Francine Hemingway's house was twenty minutes by bus from downtown Queensboro and too far from Chesapeake Bay to advertise waterfront view. The neighborhood had that comfortable, lived-in look with two-story homes, attached garages, well-kept yards, daffodils in neat beds, old shade of oak, maple, and budding dogwoods. Her house was the exception. The grass was sparse under a sweet gum tree, its kamikaze seed pods taking control of the yard. Her bushes were overgrown and much too close to the building for security.

I stood across the street. No traffic. No dogs. No one in sight--until a front door opened and a woman in sweats stepped out, but I was prepared for emergencies. I brought my pencil over the notebook I held and added a doodle or two. The woman ignored me as she stretched, twisted, and jogged in place. I turned a page and doodled some more. Finally, she loped down the street, building speed.

After she disappeared around the corner, I purposefully strode to the house, swinging my new keys. "One's sure to fit," I told myself. And one did, although not the first one I tried.

Before I could open the door, a single crunch sounded behind me. A belligerent voice demanded, "Who are you?"

Lord love a duck.

I turned, my face carefully embellished with a smile.

Ms. Jogger, the community snoop, had returned to check on the alien. Not that I was strange. She and I could have been sisters. We were about the same age, and both white bread plain. Her hair had already turned salt and pepper, and she was dressed for running instead of a hard day at the office. Still, that was superficial. She'd want to believe me.

I grasped her hand and pumped vigorously. "It's a godsend that Mrs. Hemingway has concerned neighbors. It makes my job so much easier." I waited for the inevitable questions before explaining further. "Just checking for the agency. It's a service we provide when a client is out of town. In fact, we often place an operator inside the house for a limited time."

"What agency is that?"

I flashed a card, the one with only my name, Jo Durbin, and my phone number. "Please call if you see anything suspicious." Would the card satisfy her?

"But where has Mrs. Hemingway gone?"

Where indeed? I palmed the card as I replied. "It's against agency policy to reveal such matters."

Her eyes brightened as she formed theories. "How long will she be away?"

That I could answer. "Quite some time. Perhaps a month."

"It's not illness in the family, is it?"

"I really can't tell you more." I smiled like the stone wall I was and repeated, "Agency policy, you know."

"Well, okay, then." She glanced around hesitantly, then walked away.

Just to be sure she didn't double back, I watched. She turned once with a puzzled glance. I waved and added another doodle to my paper. Finally, she disappeared, and I entered the house.

Inside, the home was more or less what I'd expected from the look of the yard. Some folks walk out of a house, close the door, and forget the mess inside. I couldn't imagine going on vacation and leaving newspapers and empty shopping bags on the floor, drapes sagging, and a chair smack dab in the middle of the room. And the shoe, forgotten where it dropped.

I'd repay my unknowing hostess--a clean house in exchange for a free room. Plenty to do, but first I plugged in my cellular phone, then pushed the chair into place. The shoe, a blue stiletto, went into my tote bag temporarily. I'd find the mate somewhere.

I called up ancient memories. First was the once-over with a dust cloth--in this case a damp paper towel--clearing as I went. I shuffled the mail scattered on the coffee table, sorting out the junk. An envelope was on the floor, its contents spilled out. A Waterman's Museum brochure with a letter thanking Mrs. Hemingway for her generous contribution, and a ticket to an opening of some sort. The event was next week and included refreshments, guided tours, and a talk by someone important. Too bad she'd miss it.

"Our English Heritage." Had to be historic. Sounded intriguing, and she would be gone.

Useless to Mrs. Hemingway, but an excellent opportunity for me, a freebie, with food. I glanced through the junk again. One empty envelope was local, from something called Freedom, Inc. Could I find anything of use there? A second part-time job perhaps? I slipped the envelope into my tote along with the museum ticket.

I had moved to the dining area when sister Sylvie called.

"Jo, you will be staying with me Saturday night, won't you? Maybe we'll do a movie or a video."

"Sure. I've latched onto something, but I'll be due for a break by then."

"By, 'latched onto something,' do you mean a place to stay?"

"You worry too much."

"No, really, I don't. A homeless woman was killed two days ago in Minnesota. Her body was found under a bridge. Your 'something' isn't under a bridge, is it?"

I swiped my paper towel over a chair back. "Good thing I'm not in Minnesota. Haven't we had this conversation before?"

She sighed audibly over the phone. "And Sunday, I thought you might want to use my computer to compile notes."

Two days with my sister was one day too many. "Sylvie, please remember this is my life. Besides, I certainly wouldn't want my cat to start up your allergies."

"A cat? You have a cat? Jo, I don't understand you. I'd think a cat would be--let me say, I'd find a cat completely counterproductive."

Of course, I had no cat. Whatever had inspired that comment? But a cat, yes. "A cat is an inspiration, an option I haven't tried yet."

"Jo, be reasonable. Think of the problems. I mean, the additional problems."

Sylvie was taking her role as my emergency backup too seriously. But a cat was serendipitous. "Excuse me, I must walk my cat," I'd say as I hung up the receiver. What was cat's name? Kitty? Clyde? He'd need a leash.

"Did you get that job?" Sylvie asked, bouncing to the real reason for her call.

"Uh-huh." I moved my cell phone to the other ear and wiped a smudge from a heavy ornamental dish before I put it into the china closet. "Office work. At Abbott Computing Services."

"What does a computing service do?"

"Haven't the slightest. I'm in the Billing Department. Receptionist and all-around gofer." She'd talk forever, but I had cleaning to do. "Excuse me. Have to go. Clyde needs his bowl of milk."

"You named a cat Clyde?"

"Of course." Gleefully, I broke off the connection.

Purple leash, I thought. Gold. Black studded with rhinestones. No, wouldn't work for a Clyde. Brown leather. Braided like a western belt.

Yes, brown, definitely brown, I decided as I moved to the kitchen.