get no ideas, Charlie, I already done warned her about the likes of you!”
Number 17 was a narrow brownstone home that sat between a redbrick horse stable and an identical brownstone. The slender hall held a stairway that spiraled up to the third floor. The wood floors creaked beneath their feet and the scent of lemon oil lingered in the air. Madeline knocked on the closed pocket door. When no response came she walked to the end of the hallway, leaned girlishly over the banister, and called down: “Miss Chappo?”
“Yes?”
“It’s Madeline.”
“Yes?”
“Can you come up here, please? I’d like to ask you something.”
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