The front door bell chimed away the Dean's reverie, an unusual occurrence when no new lodgers were expected. The ding-dong prompted the pair to look across the bed to shame the other into a bathrobe to answer the door. Cynthia lost the staring contest and shuffled out of the room. Dean's victory was short lived. His wife called to him almost as soon as she opened the door.
When Dean arrived in the hall, he was met by two men in black and his political opponent, Seymour Fitzgerald. A little man did all the talking and introductions. He had a Groucho Marx way about him, flicking an eyebrow up and down while fingering a Brillo mustache. His overweight partner was as quiet as a fawn at dawn. Fitzgerald looked as if he'd found a Captain Midnight ring in his cereal.
"We're here about," Groucho checked his notes, "Patsy Boyd, B-O-Y-D, and her daughter. I understand you may be," he crooked his fingers in quotation marks, "entertaining them here."
"What in the name of heaven and hell gave you that idea?" Dean said, in a volume that caused an elderly matron from Mobile to spill her dominoes and then knee the table and dump her companion's tiles. Cynthia ushered the group down the hall to their office, out of earshot and out of sight.
"Someone from the state picked Martha up last Saturday," Dean said tersely. "Patsy Boyd was just released from prison."
"We know that," Fitzgerald sneered.
Dean held his temper. "Martha's with her mother in some sort of a half-way facility. We weren't told where. You should know that, too."
"No, they're not," Fitzgerald answered. "Now both are missing and we're here to look around." He started to move past them but Dean blocked the way. Cynthia gasped at the news.
"You'll look around when you get a search warrant, or hell freezes over-whichever comes first!" Dean answered.
Groucho stepped between the two men in an effort to calm the situation. "Look," he said. "We're not accusing you of anything, but the girl telephoned here. We were just wondering if maybe she said where she was going. That maybe she and her mother drove to Ouray-just to visit."
It was Cynthia's turn to blow up. "How could you let a little girl be alone with a convicted criminal long enough to be kidnapped? What are you people doing? How long has Martha been missing?"
"Listen lady, I'm the one doing the asking, not you," Fitzgerald snarled, "Just shut up and listen." He stepped forward and bumped Cynthia, who didn't move an inch. It was the wrong thing to say- or do-to Cynthia Dean. Her hand shot out before Dean could see it, slapping him across the face so hard four finger prints glowed in red on his cheek.