Free Fortunes of the Dead by Lynn Hightower

door that hid the bedroom closet. The interior was interestingly neat, except the floor, which was a deep snarl of mismatched shoes, purses, a black shawl, several paperback novels involving government conspiracies, and an overturned hamper of dirty clothes. I sorted through the pile of clothes. Dirty socks, jog bra, yellow towels.
    Hanging on pink and ivory padded hangers were just enough dresses, blouses, skirts, and slacks to make up, at most, four different outfits. The labels were illuminating. At the prices Cheryl must have paid, I was amazed she had that many.
    I moved to the matching bamboo dresser that sat across from the bed. It was stuffed with sweats and jeans, and T-shirts rounded out the mix. It seemed strange that Miranda did not know what Cheryl wore the night she disappeared. There weren’t so many possibilities in this closet. I saw no snapshots of Miranda, or Miranda’s father, but I learned long ago that closeness did not necessarily measure depth of feeling.
    I took a quick look under the bed. Dust and a basketball, scuffed and stained. I remembered the guys shooting hoops in the parking lot and wondered if they were still there.
    I was on my way out when I decided to go back to the bedroom and take the photographs. I put them in my purse and locked the door behind me. The sound of a ball slamming against asphalt meant the players were still out on the court. Neither looked up as I clattered down the stairs, but I could tell they were very aware.
    They looked like college students from middle-class or well-to-do families—their teeth were straight and their haircuts expensive. Both were wearing logo ridden sweatpants and layers of undershirts, T-shirts, and jackets. One was tall and one had a knit cap on his head. Their faces were flushed, noses bright red.
    â€œYou guys know Cheryl Dunkirk?”
    They turned and faced me. The tall one ran a hand through his hair. “Are you with the police?”
    â€œNo, I’m private, hired by Cheryl’s father.” I showed them the paper Paul Brady had signed.
    â€œCheryl doesn’t have a father,” the guy in the knit cap muttered. The tall one gave him a look that said shut up .
    â€œAnybody found her yet?” the tall one asked.
    â€œNot yet, no. I thought maybe Cheryl might have played basketball with you guys. If you have a minute, there’s a coffee place down the road—”
    â€œCommon Grounds,” Knit Cap said, to make it clear exactly whose turf we were on.
    â€œRight. We could have a cappuccino or something, and a cinnamon roll, my treat.”
    â€œWe’ve already talked to the police.”
    Knit Cap rolled his eyes at his buddy. “And she already told you she’s not a cop. Come on, Ray, let’s go. We could both use a cup of coffee. Aren’t you cold?”
    Ray rolled the basketball into the grass and zipped his jacket.
    Ray and Knit Cap, whose name turned out to be Van, wanted to see my license, which I dutifully provided. The tax ID and fifteen-dollar fee for the license had been a good investment. Both had been playing hard on a cold morning, and they ate accordingly. It would have been hard for me to imagine how anyone could eat two cinnamon rolls of monstrous size, but if you have to see it to believe it, I got to believe it twice.
    The food and the coffee made them mellow. I made small talk while they ate, giving them in-the-know and harmless details about the current state of the police investigation. It never hurts to give a little before you ask for help. Both of them listened with the sober air of two worried friends. Ray wiped icing off his chin with a napkin, and asked me what I wanted to know.
    I ran a finger around the edge of my coffee cup. “How well you knew Cheryl. How often you saw her. Who she was dating, were there problem boyfriends, did she act like something was on her mind.”
    Ray looked at Van, who looked at me and settled his elbows on the