“And he did.”
“Yes and then she was killed.”
“Did he know who might have killed her?”
“He says no.”
“Does he think she might have asked someone else to end her life and set this whole thing up?’
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think he would talk to me?”
“I don’t know that either.”
NINETEEN
DESPITE HER INTERRUPTED NIGHT’S SLEEP, SUSAN WAS ON the road by ten the next morning. She had gotten up early and, after making a dozen phone calls, had found three people who were willing to “contribute” to the eulogy she claimed to be writing. Among those three were two women who were the Baineses’ former next-door neighbors. She was going to see them first.
Sheets of paper printed from MapQuest’s Web site had slipped from the passenger’s seat to the floor when she braked suddenly to avoid a large purple tractor trailer that had swerved into her lane, but she was fairly sure of her route. Before moving to Hancock the Baines had lived near the border that Connecticut shared with Westchester County, New York. It was a rural area and Susan was enjoying the meandering roads when she spied a familiar name on a street sign. Brampton Lane. She turned right onto a narrow road. On her left, a stream twinkled in the midday light, the first wild greens of spring lining its banks. On the right, walls of stone and wooden fences protected homes worth millions of dollars. Many of the homes bore elegant names; some displayed street numbers as well. She was looking for number twenty-three. One hundred and nine… Ninety-nine… Eighty-seven… A long row of houses without apparent numbers… Thirty-three… Thirteen… Susan slammed on the brakes. She’d missed it!
A loud blast came from the green BMW behind her and she reluctantly put her foot on the accelerator. Brampton Lane was too narrow for a U-turn. She drove slowly and wasn’t surprised when the car zoomed around her, honking loudly. She ignored the driver’s incredibly rude gesture and searched for a driveway to turn around in.
Brampton Lane ended abruptly and Susan found herself facing a stone mansion and the choice of turning either right or left onto Fern Lane. She frowned, glanced in her rearview mirror, and made an illegal U-turn. She watched for number thirteen and saw that there was a long driveway after the white colonial that carried that unlucky number and before number thirty-three. She turned, discovered what she had mistaken for a driveway was actually a private road leading to four large homes. It appeared to be some sort of development. All the houses were colonial style, all were brick with white trim, all had been built within the last few years, and all were massive with wings extending in numerous directions and four- or five-car garages peeking out from behind. And, happily, they all had mailboxes on the street-numbered mailboxes! She realized she was about to pass number twenty-three, made a sharp right between tall brick pillars, and drove up a wide brick driveway. Two chocolate labs appeared around the corner of the house and dashed across the lawn, barking happily. A tall redheaded woman wearing black wool slacks spattered with soil and a bright Dale of Norway ski sweater followed the dogs.
“Don’t worry. They’re friendly,” she called out as Susan pulled her car over and stopped.
Susan took her at her word and got out to greet the animals and their owner.
“You must be Daria Woods.”
“And you must be Susan Henshaw. Come into the house. I’m dying for some coffee… unless you would prefer tea?”
Susan followed her hostess up the brick steps and into a large two-story marble-floored foyer. One of the biggest crystal chandeliers she had ever seen dominated the space. The owner kicked her muddy shoes off and tossed them into a corner where a few similar pairs lay as the dogs slid around on the floor’s slippery surface. She padded across the room in her socks. “Do you garden?” she asked.
Susan thought of the crew of men who appeared at her home weekly when the weather was good and trimmed, mowed, and filled her beds with annuals. “A little,” she said, although she was in the position of directing rather than doing any actual tilling of the soil.
“I love it. In fact, the opportunity to have a big garden was the only reason I agreed to buy this hideous McMansion.”
Susan looked around. “You don’t like this house?”
“Hate it. It’s too big, too pretentious, too formal, too… well, I could go on forever. But it’s my husband’s dream home and the grounds were exactly what I wanted. Tea or coffee?” she asked as they entered the kitchen.
“Coffee, please. This is amazing.” The kitchen was exactly what Susan expected from the outside of the house-large, filled with the latest appliances set in the midst of hand-painted and glazed tiles, granite countertops, custom-made cabinets, designer lighting. The back wall had been removed and a sunroom, lined with metal shelves, had been added on to the house. It brought sunlight into the room and displayed an extensive collection of bonsai.
“We lived in an apartment in the city for twenty-seven years. This was my only garden during that time. Now I’m expanding a bit.” She pointed outside and Susan realized that the backyard, easily two acres, was almost entirely cultivated. Hundreds of early small bulbs were blooming in the flower beds with the foliage from thousands of others pushing through the surface of the soil. Rose bushes had been cut to the ground to winter over and delicate shrubs were wrapped in burlap to protect them from the bitter Connecticut winter. Dried vines twined around rustic wood arbors and a knot garden was right outside the kitchen door.
“I’d love to see this in the summer,” Susan said.
“Perhaps we’ll get along this morning and I’ll invite you back in a few months. Although I must warn you that if you and Nadine were good friends, I don’t imagine we’ll be particularly compatible.” Daria was busy at the counter grinding coffee beans and Susan couldn’t see her face.
“I gather you didn’t like her,” Susan said, examining an elegant tiny split leaf Japanese maple.
“She was my next-door neighbor. I was determined to get along with her-and I did-but, no, I didn’t like her. She was too much like this house for my taste.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Pretentious. It was all show with that woman. Nothing underneath the surface, no root system.” She put a steaming coffeepot and mugs down on the table. “Have a seat. Cream?”
“No, black is fine.” Susan sat down and decided to be honest. “I didn’t like her either.”
“So why are you giving a eulogy at her memorial service?”
“Two reasons: the first is not one I’m proud of-I’m one of those people who has trouble refusing any request. And the other reason is that I’m… uh, interested in finding out more about Nadine and this was an opportunity to talk with people who knew her.”
“Why?
“She was my next-door neighbor too,” Susan began.
“So I think you’d be glad to get rid of her. If I was looking for her killer, I’d look at the people who live nearby-unless she had changed a lot since leaving here.”
“Why?”
“Oh, nothing horrible-unless you value your sanity and your privacy. The woman was an egocentric pest.”
“Did she come over and sit in your kitchen all day long too?”
“No, but only because I don’t sit in my kitchen all day long. When I’m home, I’m usually outside and the rest of the time I teach classes at various garden centers. But Nadine did seem to feel that I was just what she was looking for whenever I went out to work in my garden.”
“What do you think she was looking for?”
“An audience. When we first moved out from the city I thought she was lonely and I put up with her constant dropping in.”
“I did, too. I mean, when she moved to Hancock that’s the way it was.”