Blunt Darts

there was a remote control device on the coffee table between us, our hostess made no effort to turn the set off. Perhaps she had become oblivious to it.
    “Would you like some coffee and cake?”
    Val, remembering my awkwardness at Miss Pitts’s house, was about to decline for both of us. I cut her off and said we’d be pleased.
    “I’ll just be a minute,” said Mrs. Sturdevant, who had barely disappeared around a corner before Val turned to me.
    “But I thought—”
    “You were right,” I said, my hand up in a stop sign, “but I wanted a word with you before we tried persuading her.” Val nodded and smiled. “Now, as I see it, Mr. S. probably gave her some marching orders and we’ve altered the conditions. We have to get to her without giving her a need or opportunity to call Mr. S. for further instructions.”
    “Agreed,” said Val, “but in the kitchen she could—”
    “Right again. She could call him now. But I’m betting that she has a one-project-at-a-time mindset. Accordingly, I think we’re safe for now.”
    “Safe from what?” spoke a new voice.
    Val and I both swiveled around. A much younger version of Mrs. S. stood at the foyer. She had the ash blond hair and slim figure, but her hair was kept in place with a yellow band and her face was open and relaxed. Her eyes only momentarily went toward me before fixing on Valerie.
    “Hi, Ms. Jacobs. Safe from what?”
    “Hi, Kim,” covered Val. “We’re talking about Stephen.”
    At the mention of his name, Kim started running up the stairs toward us and talking at the same time. “Have you heard from him? How is he? Where is he?”
    She reached us at the couch just as Mrs. Sturdevant came bustling into the living room, carrying one full coffee cup and one empty one.
    “I thought I heard your voice, Kim. We haven’t reached a decision yet,” she said, parroting my earlier phrase. “Please go to your room.” Mom’s eyes were nervous still.
    “I want to find out about Stephen,” said Kim, her eyes steady.
    I decided that Mrs. S. probably hadn’t won many of these contests recently. “Mrs. Sturdevant.” I got up and walked over to her. Val joined us. I lowered my voice with my back toward Kim. “The main concern here is not to upset Kim, right?”
    Mrs.Sturdevant looked confused, but she nodded hesitantly.
    “Well,” I said, “it seems pretty clear that Kim is going to insist on finding out what I can tell her about Stephen.” I paused just a beat. “She doesn’t strike me as a girl who’s going to take no for an answer.”
    Mrs.Sturdevant nodded again. The cups were rattling against their saucers in her slightly trembling hands. “She is a very determined girl sometimes.”
    I gave Val a gentle nudge, a signal we’d worked out on the drive over.
    “Mrs. Sturdevant, why don’t you and I go into the kitchen. I guarantee that Mr. Cuddy will be very careful with Kim and not do anything you’d disapprove of.”
    “Well...” said Mrs. Sturdevant.
    “Mom,” said Kim clearly and stubbornly. “I’m going to find out about Stephen.”
    “Well,” said Mrs. Sturdevant, thus prodded. “If you think it’s best...”
    “I know it is,” said Val, relieving the woman of the formerly full, now slightly spilled, cup and guiding her toward the kitchen.
    Kim and I were alone. She was wearing running shorts and a halter top, small breasts just pushing out against the fabric. Her feet were bare, her toenails painted the bright pink of her lipstick. I had the feeling that the lipstick went on after Daddy left in the morning and came off before Daddy got home at night. She had a Sony Walkman strapped around her waist, the light earphone attachment resting on her shoulders like a bizarre necklace.
    “It’s your house,” I said, “but why don’t we sit down?”
    She gave a little frown, then sat in her mothers chair. I don’t think Kim noticed that the TV was on either, but the woman in the red dress must have done well again, because she was again hanging on the host-who was still smiling, but only sportingly now.
    “Who are you?” Kim asked warily.
    “My name is John Cuddy,” I said, handing her a card and even flashing her my identification. I though it might impress her, but she barely glanced at it. “I'ma private detective. I’ve been hired to try to find Stephen. I’m hoping that you can help me.”
    She shook her head. “I don’t know where he is. I thought you’d be able to tell me how he is.”
    We