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Release date: 2022-12-07 11:34:32 Author:drrvNoqr

As Clarise and Bob followed him onto the porch, Joe said, 'When they found Nora, was the photograph of Tom's grave with her?'

When the 747-400 fell, the Delmanns lost their eighteen-year-old daughter, Angela, who had been returning from an invitation-only, six-week watercolour workshop at a university in New York, to prepare for her first year at art school in San Francisco. Apparently, she had been a talented painter with considerable promise.

For a moment they were silent, pondering the imponderable.

Bob and Clarise were still standing on the porch, side by side, watching Joe as he drove away.

Joe was surprised. 'She'd eaten breakfast?'

Bob and Clarise were still standing on the porch, side by side, watching Joe as he drove away.

Although he'd finished more than half of his second drink, Joe felt no effect from the 7-and-7. He had never seen a picture of Nora Vadance; nevertheless, the mental image he held of a faceless woman in a patio chair with a butcher knife was sufficiently sobering to counter twice the amount of whiskey that he had drunk.

Then Bob said, 'You see what I meant earlier when I said we have a thousand questions of our own.'

When the 747-400 fell, the Delmanns lost their eighteen-year-old daughter, Angela, who had been returning from an invitation-only, six-week watercolour workshop at a university in New York, to prepare for her first year at art school in San Francisco. Apparently, she had been a talented painter with considerable promise.

When the 747-400 fell, the Delmanns lost their eighteen-year-old daughter, Angela, who had been returning from an invitation-only, six-week watercolour workshop at a university in New York, to prepare for her first year at art school in San Francisco. Apparently, she had been a talented painter with considerable promise.

'Be careful,' she said.

As though they were friends of long experience, Clarise put her arms around Joe and hugged him. 'I hope this Rose is a good person, like you think. I hope you find her. And whatever she has to tell you, I hope it brings you some peace, Joe.'

'We found it on the table when we arrived from San Diego,' Clarise recalled. 'Beside her breakfast plate.'

Clarise said, 'What'll you do now, Joe?'

The Delmanns were physicians. He was an internist specializing in cardiology, and she was both internist and ophthalmologist. They were prominent in the community, because in addition to their regular medical practices, they had founded and continued to oversee a free clinic for children in East Los Angeles and another in South Central.

Bob and Clarise were still standing on the porch, side by side, watching Joe as he drove away.

Clarise said, 'And consider this-the Los Angeles Times was open beside her plate-'

They shook hands. The handshake became a brotherly hug.

'We found it on the table when we arrived from San Diego,' Clarise recalled. 'Beside her breakfast plate.'

'Something's wrong, Joe. Something's wrong big time.'

As though they were friends of long experience, Clarise put her arms around Joe and hugged him. 'I hope this Rose is a good person, like you think. I hope you find her. And whatever she has to tell you, I hope it brings you some peace, Joe.'

The Delmanns were physicians. He was an internist specializing in cardiology, and she was both internist and ophthalmologist. They were prominent in the community, because in addition to their regular medical practices, they had founded and continued to oversee a free clinic for children in East Los Angeles and another in South Central.

Joe was surprised. 'She'd eaten breakfast?'

The metropolis glowed, a luminous fungus festering along the coast. Like spore clouds, the sour-yellow radiance rose and smeared the sky. Nevertheless, a few stars were visible: icy, distant light.

Bob said, 'No. It was on the kitchen table. At the very end, she didn't carry it with her.'

For a moment they were silent, pondering the imponderable.

Georgine Delmann herself answered the door. Joe recognized her from her photo in one of the Post articles about the crash. She was in her late forties, tall and slim, with richly glowing dusky skin, masses of curly dark hair, and lively eyes as purple-black as plums. Hers was a wild beauty, and she assiduously tamed it with steel-frame eyeglasses instead of contacts, no makeup, and grey slacks and white blouse that were manly in style.

Moved, he returned her embrace. 'Thanks, Clarise.'

Clarise said, 'And consider this-the Los Angeles Times was open beside her plate-'

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