heat of the afternoon it was very appealing. Was there anything to do but wait for Ward McElvey to come home? And when he did, would he remember having seen the man on his porch? Would he know if he was Ross? But even if he was Ross, that didn’t mean he was having an affair with Michelle.
    The sensible thing to do would be to lock the house and drive home to salvage the rest of the day. I could call Vida when she got off work and tell her… No. As long as it wasn’t definite, I would hold off telling Vida my suspicions.
    There was one more person to talk to—Father Calloway. He had dropped Michelle downtown last night. She told him she was getting out to catch up with a man she knew. Surely he had looked to see who it was. Father Calloway had been the priest at St. Agnes’ for years. If Ross were Catholic he would have known him; if not, he might still have some memory of him, particularly if I could jog that memory with Ross’s picture.
    Holding the picture by the edges, I pulled the front door shut and hurriedly started down the stairs. What time did priests eat dinner? Five? Five-thirty? If I drove fast, I might be able to catch Father Calloway before—
    I stepped on the ivy. My foot slipped. I grabbed for the railing. It was too late. Both feet were in the air. I landed hard on my bottom and bounced down to the step below.
    “Damn!”
    My shoulder ached; I wriggled my bottom to see if it was still in one piece. Then I felt my jeans for rips. They too were whole. But that ameliorated the situation only slightly. It wasn’t till I looked up that I realized I had let go of the photo. I eyed the stairs, the ivy, and the road; I spotted it just as a breeze carried it into the sewer hole.
    “Damn! Damn!” Somehow, the picture falling into the sewer hole pretty well summed up my day.
    I dusted off my jeans, rubbed my bruised bottom, and walked down the steps to the hole.
    Through the cracks between the boards I could see only darkness. There was nothing to do but shift the boards. I grabbed the edge of one, pulled it up, and flipped it over onto the road.
    I looked back into the hole and choked off a scream.
    At the bottom of the hole, next to the end of the sewer pipe, was Michelle Davidson. She lay on her back, her arms at her sides. Her brown eyes were open wide, but weren’t looking. A spray of dirt had landed on her face and in her open eyes. There was no question that she was dead.
    I called the Sheriff’s Department