“And you never even heard the name Eleanor Drummond before?”
“No, ma’am, I never. Like I said.”
“Was Mr. Griffin a part of your life?”
“Oh, no, ma’am. Molly hated old Robert Griffin. I never thought there was enough of him to make any difference.”
“How do you mean?”
“He wasn’t much of a human being, one way or another.”
“He certainly had an impact on her,” said Miranda. Victoria suddenly became wary.
“All this,” said Miranda, indicating their surroundings.
“Don’t you believe it. This was Molly Bray’s doing. From the time she was sixteen she was who she was. This is what she set out to make for herself.”
“Tell me about Jill.”
“She’s sleeping now, or as good as asleep.”
“What’s she like?”
“She’s family, Miss Quin. Family is family.”
“And was Molly Bray family?”
“Well, she was and she wasn’t. She was Jill’s momma, and Jill is my very own child, like the child of my womb. We loved her no matter what, so I guess we were all family.”
Miranda picked up on the phrase “no matter what.”
“Was she difficult sometimes?”
“Jill or Molly? Molly wasn’t difficult, Detective. Distracted maybe. Sometimes Molly Bray was, like, here and not here.”
“Distracted?”
“Like she was following another agenda, you might say. You know, in her head. She was a loving mother. She was my very good friend. Nobody should die so young. Nobody should die if they can help it.”
“I’ll call in to see Jill in the morning,” said Miranda, getting up and moving through the central hallway toward the panelled vestibule by the front door.
“It’s Saturday tomorrow. She’ll be here. She went to school today. I wanted her to stay home, but she’s headstrong like her mother. She was going, and that was that.”
Miranda noticed the rug in the vestibule. It was like one of Morgan’s, a Gabbeh, a thick weave from Anatolia done with old-style vegetal dyes. She could hear his voice, expounding. “It’s a Gabbeh,” she said. “The rug’s very beautiful. It fits in perfectly.”
“Maybe so. I don’t know about Gabbeh. It’s the last thing she did, buying that, the last thing to make this house like it is.”
Before leaving, Miranda had reached out and given the woman’s hand a reassuring squeeze.
“Now don’t you fret, Detective, and I won’t worry too much myself, just enough. Jill and I, we’ll manage fine.”
Now, the next morning, at the large front door with a full night’s sleep behind her, Miranda felt good about coming back to see the girl. For now Miranda was content with getting to know this strange woman-child who, like herself, was a link between Molly Bray and Eleanor Drummond, and who was virtually, as events were unfolding, Miranda’s ward.
Jill came to the door and opened it wide. She welcomed Miranda with a flourish, then turned and walked purposefully toward the kitchen. Miranda followed, thinking the outfit Jill was wearing, prescribed to make young girls feel sexy, made her look as if she were playing dress-up — pretending to be women without quite developing the knack.
“Hello, Victoria,” Miranda said when they reached the kitchen. “Good morning.”
“Good morning, Lady Detective. We’re just having breakfast. Pancakes or French toast?”
“Scrambled eggs,” said Jill. “Let’s have scrambled eggs and brown toast and coffee.”
“You don’t drink coffee,” said Victoria matter-offactly. “You can pour Miss Quin a cup. We’re having French toast.”
After breakfast, Miranda and Jill sat out on the front steps. A few people strolled by, walking dogs, exchanging pleasantries as they passed one another without stopping.
“How are you doing?” Miranda asked.
“I don’t like my mom being dead.”
Miranda waited.
“She left me. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I’ve got to look after Victoria. Do you know that she’s got three kids in Barbados? They live with her mother, and she sends them money, but they’d rather live here. She’s going to go back some day and be a family again.” The girl looked resigned. There was nothing to count on for certain, not in the end.
“Jill, we’ll have to talk about your mother’s funeral.”
“I told you, I don’t want a funeral. There’s no one but us.”
“We could have her cremated and just have the ashes placed in a vault.”
“Do they make little vaults just for ashes?”
“I don’t know. I’ll make the arrangements. Do you want to speak to a minister, or have someone say a few words?”
“Who? About what? That’s not my mother at the morgue.”
“Because she’s Eleanor Drummond?”
“It’s Eleanor Drummond’s remains, and it’s my mother’s remains.” She looked up into Miranda’s eyes ingenuously. “Will they need two caskets?”
Miranda blanched.
“My mom’s gone. I want to forget that she’s dead. No funeral, no words over ashes, no fuss. Please, okay?”
“Forgetting’s not easy, Jill. And maybe not right.”
“I don’t want to think about dead!” She took a deep breath. “Not a dead body, a corpse, a cadaver, ashes formerly known as …” Miranda put her arm lightly over the girl’s shoulders, but Jill sat upright, untouched. “I just want her to be inside my head. You know what I mean?”
Miranda understood. She remembered when her father died, trying in bed to summon up good memories only, or to avoid him entirely in the dark. She couldn’t bear images of absolute stillness, silence, and decomposition.
Thinking about murder victims, Miranda tried to maintain the fine line between clinical disinterest and common humanity, a line occasionally erased by a personal detail, an imaginative leap, and then there was loneliness in the dead of night and fear that was both visceral swarming through her mind.
“That pin you were wearing …” she said to Jill.
“At the morgue?”
“You said your mother gave it to you.”
“Why are you asking?”
“It was pretty.”
“Yes. She didn’t like fish, but she liked the design.”
“How did you know what kind it was?”
“A Shiro Utsuri? She told me.”
“Jill, did you know Robert Griffin?”
“No.”
“Does the name seem familiar?”
“I’ve heard it. Like, that’s where they found my mom. At his place.”
“Did