The staked Goat

a top coat. There was no doorbell and only a residual outline and a screw hole where the brass knocker might have been. Dale drew one ungloved hand from his pocket and tapped lightly with two knuckles. The air was painfully cold. Dale tapped again, harder.
    The door swung halfway open. ”In! Come on, come on. In quickly, before we lose heat!”
    Dale scooted ahead of me with a short laugh. I hopped over the sill. Our greeter, a slim, boyish man in a Beatle haircut and a tight ski sweater, closed the door with an extra push needed at the end. He threw the deadbolt and turned to us without a smile. ”Larry Estleman,” said Dale. ”John Cuddy.”
    I extended my hand. Larry’s features sagged and he shook my hand. ”Again, I’m sorry... about...”
    ”I’m sorry, too,” I said. ”It was a bad time all around.”
    Larry said, ”Yeah,” and dropped my hand. ”Where’s Martha?” asked Dale.
    ”In the kitchen,” said Larry. ”With Carol. We have the oven on.”
    Dale nudged Larry to precede us. I took off my coat. We walked through a small living room; I tossed my coat on a chair. The walls needed repainting, the ceiling replastering, and the furniture replacing. It didn’t feel much warmer inside than it had on the stoop.
    Dale whispered to me. ”They hadn’t paid their oil bills, so...”
    I nodded to stop him, but he continued.
    ”The stove’s electric, and Larry put an old space heater of ours in Al Junior’s room. I called the oilman, he’ll deliver tomorrow and add it to our bill.”
    I nodded again as we entered the kitchen.
    The two women sitting at the table looked up. One was blond and a little prim. She looked calm and one hand held a pencil hovering just over a grocery pad. The other resembled Audrey Hepburn in her early thirties, short black hair and a thin, tired face. Both had sweaters and coffee cups.
    Larry leaned against the refrigerator and stuck his hands into his pants pockets. Dale spoke to the blonde. ”Martha? This is John Cuddy.”
    She smiled and got up. I awkwardly waved her to stay down, but she came over and gave me a peck on the cheek and a polite hug. ”Oh, John, welcome to our house. Al told me so much about you.” She spoke in a falsely buoyant tone.
    Her head inclined to the woman still sitting, Martha spoke again. ”And this is Carol Krause.”
    I looked at Carol, she riveted angrily on me.
    ”Why don’t we move into the living room?” said Martha. ”We’ll be more comfortable.”
    ”I felt a little chill in there, Mart,” said Carol. She had the smooth, even voice of a TV anchor. Or a hostess in an expensive lounge. ”Couldn’t we all just stay in here?”
    Martha blinked then smiled. ”But chairs... we wouldn’t all—”
    ”That’s okay, Martha,” said Larry quickly. ”I ought to go up and check on the boys anyway.”
    ”Good, good,” said Martha, moving her head a little too vigorously. He slipped out of the room, and the rest of us went to sit down.
    Martha was halfway into her chair when she popped back up. ”Oh, I’m so sorry, John. After the trip, you and... You must want some coffee?”
    ”No, no, thank you,” I said. ”Martha—”
    ”Oh, tea then? Beer?” She stepped to the refrigerator and pulled open the door. The little light didn’t come on, but even without it the shelves didn’t look too full. ”Soda? We have plenty, really.”
    ”Not just now, thanks.”
    ”None for me, either,” said Dale.
    I was aware of Carol twisting and untwisting her fingers. I glanced around the room. The tile around the sink was loose in its mortar, the wallpaper was twenty years old and curling, and only one bulb shone through the three-bulb plastic fixture over the table. Martha’s list was at right angles to me, with entries, crossouts, and connecting arrows all over it.
    Martha closed the door and came back to us. She suddenly looked up and to the right, closing her eyes for a second, then she sat down, said, ”Excuse me,” and wrote something more on the list, drawing another arrow from it to an earlier line.
    ”John,” said Carol in a barely civil voice, ”could I see you in the living room for a minute?”
    ”Sure,” I said, Martha giving no indication of noticing Carol’s change of heart toward that part of the house.
    Dale cocked his head at us as we left, her in the lead.
    From the rear, she was perhaps five-five, with a slim torso but wide hips. The hips would move in a sexual sway no matter how stiffly she carried