They turned to see a matronly woman with broad, capable shoulders staring curiously at them.
“I’m looking for a Miss Monteith,” Mason said. “Does she live here?”
The woman inquired, with just a trace of reproof in her voice, “Have you been to the front door?”
“No, we haven’t,” Mason admitted. “We parked the car out here at the curb and saw the garage was empty... Then I became attracted by the parrot. I’m interested in parrots.”
“May I ask your name?”
“Mason,” the lawyer told her, “Mr. Mason, and may I inquire yours?”
“I’m Mrs. Winters. I’m Helen Monteith’s next-door neighbor, only her name isn’t Monteith any more.”
“It isn’t?”
“No. She was married almost two weeks ago... a man by the name of Wallman, George Wallman, a bookkeeper.”
“Do you,” Mason asked, “happen to know how long she’s had the parrot?”