Olivia reached out to squeeze her hand. "How sweet and understanding you are. The passing of Lewis, Sol Guthrie, and Father Brian were sorrows I thought would destroy me. But then I realized that one cannot mourn forever. Does that sound cruel and heartless?"
"Of course not."
"One must continue to cope with life, the problems of the present, and worries for the future." She picked up the half-eaten croissant and finished it. "You told me you have no children?"
"That's correct."
Mrs. Starrett sighed deeply. "They are a blessing and a burden. Have you heard about Clayton? And Eleanor?"
"Heard about them? No, ma'am, I've heard nothing."
Olivia, alternately dabbing at her eyes and taking teeny bites of a fresh pastry, told Dora of her son's impending divorce.
"Eleanor has already moved out," she said.
Then she spoke of Clayton's plan to marry Helene Pierce.
"Much too young for him, I feel," she said. "But I do so want a grandchild. Father Callaway, the last time I saw him, told me I am not being selfish."
"He was right," Dora said. "You're not."
"Still…" Olivia said, and looked about vaguely. "Sometimes it is difficult knowing the right thing to do. Young people are so independent these days. They think because you are old you must necessarily be senile."
"You are not old, Mrs. Starrett, and you are certainly not senile."
"Thank you, my dear. You are such a comfort. Sit with me a while longer, will you?"
"Of course. As long as you like."
"I could never talk to Lewis. Never. Not about important things. He thought I was just chattering on. And he would grunt. I love Clayton, of course. He is my son. But I can't talk to him either. Clayton is lacking. There is no depth to him. I love depth in people, but Clayton is not a serious man. He floats through life. He has never been a leader. Sometimes he lacks sense. Eleanor knew that when she married him. Perhaps that's why she married him."
Dora listened to this rambling with shocked fascination. Shocked because she suddenly realized that Mrs. Olivia Starrett was not a flibbertigibbet, not just a soft, garrulous matron. There was a hard spine of shrewdness in her. Despite her religiosity she saw things clearly. She had depth and had been married to a man who grunted.
"Felicia…" Mrs. Starrett maundered on. "So unlucky with men. A pattern there. She has taste in clothes, music, art. But not in men. There her taste deserts her. All her beaux have been unsatisfactory. Weaklings or cads. I could see it. Everyone could see it. But not Felicia. The poor thing. So eager. Too eager. Now she is running after Turner Pierce. Oh yes, I know. A man much younger than she. It is not seemly." Her gaze suddenly sharpened. She stared at Dora sternly. "Do you agree?"
"You're right," Dora said hastily. "It's not seemly."
"You are such a bright, levelheaded young lady."
"Thank you, Mrs. Starrett."
"I wish you'd talk to Felicia."
Dora was startled. "Talk to her?"
"About her life, the way she's wasting it."
"But I'm not a close friend."
"My daughter has no close friends," Olivia said sadly. "Not even me. Perhaps she'll listen to you."
"But what could I possibly say to her?"
"Offer advice. Give her the benefit of your experience. Try to steady her down. Felicia has these wild mood swings. Sometimes she frightens me."
"Mrs. Starrett, she may need professional help. A psychotherapist."
"It may come to that," Olivia said somberly, "but not yet, not yet. Oh, she is such a desperate girl. Desperate! But she will not discuss her problems with me. And she refused to talk to Father Callaway. But you are near her age. Perhaps she will confide in you, and you may be able to help her. Will you try?"
"If you want me to," Dora said doubtfully, "but she may resent my prying into her personal affairs."
"She may, but please try. I know she is unhappy, and this business with Turner Pierce worries me. Felicia has been hurt so many times; I don't want her to be hurt again."
"All right, Mrs. Starrett, I'll try."
"It's my family," the older woman said fiercely, "and I must do everything I can to protect them. Even if I think them stupid or wrong, even if they cause me pain, I must protect my children. You do understand that, don't you?"
"Of course," Dora said, rising. "Thank you for giving me so much of your time. I wanted to express personally my condolences at Father Callaway's passing."
"It was sweet of you, and I appreciate it."
"Mrs. Starrett, did Eleanor leave an address or telephone number where she can be reached?"
"She's staying with friends. Charles has the address and phone number. He'll give them to you."
"Thank you. And I'll try to set up a meeting with Felicia."
Mrs. Starrett turned her head away and stared at the thin winter light at the window. "She didn't come home last night," she said in a whispery voice.
No one awaited Dora in the foyer, so she walked back to the kitchen. Charles and Clara Hawkins were seated at an enameled table, drinking coffee and sharing a plate of what appeared to be oatmeal cookies. Houseman and cook looked up when Dora entered.
"Good afternoon," Dora said briskly."Mrs. Starrett said you could give me the telephone number for Mrs. Eleanor Starrett."
Charles nodded and stood up slowly.'T'll fetch it," he said, and left the kitchen. Dora figured he was going to get Olivia's approval before handing over the phone number.
"How are you today, Clara?" she asked brightly.
"Surviving," the woman said, and Dora decided this had to be the most lugubrious couple she had ever met. She wondered if husband and wife ever laughed or even smiled, and she tried to imagine what their sex life must be like. She couldn't.
"Clara," she said, "Detective John Wenden told me you think the eight-inch chefs knife disappeared during the cocktail party on the night Mr. Lewis Starrett was killed. Do you have any idea who might have taken it?"
"No."
"I'm not asking if you know definitely who took it. I don't want you to accuse anyone. I'm just curious about who might have taken it."
Clara stared up at her, and Dora saw again that discernible mustache and couldn't understand why in the world this dour woman didn't do something about it. A daily shave, for instance.
"I don't name no names," the cook said sullenly.
Dora sighed. "All right," she said, "I'll name the names. You just shake your head no or nod your head yes. Okay?"
Nod.
"Was it Clayton Starrett?"
Shake.
"Eleanor Starrett?"
Shake.
"Felicia Starrett?"
Shake.
"Helene Pierce?"
Shake.
"Turner Pierce?"
Shake.
"Father Brian Callaway?"
Nod.
Charles came back into the kitchen, carrying a scrap of paper. He looked at his wife accusingly. "You been shooting off your mouth again?" he demanded.
"She hasn't said a word," Dora told him. "I've been doing all the talking, about what a great chef my husband is."
"She talks too much," he grumbled, and handed over the slip of paper. "That's Mrs. Eleanor's phone number and address. West Side," he added snifiily.
"Thank you, Charles," Dora said. "Now would you get my hat and coat, please; I'm leaving. Nice to see you again, Clara."
"Likewise," Clara said.
Dora hurried back to her hotel, anxious to get to her notebook and record all the details of that surprising conversation with Olivia. Plus what she had learned from Clara's dumb show.
She filled two pages with notes that included all her recollections of what Mrs. Starrett had said and implied about the Clayton-Eleanor-Helene triangle and the Felicia-Turner relationship. If this entire case was a soap opera, Dora reflected grimly, it had a deadly plot. Too many corpses for laughing.