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“Irma,” said the older woman.
“Last name, please?”
“Ruiz.”
He scrawled. “And you, ma’am?”
“Adelita. Santiago.”
“Why you need names?” said Irma Ruiz.
“Just for the record.”
“Something happened to Missus.” A statement, not a question.
“I’m afraid so. That’s why I need to talk to Mr. March.”
“Yes,” said Irma Ruiz. “I think Memphis. But not sure.”
“Great, thanks, very helpful. Is he at a hotel?”
“I think.”
“Any idea which hotel?”
“No.”
Adelita Santiago said, “There are ducks.”
Irma Ruiz looked surprised.
Milo said, “Docks, like boats?”
Adelita Santiago wiggled her fingers and pantomimed flight.
“Ducks? Like the birds?”
Nod.
“He’s staying at a farm.”
“No, a hotel.”
“A hotel with ducks.”
Nod.
“Okay…” He returned to the photo of the Marches and I got out my phone.
When I clicked off, I studied Douglass March’s image.
Slightly built and at least five years younger than his wife. Handsome in a starving-poet way, with limp, sandy hair worn longish, narrow dark eyes, and a waxy complexion suggesting susceptibility to infection. He wore a black suit, a black shirt striped with white, and a royal-blue tie. Reacted to the camera with the stingiest upturn of lips.
Smile!
Don’t bug me.
The contrast with his wife’s full-on photogenic glee was striking. Fissures in the relationship well under way?
