TWENTY-ONE

SUSAN SOON REALIZED HOW LUCKY SHE HAD BEEN THAT HER first two interviews had been located on the same street.

Immediately after leaving Brampton Lane she became thoroughly lost. She thought she could call for directions, but discovered that she couldn’t get service in this part of the state. Positive she was heading east, she drove into New York State. Turning around, she ended up repeating the route she had just traveled. It was simply dumb luck that she made enough wrong turns to arrive at her intended destination-the home of Edith Kraus, a woman who sounded almost eager to speak with her on the phone.

She was over an hour late. And starving. The scent of baking bread drifting out of the open window of the house before her made her mouth water. She parked her car on the edge of the white pebble driveway and considered her options. She had passed a McDonald’s earlier today. Perhaps she should try to find it and eat before continuing. Perhaps she shouldn’t even continue. She’d learned a lot-the connection between the Perry Island Care Center and the Baineses must be significant. Maybe she should just go home, get something to eat, play with her grandchildren, and consider what she had learned.

Or maybe she would greet the woman who had just opened the front door and beg for something to eat.

Edith Kraus approached the car, both hands extended in welcome. “Susan Henshaw. I’ve always wanted to meet you.” In jeans and a cotton turtleneck with a well-worn cashmere sweater tied around her shoulders and the type of exotic earrings that Susan sometimes bought but was too self-conscious to wear, the woman was smiling.

“I… Really?”

“Heavens yes. I’ve read about you for years and I’ve often wondered how you do what you do. And why.”

Susan, fortunately, didn’t have to answer.

“But it’s chilly out here. Please come inside. I was just fixing myself some lunch and I was hoping for company. You’ll join me?”

“Do I smell homemade bread?”

“And chowder, walnut and orange salad, and my very best lemon pound cake for dessert.”

“Sounds like heaven,” Susan said, smiling widely.

“Good. Come on in.”

She followed her hostess up the path to the front door of a gleaming white Cape Cod cottage. They entered a compact living room dominated by a brick fireplace in which a small fire crackled. Sun streamed through multipaned windows onto wide chestnut floorboards and worn silky Oriental prayer rugs. The furniture was old and looked as though it had been chosen for comfort rather than style. Bowls of blooming blue muscari were a reminder that spring was on the way. “This is wonderful,” Susan exclaimed.

“Thank you. I’ve lived in many places over the years and this one suits me best. Sit down and I’ll get our lunch.”

“May I help?” Susan offered, hoping for a glimpse of the rest of the house.

“Of course. The kitchen is this way.”

Susan and her hostess passed through a narrow hallway into a tiny old-fashioned kitchen. Cupboards covered with many layers of paint hung on the walls. Blue and white Delft tiles formed the backsplash. Two loaves of bread were cooling on a stained Formica counter and steam was rising from a cast iron soup pot simmering on an old gas stove. “I just have to finish up the salad,” Edith said. “You can wash the lettuce.” She pulled a head of Boston Bibb from the hydrator.

“Okay. Do you have a salad spinner?”

“I’m the old-fashioned type. I use dishtowels.” She pulled out a linen cloth, soft from years of wear, and handed it to Susan.

With both women working, the meal was ready in minutes. At Edith’s suggestion they set up a drop leaf table in the living room and sat down in front of the fire to eat.

“This is absolutely delicious,” Susan said when she had wolfed down about half of her meal.

“You were hungry.”

“I was starving. And you’re a wonderful cook.”

“It’s fun to cook for someone other than myself. And I’ve never had a famous detective visit before.”

“I’m not famous-or a real detective either,” Susan protested.

“Newspaper stories about the crimes you’ve solved have been amusing me for years. I assume you’re looking into who killed Nadine Baines now?”

“Yes,” Susan said. “I know I told you that I was here collecting information about Nadine’s life for the speech I’m giving at her memorial service…”

Edith put down her butter knife and nodded. “But it’s just an excuse.”

“Yes. Although I do have to think of something to say at the service.”

“Say she was a fine neighbor and a good friend and be done with it. Most people will probably attend out of curiosity rather than an honest desire to honor her memory-poor woman.” Edith bit into another slice of bread.

“Why do you call her that? Did you like her?”

“No, but I felt sorry for her. She had no resources, no interests, and that made her vulnerable. And boring, of course.”

“How did you know her?” Susan asked.

“She and Donald used to own this house. I rented it from them-at an exorbitant price, I must add-for years until they decided to finally allow me to buy it.”

“They owned this house?” Susan looked around. “It’s not at all like their home in Hancock.”

“It’s not at all like the home they lived in here. And it wasn’t like this when I moved in. They had the whole place tarted up-gingham curtains, statues of roosters scattered about, and all sorts of fake colonial touches. They didn’t touch the basic structure though-for which I’m grateful. I don’t imagine this house suited them very well. They were much more comfortable in the big place they built over there.” She nodded toward the window and Susan spied a large mansion through the trees.

“That looks like the houses I was in this morning,” Susan said.

“That’s not surprising. It’s the first house built in Donald’s first development. You see, he bought this house for the land and then, after getting the town’s approval-and I’ll never know just how that happened-he built seven houses on the property. When you called, you said you were talking to former neighbors. I’ve been wondering who-besides me, of course-agreed to speak with you.”

Susan was still puzzling over what she was hearing. “The people I spoke with live on Brampton Lane.”

“That’s the house at the top of Brampton. Donald had his own built first and then the rest of them were constructed, starting at his house and then going right down to the road.”

“ Brampton Lane? I talked to Sophie Kincaid and Daria Woods. Is that really the same Brampton Lane?”

“Yes.”

“Then why did it take me over an hour to travel from there to here?”

“You went by car. On foot you would have made it in less than five minutes.”

Susan shook her head. “I knew I was lost, but I had no idea how lost.”

“The roads around here aren’t well marked.”

“I guess. How long have you lived here?”

“Almost ten years. I moved in right after my divorce. I rented for six years and this place has been mine for the last four.”

“Whose idea was it for you to buy this place? Donald’s or yours?”

“I wanted to buy it as soon as I saw it, but Donald wasn’t interested in selling. I knew he was developing other homes in the area, and just hoped that eventually he would lose interest in this place and sell it to me and that’s the way it worked out.”

“Did you get the impression that he needed the cash?”

Edith thought about that for a minute or two. “Probably. He came over here one Saturday afternoon and told me he was interested in selling and named an outrageously high price. And I paid it. In cash.”

“Why?”

“I love this house and I could afford to pay what he was asking. And it was worth it-not just to get the house, but to be relieved of the worry that Donald would turn me out once my lease was up, tear this place down and replace it with one of those pretentious houses he’s so fond of.”