“He doesn’t live five miles away, Penelope,” Clara said, tapping her silver pen on her pad as she talked.

“He hasn’t lived on Maple Street since before you and Bob bought the Buick.”

“Bob told me last night that the kitchen pipe burst over there,” I said.

“He said the repair ran eighty-five dollars.”

“Then Bob spent eighty-five dollars on a pipe somewhere else.”

Clara turned the heavy page to the official change-of-address notice filed at the probate desk.

It gave John’s main residence as room fourteen at Canton Senior Care, thirty miles east across the county line.