Rose was on the front passenger side and she turned to look at Mr. P. “Where do you think we should start?” she asked.
I shifted in my seat to survey the area. The houses were a mix of small bungalows and equally tiny Cape Cod–style houses and there were large trees along both sides of the narrow street. It was a beautiful neighborhood.
Diagonally across the street from us, a gray Cape Cod with sea blue shutters caught my eye. “May I make a suggestion?” I asked.
“Of course,” Mr. P. said.
“I think you should start with the gray house across the street.”
They both turned for a look and then Rose looked at me again. “Why there?” she asked.
“Because I just saw a man with a little kid head into the backyard and I’m pretty sure I know him.”
“Splendid!” Mr. P. said from the backseat.
“I’m almost certain it’s Paul Duvall,” I said. “He was friends with Josh when we were kids. He’d be a couple of years younger than I am. He’s a townie.”
Josh was Josh Evans, a local lawyer who had helped us out a couple of times. He’d grown up in North Harbor just a few houses from my grandmother’s, which was how we’d gotten to know each other, even though I was just a summer kid.
Rose frowned. “Tall and skinny? Delivered the newspaper?”
I nodded. “That’s Paul.”
“He had lovely manners as I remember,” she said approvingly. She looked from me to Alfred. “Everyone ready?”
We climbed out of the SUV. Rose patted her white hair and smoothed the front of her skirt. She reached over to adjust Mr. P.’s collar, giving me a quick appraising look as she did so. I had changed out of my jeans into a pair of gray pants and my favorite black boots. Rose didn’t say anything, so I assumed she’d decided I looked presentable.
We crossed the street and followed the interlocking brick path around the side of the house to the backyard. It was deeper than I expected, rimmed with evergreen trees that provided lots of privacy.
Paul was pushing a blond, curly-haired little girl on a swing. He frowned, squinting as he first caught sight of us, and then the frown turned to a smile. “Sarah?” he said.
I nodded, returning the smile.
He said something to the little girl, then came around the swing set and met me in the middle of the lawn.
“Josh told me you were living here now,” he said. “The repurpose store about halfway up the hill—it’s yours?”
“It is,” I said. I had to look up to meet his gaze. He was easily a good six inches taller than my five foot six, towering over me even with the extra couple of inches my boots gave me. He was wearing glasses with thin wire frames, and his egg-shaped head was shaved smooth. He still had the same intelligent blue eyes behind those glasses.
I looked around. “How long have you been here? I thought you were in Oregon.”
“We were,” Paul said. “We’ve been back about three months and we moved into this house about six weeks ago.” He half turned and smiled at the tiny blonde slipping off the swing. “That’s Alyssa.”
The preschooler ran over to us, stopping beside her father. She looked up at me, curiosity in her blue eyes that mirrored her father’s. “My name is Alyssa,” she said. “What’s yours?”
I leaned forward and smiled at her. “My name is Sarah.”
“Sarah and I were friends when I was a little boy,” Paul told her.
“That’s a long ago time,” she said, the expression on her tiny face grave.
Paul laughed, smoothing a hand over his scalp. “That it was.”
Alyssa turned her attention to Rose and Mr. P. “Are they your mommy and daddy?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “They’re my friends, Mrs. Jackson and Mr. Peterson.” I looked at Paul. “Actually we were hoping you could answer a couple of questions for us about the house across the street.”
Alyssa had let go of her father’s leg. She walked over and looked up at Mr. P., tipping her blond head to one side. “Are you a papa?” she asked.
“Yes, I am,” he said.
“Can you push me on my swing?”
“Alyssa,” Paul said, a slight edge of warning in his voice.
She glanced back at her father for a brief moment. “Please?” she said. She reached for Mr. P.’s hand and gave him a smile that I knew I wouldn’t have been able to resist.
“I’d love to,” he said, clearly enchanted by her. He looked at Paul. “As long as your daddy says it’s okay.”
“It’s okay,” Paul said.
“I like to go high,” I heard Alyssa say as she pulled Mr. P. across the grass.
Paul shook his head. “Sometimes I think she’ll run the world someday.”
“Then it will be in good hands,” Rose said. She smiled at Paul. “You probably don’t remember, but you were my paperboy a good many years ago.”
“I do remember, Mrs. Jackson,” he said, his blue eyes twinkling. “You made the best oatmeal cookies with raisins and walnuts. You used to leave a couple in a little bag on the doorknob for me every Saturday.”
Rose beamed back at him. “And you never just threw the paper on the lawn. You always put it between the doors.”
Paul laughed. “Well, I have to admit those cookies were a pretty good incentive.” He looked over at the swings where Alyssa and Mr. P. were talking as he pushed her.
His gaze came back to me. “You said you had some questions, Sarah, about the Hall place across the street?” He swiped a hand across his mouth. “The police have already been here asking questions. You know someone found a body over there?”
I nodded. “I’m the one who found it.”
His eyes widened. “You did? Wait a minute, you’re the people who are going to clear out the house?”
“Yes. The family hired us.”
He looked past us toward the street. “I didn’t make the connection. I’m sorry.”
“Paul, Rose and Mr. Peterson are private investigators. They’re looking in to what happened.”
If Paul was surprised, it didn’t show.
“Did you see anything?” Rose asked. “Or anyone hanging around that you hadn’t seen in the neighborhood before?”
Paul shook his head. “I’m sorry. We weren’t even here most of that day. We drove down to Portland to see my sister and we stayed the night. My wife had a meeting.”
“What about the week before? Did you see anyone then?”
“No, I mean except for Ethan Hall and the man who died—Quinn, I think his name was.”
I nodded but didn’t say anything.
“I saw them several times in the past couple of weeks.” He ran his hand over his smooth scalp again. “I’m sorry I can’t tell you anything that will help.”
“It’s all right,” Rose said.
He looked over at his daughter and Mr. P. again. “It’s a pretty quiet neighborhood. That’s one of the reasons we bought this house. You could talk to Sharon Marshall, the blue house across the street. She’s been around a lot more in the last six weeks. She had hip replacement surgery. I’m not sure if she’s home right now. She has physio a couple of mornings a week.” He bent down to pick up a lime green pail and shovel on the grass at his feet. “Although I think if she’d seen anyone around other than Ethan, Mr. Quinn or the recyclers, she would have mentioned it.” He straightened up and smiled at us.
“Recyclers?” I said.
“That’s what we call the trash pickers. It’s just a nicer word. I don’t want Alyssa to think reusing things is a bad idea.”
Rose and I exchanged a look. “Who exactly are these recyclers?” I asked.
“It’s just one, really,” Paul said, brushing a clump of mud off the side of the little pail. “I saw her a couple of times the week before last, you know, when it was the spring-cleaning pickup.”
Once a year North Harbor did a recycling and garbage pickup. There were rules about what could be put out at the curb, but in theory if two people could move it, the town would pick it up to be either recycled or taken to the landfill. In practice, most things didn’t spend very long curbside and didn’t usually end up at the recycling center or the landfill, either. People came from other towns to cruise around looking for freebies.