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“To Günter Grunwald’s house. I want to ask his wife a few questions. Take the George Washington Parkway. I’ll tell you where to turn.”
“Did you call and tell her we were coming?”
“And lose the element of surprise?”
Riley looked at her watch. “It’s eight-thirty. Irene Grunwald doesn’t impress me as an early riser.”
“Do you know her?” Emerson asked.
“I met her once. At the office. Let’s just say I’d call first.”
“I met her, too. At my father’s funeral. She seemed rather distant. You may be right. I’ll consider calling.”
Riley drove past the golden statues of the improbably muscular horses and riders that guarded the entrance to the Arlington Memorial Bridge. She crossed the Potomac and turned onto the George Washington Memorial Parkway. Riley looked out at the quaint redbrick townhouses of Alexandria, and eventually they gave way to a densely wooded parkway with the broad Potomac River sparkling on her left.
Günter’s house was on the riverside, off Southdown Road. It was a large Colonial with black shutters and professional landscaping. Riley parked in the curved driveway and turned to Emerson for further instructions.
“Now what?” Riley said. “Do we get out and ring her doorbell?”
“You suggested we call first,” Emerson said. “So you should call.”
“But we’re already here.”
“Does that matter?”
“Yes. We can’t call from the driveway. We should have called a half hour ago. It’ll be like we’re stalking her if we call now.”
“Really?”
“Yes. You wouldn’t call a girl and tell her you’re waiting outside her apartment, would you? She’d think you were deranged.”
“That explains a lot,” Emerson said, getting out of the car.
He walked to the front door and swung the little pineapple-shaped door knocker. No one answered. He tried the door knocker again, waited two beats, and took off around the side of the house.
“Hey!” Riley whispered, tiptoeing after him. “Psssst! What are you doing? You can’t just go wandering around somebody’s yard!”
“Of course I can,” Emerson said. “Look at me. I’m doing it.”
“But what if she sees you?”
“Then my goal will have been achieved.”
Emerson reached the back of the house and stopped short, hands on hips, taking it all in. It was a large yard, landscaped into a formal garden that sloped down to the river. There was a dock at the river’s edge and a large sailboat tied up to the dock.
Irene Grunwald stood in the middle of the yard with her back to Emerson and Riley. She had a spade in her hand, and she was looking into a freshly dug hole.
“Stupid saint,” she said to herself. “I hate these stupid saints.”
Irene was silver blond, in her midforties, and professionally toned. She was dressed in creased tan chinos, a pastel-collared shirt, and fashionable work gloves, presumably to preserve her manicure. Martha Stewart would have approved.
Riley elbowed Emerson and made a gesture to indicate that he should alert Irene of their presence. Emerson cleared his throat. Irene gave a yelp, dropped her spade, and whirled around with her hand over her heart.
“Emerson Knight?” Irene said, squinting at Emerson. “Good Lord, you scared the bejeepers out of me. I didn’t hear you drive up.”
“Are you digging for buried treasure?” Emerson asked.
“Hardly. My gardener was preparing a flower bed for mums when he dug up a plaster statue of a saint and freaked out. He said it was a bad omen, crossed himself a dozen times, and took off. And it’s not the first time this has happened.”
