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“Probably. But not because she was the jealous type or anything like that. She resented all the time he spent working. You would think any smart woman would know better than to criticize a man’s work. After all, how did she think Donald provided the lifestyle that she liked so much?” Sophie looked around her room with a satisfied expression on her face and Susan realized that this was a woman who wouldn’t make that particular mistake.

“When you called here, you said you were going to give a speech of some sort at Nadine’s funeral,” Sophie said.

“A eulogy at her memorial service,” Susan corrected.

“But we’ve been talking about Donald, not Nadine.”

“I know, but you-”

“You’re going to say that I brought up his name, aren’t you?”

“You did actually.”

“I know. I suppose you can tell that I’m nuts about him, can’t you?”

“I had sort of guessed that.”

“Yeah, I got a crush on him the moment we met. Unfortunately it was at his wedding to Nadine. My brother’s date dumped him and he asked me to fill in.” She shrugged. “Oh well, I met my husband a few months later and I think I’ve done okay for myself.”

“I can see that,” Susan agreed.

“Yes. I don’t believe a woman should be completely dependent on a man. My work for Donald gives me some outside interests and, of course, there are fringe benefits.” She smirked.

“You are having an affair with Donald.”

“Perhaps, but that’s not your business and I can’t imagine that that has anything to do with Nadine’s eulogy.”

“No, I can’t either,” Susan admitted. “But you might be careful about who you tell. After all, Nadine was murdered. Some people just might consider you to be a viable suspect.”

Sophie stood up. “Ignorant people might, but anyone who knows me would tell you that I know on which side my bread is buttered. And an international authority on almost anything is much more reliable than someone who speculates on real estate-and works for his mother.”

“I guess I’d better be going,” Susan said, getting up immediately. “Perhaps I’ll see you at Nadine’s memorial service.”

“Not me. I don’t go to memorial services for people I’d rather forget.”

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.