P Is for Peril

service yesterday. Blanche had her baby late in the afternoon."
    "She did? Congratulations. What'd she have?"
    "A little girl. Seven pounds, eight ounces. They named her Chloe. Blanche was actually in labor at Dow's memorial. She and Andrew skipped the reception at the country club and went straight to St. Terry's. There wasn't even time to get her into the delivery room. She gave birth on a gurney in the corridor."
    "Wow. That was close. How's she doing?"
    "She's fine. The baby had to stay an extra day because of jaundice, but the doctor seems to think she's fine now. We'll bring her home this afternoon. I told Blanche I'd keep the children tomorrow so she can get some rest. I wish she'd have her tubes tied and put an end to this. She can't keep churning out infants. It's ridiculous."
    "Well, I'm sure you're relieved everything's okay."
    "Actually, I'm calling about something else. Last night when I went to the hospital to visit Blanche, I saw Crystal's white Volvo parked in the driveway of a house on Bay. You know that neighborhood. Parking's always at a premium. The hospital lot was full so I had to circle the block to find a space or I wouldn't have seen the car. Naturally, I was curious, so I went over again this morning and there it was. I'm assuming there's a way you can find out whose house it is."
    "Sure, I can do that. Why don't you give me the address?" I made a note as she recited it and then said, "What's your concern?"
    "I think she's finally showing her true colors. You know the rumor about Crystal's affair with that trainer of hers, Clint Augustine. I put it out of my mind until I spotted her car and then I began to wonder. Whatever she's up to, I think it's worth pursuing, don't you?"
    "Assuming it was her."
    "The license plate said 'Crystal,' big as life."
    "How do you know she was driving? It could have been anyone."
    "I doubt that. Like who?"
    "I don't know, Rand or Nica, one of the household help."
    "Melanie suggested that as well, though I don't know why either one of you would stoop to defending her. I called Detective Paglia and told him you'd be looking into it. As I said to him, this is exactly the sort of thing they should have been doing from day one." I was certain Detective Paglia appreciated her input. After we hung up, I dialed the gym and Keith answered the phone. I could hear weights clanging in the background. The Sunday faithful. "Hi, Keith. Kinsey Millhone. When I was in there last week, I asked you about Clint Augustine. Do you happen to have an address and home phone number for him? I've been thinking a personal trainer might be fun for a change."
    "Let me see what I got. Hang on." I could hear him open the desk drawer and then flip through the tattered three-hole binder I'd seen on other occasions. "I know I got it somewhere. Here we go."
    I jotted down the information, noting that the address he gave me was a match for the Glazer's house in Horton Ravine. "How recent is this? Someone told me he had a place near St. Terry's on Bay."
    "Don't think so. Least it's the first I've heard."
    "When did you last talk to him? He might have moved."
    "It's been months. Might have been February, March, back around then. He used to come in here regular, maybe eight, ten times a week, although he might have moved his clients to another gym. Let me know if he's out of business and I'll take his name off the books. I got other good trainers if he can't help."
    "Great. I appreciate that."
    I pulled the crisscross from my bookcase and leafed through the pages until I found Bay Street. I ran a finger down the house numbers until I came to the relevant address. I'd hoped Fiona was wrong, but the listed occupant was J. Augustine, though the phone number was different from the one Keith had given me. I dialed the number Keith had and got a disconnect; no surprise there. That must have been Clint's phone number while he was in the guest cottage on the Glazer property. Clearly, Keith's information was out of date. I returned the crisscross to my shelf. I couldn't believe Crystal had gone looking for Clint the very day of Dow's memorial service. I picked up the phone and dialed the house on Bay.
    The man who answered had a phone manner that bordered on the rude. "Yes?" His voice was harsh and full of impatience.
    "May I speak to Clint?"
    "He can't come to the phone. Who's this?"
    "Never mind. I'll try later."
    The house on Bay Street was an old Victorian, probably built in the late 1800s: two stories of