Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 101, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 610 & 611, March 1993

At the porch, the path divided left and right. He went left, then right, past the corner of the house. A few more curtained windows. Two concrete steps led to a door with a street number painted on a little wooden arm projecting from the frame.

He went up the steps and knocked on the door. Shannon opened it almost at once.

“Oh, hi.”

“If I’m too early,” Tom said, “I can go away and come back later.”

“No, no, of course not.” She stepped back, opening the door wider. “We actually got through early.”

“I took the chance because Katherine was bugging me,” he said as he stepped inside. “She even followed me up here. I just hope she leaves us alone.”

Shannon closed the door behind him. She was wearing jeans and a blue denim work shirt that had been worn and washed till they were both almost white. She looked as much like Katherine as ever.

The room was small and bright, with rock concert and environmentalist posters taped to the walls. Furniture was minimal: a day bed, a worn armchair, a card table set up under the one window with two lightweight chairs, a few big cushions inviting people to sit on the floor. On the card table were a stiffened photo mailer, a dime-store frame with the back off, a bottle of glass cleaner, a rag.

“I got carded last time I tried to buy a bottle of wine,” Shannon said, “so I can’t offer you any.”

“Don’t let it worry you. I expected to be treated as a nuisance, not as a guest.”

“Would you like some herb tea?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

She smiled a little awkwardly and disappeared behind a curtain. He heard water running into a kettle. Moments later she came back.

“Kitchen’s to the left,” she said, pointing back at the curtain, “bathroom’s to the right. Both the size of phone booths. Sit down, for goodness sake, and tell me how I can convince Mr. McCauley I’m not a threat.”

He sat down at the card table. She took the other chair as he fished a sheet of paper out of a pocket.

“You told me you were born December thirteenth, nineteen seventy-three, right?”

She nodded.

“You never told me where.”

“The Palmer Clinic, in Yucaipa. That’s down near San Bernardino.”

A sudden chill burst under his breastbone.

“And your parents were?”

She almost told him — but stopped herself.

“Sorry, Shannon. I wasn’t trying to trick you. Fargo’s not your real name, is it?”

Almost accusingly, she shook her head.

“That’s okay. It doesn’t matter. Now I want to show you” — he unfolded the sheet of paper — “a copy of someone else’s birth certificate.”

She took it, read the name. Her nose wrinkled. “Pretty Katie Icicles.” Then her mouth sagged open. Her eyes were shocked.

“Yes.” His mouth was dry. He tried clearing his throat. “I got the original from Charles this morning and copied it on his fax machine. Katherine was born just before midnight, December twelfth, nineteen seventy-three, at the Palmer Clinic in Yucaipa — where you were born some time after midnight.”

She stood up. Her lips were bloodless, her face stark with shock. She saw she was still holding the photocopy and threw it down on the table as though afraid of contagion.

Beyond the curtain, the tea kettle had begun to whistle. She ignored it, or didn’t hear it.

“A strong resemblance could be a coincidence,” Tom said slowly. “But you’re as alike as two matched pearls, and the coincidences are kind of piling up.”

Her face showed the beginnings of fear.

She said defensively, “So?”

“So I don’t know what it all means any more than you do. This is going to jolt hell out of the McCauleys.”

“What exactly are you doing for them?”

“Finding out who you are — so they’ll know you aren’t another McCauley. Nothing sinister.”

After a while Shannon nodded vaguely, muttered something about that shrieking kettle, and went back behind the curtain. The shrill whistle died. A minute later she reappeared carrying two steaming china mugs. She set them down on the card table. The steam was fresh and minty. She went away again and came back with a saucer.

“For your tea bag, when it’s steeped enough.”

She sat down at the table again, withdrawn, maybe thoughtful, her eyes unfocused. The copy of Katherine’s birth certificate had landed on top of the photo mailer. She took it by one corner, slid it toward Tom. He refolded it and tucked it into the zippered chest pocket of his nylon jacket. Absently, she folded back the flap of the mailer and took out a five-by-seven color print. She gave it a glance and turned it toward him.

“Me and some friends down at the beach. Back when things were simple.”

Half a dozen grinning, laughing young people, Shannon among them, were crowded around an elderly man who sat at the tiller of a small sailboat. He had a weatherbeaten face and an open grin, wore a frayed shirt and a yachtsman’s cap.

“Who’s the old geezer?”

“That’s the Skipper.” A hint of animation crept back into her face and voice. “I don’t know his real name, I only met him a couple of times. That’s his boat. My friends say he’s retired, likes to do some sailing when the weather’s nice, sometimes springs for a six-pack or a bottle of wine.”