“Señora Salgado?”
“Yes.”
“We received a report about a domestic dispute.”
“A domestic dispute,” I repeated.
Behind him, Doña Lupita threw both hands toward the sky.
“She admits it! She’s crazy! My son is in Cancún working, and she has stolen his house!”
I looked at her carefully.
She was wearing pearls at nine in the morning.
Pearls. Lipstick. A pressed blouse. A handbag tucked under her arm. A truly worried mother would have come in slippers and messy hair. Doña Lupita had dressed for an audience.
That was the first useful thing I noticed.
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