Seven Minutes to Noon

gentrified one that had taken hold the closer you got to Atlantic Avenue. Here, there were still unprepossessing storefronts, plain-vanilla hair salons offering discounts on ladies’ weekly styling, independent video stores, publike eateries with five-dollar hamburgers.
    “It’s kind of nice down here,” Alice said. “Calm.”
    Mike hummed agreement; the shift in neighborhood was having a good effect on them both.
    They arrived early at the house on Third Place between Clinton and Henry Streets. It was a lovely, quiet block lined with simple brownstones set back behind the front yards that had given Carroll Gardens the second half of its name. The address Pam had scrawled on the page was a corner house with a flowering front yard that turned around the side of the house, connecting seamlessly with a backyard. It was an unusual layout. Massive clusters of antique red roses spilled over the front fence.
    “Get a whiff of this,” Mike said, leaning in to smell the blossoms.
    Alice stepped into the yard and leaned toward the delicious roses, whose scent indeed was a tonic. “You could really look forward to springtime here.” She pictured herself inside the house, standing behind one of the gleaming windows, waiting out winter for spring to come.
    They stood in front of the three-story house, observing and discussing what little they could tell from the outside. It had the tidiness of recent renovation, they decided. The full-pane windows looked new, with woodframes painted slate blue. The house’s facade was a rich, chocolaty brown. The front stoop was wide and solid with freshly painted black banisters in scrolling ironwork that led to an arched front door of polished oak. There was an air of peacefulness to this well-tended house.
    “I like it more than any of the other houses I’ve seen so far,” Alice said.
    “It looks good from the outside.” Mike turned a mischievous smile on her. “Which means it’s got to be a total wreck on the inside. Right? Poetic justice.”
    “I hope not.”
    “We should probably take it anyway,” he said. “Take it no matter what. Just move.”
    “You sound like Maggie.”
    His eyes shone and she knew what was coming. Mike did voices, impressions, and was very good at it. “’Twas an annus horribilus, ’twas.” With a hand on Alice’s lower back he tugged her closer. They melted into a hug and shared what felt like well-deserved laughter.
    Half an hour later, Pam still hadn’t arrived. Alice called her office number but her voice mail came on, and the machine answered at her home. Alice left messages in both places. Then, as a last resort, she tentatively walked up the front stoop and rang the bell. She could hear its faint chime behind the door, dissolving into silence.
    As soon as Alice got home with the children that afternoon, she picked up the phone and dialed Pam’s office. All day at Blue Shoes her calls to Pam had gone unanswered, routed through Garden Hill’s voice mail system to Pam’s mailbox. She never called, as hoped, to describe some scheduling mishap. An errant alarm clock. Crossed appointments. Run-down cell phone batteries. Something to explain her absence at the Third Place house. As she listened to the phone ring, Alice assumed the voice-mail system would answer again. Instead, this time, she was greeted by a human voice, “Garden Hill Realty.”
    “I’d like to speak with Pam Short.”
    “Hold on, please.”
    Another woman’s voice, this one deeper and a little coarse, came on the line. “This is Judy Gersten.”
    Alice recognized the name from the storefront’s window: JUDITH GERSTEN, LICENSED BROKER.
    “I’m filling in for Pam today. May I ask who’s calling?”
    “Alice Halpern. She’s been showing me houses. We had an appointment this morning at ten and she didn’t come. I was surprised—”
    “Yes, Alice, Pam mentioned she was showing you the Third Place house. I couldn’t find your number. I’ve wanted to call you all day.”
    “Is Pam sick?”
    Judy didn’t answer. Then, “She had an accident.”
    “Is she all right?”
    There was another pause, this one longer, and Alice knew in that instant that something was terribly wrong.

Chapter 22
    “What happened? Where is she?”
    “Alice, dear.” Judy’s voice lowered to a grainy whisper. “Pam was fond of you — she told me that.”
    Was.
    “I heard your voice mails today. I’ll help you with the Third Place house.”
    “Please tell me what