“She held the door?” I asked. “Dorothy does not open the door for strangers after dark.”
“Well, she did last night,” Mr. Jenkins said, tapping his cane once for emphasis. “And he did not leave until after midnight.”
“An old green car,” I repeated, my mind racing. “Did you see where he parked?”
“Right behind her Buick,” Mr. Jenkins said, nodding. “Sputtered like it had a bad muffler. He did not seem to be in any hurry to leave.”
“Did you see him go inside?” I asked, looking down at my watch and adjusting the strap again.
“A key?” I asked Mr. Jenkins, my voice dropping. “Are you absolutely sure it was a key? Maybe she left the door unlocked for him.”
“Dorothy?” Mr. Jenkins let out a short, booming laugh that sounded like a bark. “She has three deadbolts on that door, Greta. She would lock her own shadow out if she could. No, he had a brass key. I saw the brass flash under the streetlamp when he reached for the lock.”
“He just walked up to the front door, unlocked it, and let himself in like he owned the place,” Mr. Jenkins added, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper.
