Skeeter’s heart was triphammering as they turned into Fournier Street and passed poor but well-scrubbed houses where stout women called to one another in Yiddish. At the seventh house on the right, they found shuttered windows and a closed door, but flowers grew in pots along the steps and smoke curled upwards from the chimney. Inside, Skeeter could hear the squeal and laughter of children’s voices. His throat tightened. Artemisia’s voice . . . teasing her sister . . . Malcolm and Margo waited expectantly, gazes locked on him. Skeeter nodded once, then climbed the stone steps and knocked on the door.
The voices inside cut off sharply, then footsteps hurried their way. Margo joined Skeeter on the top step, just as an unknown voice called out, “Who is it?”
Margo glanced at Skeeter, winking, then raised her voice to carry through the door. “Eh, luv, you got a dog?”
“What?”
“I ast, ‘ave you got a dog? There’s a bitch wot’s littered pups on yer front steps.”
The door opened quickly and Skeeter found himself staring at “Benny Catlin”—Jenna Caddrick in the flesh, wearing woolen trousers and a heavy flannel shirt. Wide eyes swept down, looking automatically for the mythical puppies. Suspicion and wild terror leaped into Jenna’s eyes and she tried to slam the door in their faces. Margo shoved her foot against it and said, “It’s no use running, Miss Caddrick. We’re here to help.”
At that instant, a childish voice squealed from the dim interior.
“Uncle Skeeter!”
An instant later, Artemisia had flown into his arms.