Martha gasped and grabbed my arm as she stepped into the bright kitchen. Ahead of us was a double doorway to the living room.
“Good God, he’s been robbed! Call the police!”
“Martha, it’s okay,” I said. “Serrano’s already here, and besides, it always looks like this. You know, sort of, um, minimalist. Cyril doesn’t have very much furniture.”
Cyril and I had formed an odd acquaintance before he and Martha ever embarked on their romantic journey. He was surly, cantankerous, and rude, even, but somehow I’d seen beyond the bite of the junkyard dog to the sweet soul beneath.
True, steady, loyal, and ready to lay down his life for those he loved.
The spare décor was clean and neat, in complete contrast to the exterior yard. In the kitchen, near the window, there was a white Formica round table covered with a lace tablecloth, and a vibrant Boston fern hung in the corner. There wasn’t much in the living room except a recliner covered in an afghan, a china cabinet, and a grandfather clock.
“Well at least the inside is somewhat respectable.” Martha sniffed and ran a finger over the spotless kitchen counter.
While Serrano inspected the latches on the windows, I picked up the cat’s food and water bowls and refilled both.
“So where’s this cat?” Serrano asked.
I took a quick look around for the black feline who had a habit of hiding on top of cabinets and ninja-diving past unsuspecting humans. I wasn’t sure Martha’s nerves would survive the shock in her present condition.
“I’m not sure, but I don’t think he’ll show himself with this many people around.”
Serrano was busy opening the kitchen cabinets. I glimpsed some Liquorice Allsorts, a box of English teabags, and a jar of Marmite.
I shifted uneasily. If Cyril came home now, he would be royally pissed at this invasion of his privacy, and especially peeved at the person who had helpfully offered the key to gain access. He’d have my guts for garters, as he would say.
“Look, Serrano, it’s obvious he’s not here and no one has ransacked the place,” I said. “We should get going.”
He gave no sign of listening to me and strode off to Cyril’s bedroom. Martha and I scurried after him. He opened the sliding doors of the closet, which hardly had any clothes hanging inside, but probably usually didn’t anyway.
He shook his head. “Can’t tell if he packed for a trip or not.”
Next came the bathroom, and Martha and I crowded in behind him as he opened the medicine cabinet. No medicine inside, just an old-fashioned shaving brush and mug and a plastic bottle of store-brand mouthwash.
Serrano shut the cabinet, and we headed into the living room. There were a few framed photographs scattered around, including one of a much younger Cyril with a rugby team.
Martha picked it up and ran her fingers over the edge of the frame. “Detective Serrano, sir, I wish to file a missing persons report,” she murmured.
“Don’t you think you’re jumping the gun a bit?” he said.
Martha shuddered, and I gave Serrano the most chiding look I could muster.
“Okay, okay. Well, we’re gonna need some more recent photos than this. Do you have any?”
“Oh, I have a million. From the Walnut Street Theatre, the Horticultural Society luncheon, the Pennsylvania Ballet, the fashion show fund-raiser. And that’s just from last week.”
“Cyril Mackey went to all of those events?” Serrano asked faintly.