“Nor her son,” Susan added. “I mean, he does try, but there’s no warmth there, is there?”

“Well, Blaine is remarkable. Her husband left her when Donald was just a baby and she went to work as a secretary for some little real estate agency somewhere. She got her license at night and worked during the day, accepting the free rent of an apartment above the office as part of the payment for her job. She bought that agency less than two years after she got her license. That’s how well she did. She opened a branch office in a better community less than a year later and began Blaine Baines Executive Homes and Estates before Donald was ten years old! She was completely focused. They lived in that small apartment until Blaine Baines Executive Homes and Estates was making money-big-time.”

“You like her a lot.”

“I admire her drive, her determination, her energy. And Nadine possessed none of those qualities.”

Susan sipped her coffee and didn’t say anything. She was thinking about a woman who could move up from poverty and create a successful statewide business in less than ten years-and leave her son living in a tiny apartment the entire time. Maybe it wasn’t so surprising that Donald had married a woman with less ambition.

“She’s also interested in gardening. Of course, she doesn’t have lots of time now, but when she retires, she’s planning on creating a vegetable-flower garden at her house-very Rosalind Creasy.”

“So she’s seen this?” Susan looked out the window and wondered if, perhaps, there was room for a rustic pergola in her backyard.

“Not yet, but she was in on the planning. She’s always saying she’ll stop by, but she’s a very busy woman and it’s difficult to get together. We keep in touch, but mostly by phone.”

Susan was reminded of the phone messages Donald’s mother had left for him. “Do you have any idea how she felt about Nadine?”

“She was much too diplomatic to make disparaging remarks in public but, as I said before, she thought Nadine was holding Donald back. The truth is, I got the impression that she wasn’t particularly impressed by her son’s choice of wife.”

“Did Nadine like her?”

Daria looked up and seemed to consider this question. “You, know, I’m not so sure. She never said anything negative about her mother-in-law per se-although she used to blame her for Donald’s many late nights of work. I always thought that was a bit odd.”

“Why?”

“Well, in the first place, all real estate agents work strange hours showing people homes. She should have known that when they got married, or at least adjusted to it over the years. And, to tell you the truth, I figured that Donald was happy to be working away from home. That way he didn’t have to waste his entire life listening to Nadine babble on and on.” Daria stood up. “I hate to be rude, but I’m teaching a class on bonsai at the New York Horticultural Society in a few hours and I need to shower and get into the city.”

Susan took the hint. “Of course. Thank you so much for taking the time to talk to me. I should leave anyway. I have other people to speak to-including your neighbor at number twenty-seven. I think her name is Sophie Kincaid. Will I find her house if I keep going on up this road?”

Daria laughed. “Oh, you’ll find her up the road, all right. But take everything she tells you with a big grain of salt.”

“Why?”

“I don’t listen to a whole lot of gossip, but it was hard to live in this town a few years ago without knowing that Sophie and Donald were a hot item.”

TWENTY

SUSAN HAD NO TROUBLE FINDING HER NEXT STOP: IT WAS less than a half mile away. She had spent the short drive contemplating how to bring up Donald’s name since ostensibly her purpose was to find out about Nadine. But nothing appropriate had come to her, and now she was here.

The Kincaid home was built in the same style as the one she had just left, but the white trim had been painted a dusky green and the foundation was planted with common evergreens. Susan parked, walked up the steps, and knocked on the front door.

It was opened so quickly that she couldn’t help but wonder if Sophie Kincaid had been waiting nearby, anticipating her approach.

“Hi,” Susan began.

“You must be Susan Henshaw. I’m Sophie Kincaid. Please come in and tell me how dear Donald is doing. I can’t tell you how worried I’ve been.”

Susan smiled and followed Sophie through the foyer and into her living room where a small plasma screen television had been hung in the place of honor over the formal fireplace. They continued on through what Susan assumed would be called the library (shelves and books lined the walls and a television was set upon a walnut console), to the media room (massive plasma screen television on one wall, a complicated looking music system on the other, CDs and DVDs everywhere), through the media room and into a playroom (toys of all shapes and sizes shared the room with a big screen television and a cabinet filled with more videotapes than she had ever seen collected in one place outside of Blockbuster Video), through the playroom and into a sunroom where a tiny white television was tucked on a shelf beneath a wrought iron table draped with a brightly striped tablecloth. Each room had been opulently decorated. She probably wouldn’t even have noticed the televisions if they hadn’t all been turned on.

Sophie Kincaid sat down on a couch upholstered in a brilliant tropical print and Susan perched on a chair nearby, a surfeit of pillows making it impossible for her to lean back comfortably.

“This is a huge house,” Susan said.

“Yes, six bedrooms, seven full baths.”

“Really? How many children do you have?”

“One. But he won’t bother us. He’s away at boarding school.”

Before Susan had an opportunity to comment on this, Sophia asked a question. “How is dear Donald holding up?”

“He seems to be fine.” The image of him jogging down the street popped into Susan’s mind.

“I’ve called and left messages, but he hasn’t called me back. I don’t blame him. I know he must be devastated, losing Nadine like that and now the police investigation into her death. It’s just too much for a sensitive man.”

“I’m sure it’s difficult-,” Susan began, but Sophie Kincaid raised one hand to shush her and reached for the remote control lying on the coffee table with the other.

“I have to watch this,” she said and turned up the volume.

Susan looked over her shoulder at the small television screen where a press conference was being held. A short dark-haired man leaned on a podium and answered questions about an international monetary fund for about three minutes until the shot changed to one of a perky anchorperson explaining that two of the most beautiful actors in Hollywood were getting a divorce and that interviews with both would be coming up momentarily.

“My husband,” Sophie stated, picking up the remote and turning it off.

Out of the corner of her eye, Susan saw the screen on the television in the playroom flicker and turn black. “Does that control two televisions?”

“Eleven. All the TVs in the house. It’s some sort of whole house system,” Sophie explained rather vaguely.

“And that was your husband?”

“Yes. He’s in Bruges… or maybe Zurich… or possibly Munich today. I can’t always keep up with his schedule.”

“What does he do?”

“He’s involved in international relations-banking. He works all over the world.” Sophie waved her hands in the air, perhaps to indicate her husband’s all encompassing job. “Right now he’s working for our government… I think… You know how it is-after you’ve been married for a while, you just don’t listen as closely as you once did.”

Susan nodded. She did know, although this woman’s ignorance seemed to be remarkably complete. “Does he travel a lot?” she asked.