“Goodness, where are my manners? Come in! I’ll put the kettle on.”
As he followed her inside, he scanned the stuffy little house with a cop’s practised eye. One could tell a great deal about a person by analyzing her surroundings. Despite the gin and her slightly manic air, Marilyn’s house was well kept. The furniture was clear, the dishes washed, the tables dusted. There were no telltale glasses or bottles littered about.
“I’m doing okay,” she said, as if she had read his mind. She stood at the kitchen tap, filling the kettle. “I know you’re worried about me. But … I need to make a new life. Get out of the house, get involved in things. There’s a marvellous group of women in the village and they’ve been after me to join their book club and their walking club. The Navan Streetwalkers, they call themselves. Isn’t that a hoot?”
She plugged the kettle in and fetched two cups from the drainboard. “I’d never got involved before because I had Luke and, well, my focus was him. He wasn’t one for going out, and toward the end, I didn’t like to leave him just to go out with the girls. But now I’m free to —” She broke off and looked up at him with glistening eyes. “That sounds dreadful. I didn’t mean …”
“I know what you meant. I’ve seen a lot of people coping with grief, Marilyn. You’re doing better than most.”
“I’ve had practice. One foot in front of the other, I always say. There are so many things waiting to be done. I haven’t read a book in years! Luke liked the telly. And I thought I’d try my hand at painting again. There’s a marvellous arts and crafts fair here in the spring if I can still paint a decent tree.” She laughed and rolled her eyes. “The truck is my friend Laura’s. She’s going to help me clear out Luke’s things. For a man who barely had two pennies to rub together, he accumulated masses of stuff. Besides his clothes, there are his sports and woodworking magazines, catalogues, and oh! The basement! I haven’t even begun that. That was his private space, and his workshop is full of tools and half-finished projects. I don’t think he finished half the things he started! Birdhouses, jewellery boxes, and dollhouse furniture for the girls … I’ll have to sort it out and figure out what to toss and what to donate. I was thinking of a yard sale in the spring with some of the things I don’t need. I could bring in some money and get rid of a lot of clutter in one fell swoop.”
She paused to catch her breath and to pour water into the teapot. Once the tray was loaded, she picked it up and headed for the living room.
A question danced at the corner of his mind, unapproachable. The last time he’d checked, the Carmichaels had not yet parted with a single memento of Jackie’s life. They had preserved her small bedroom as a memorial, complete with her linen on the bed, her college texts on the desk, and her Blue Rodeo and Sarah McLachlan posters on the walls. From the living room, Green could just see the closed bedroom door at the far end of the hall, leaving him to wonder if it remained untouched to this day.
An ordeal far greater than clearing out Lucas’s workshop.
Instead, he followed her lead. “It will be good to give the place a new look. Fresh paint, new furniture.”
“You won’t recognize the place.” She set the tea on the table and sank onto the loveseat, caressing the rough, worn brocade. “Luke loved this old sofa, always said it knew just where to give and where to fight back. He said it would be like throwing out an old friend. But it’s past done its job now. In fact, maybe this weary little house has done its job.”
Green, who had been fighting a broken coil in the chair seat opposite, looked up sharply. “You’re thinking of selling?”
“Yes, maybe. I’ve had a real estate agent through it already, just to see what he thinks I could get. I was pleasantly surprised. The house itself is worth very little, he said, but the land might appeal to a developer. Who knew when we bought this little patch of forest in the back of beyond that the city would be lapping at our toes one day, and all this rock and maple bush might be in demand for houses. ‘All the beauty of the country — at an affordable price, within twenty minutes’ drive of the city,’ the real estate agent said.” She grinned at him with a twinkle in her eye. “Twenty minutes in the dead of night perhaps, as long as you boys in blue don’t catch them streaking along the deserted Queensway.”
“How much property do you have?”
“Eight acres.” She shook her head as she poured the tea, remembering to place a sliver of lemon on his saucer. “I hate to see it overrun with bulldozers and cement, but the money … well, I could certainly use it. Not that I’ve breathed a word to the children yet. They’re eager enough to get their hands on the money. I told them I’m making friends and it’s my home, which is true.”
“Don’t rush into anything, Marilyn. Take your time. Whatever you do, don’t let a real estate agent talk you into putting it on the market until you’re absolutely certain. And I … I have some ideas I’d like to check out first.”
“Why? You fancy moving out here?”
He laughed. “No, not me. You know me and the country. My city lawn is already a challenge.”
She eyed him keenly over the rim of her raised teacup. “Oh, all right then, be mysterious. What did you come all the way out here for then? Certainly not to hear my singing.”
“I came to reassure you about James Rosten. I paid him a visit. He won’t be writing any more letters to you, or to Julia.”
“Oh!” She set her cup down hastily and clasped her hands together. “Thank you.” She breathed deeply as if wrestling back memories. “I suppose I should ask how he is.”
“You don’t have to do anything. You owe him nothing.”
“I know. How is he?”
“Still in a wheelchair but quite mobile. He’s working in the prison school, keeping to himself but out of trouble. In short, a model prisoner. Just one small flaw; he won’t face up to his past. At least that keeps him behind bars.”
Green was silent a half second too long. She jerked her head up. “It will keep him behind bars, won’t it?”
“Probably. He is scheduled for a routine parole review in a couple of months, and it’s possible, depending on what he says —”
“He wouldn’t be sent to a halfway house around here, surely!”
He held up a placating hand as he saw her indignation gathering steam. “No. But it won’t come to that. He will almost certainly say the wrong thing.”
“Holy Jumpin’, Sue! The place looks like it died and went to house hell twenty years ago!”
Detective Sue Peters stepped out into the soggy leaves and melting snow and eyed the bungalow at the end of the lane. Bob was right; it was a sorry sight. Way too small for the four kids she hoped to have; boxy and toad-like, with grimy peepholes for windows and a cracked cement porch that listed with age. Even the brick was ugly. Not the rich red of premium heritage brick, but the grey, second-class brick of the working class.
She and fellow detective Bob Gibbs had spent most of their days off since their honeymoon searching for the perfect house. Having grown up on a farm, Sue longed for wide-open fields, bridle paths, and a swimming hole for those hot summer nights. But Bob had never known a yard bigger than a postage stamp. He couldn’t imagine living deep in the country, and, besides, as Major Crimes detectives, they couldn’t afford an hour-long commute to headquarters in case of emergencies or overtime. The Village of Navan seemed like the perfect compromise.
When Inspector Green had mentioned the hilltop country house overlooking eight acres of rolling fields and woodland, Sue had pictured whispering trees, sunlit meadows, and a gingerbread cabin by the creek, not this plain little box. The