The Killing Game(46)

September peeked into the bedroom. No sign of Grace, but the bathroom door was closed. Stymied, she waited a few minutes, then knocked on that door, too. “Grace? Do you need any help?”

“Go ’way!” was the feisty reply.

“I’m not with the staff here,” September said, shooting a look over her shoulder. She’d closed the door to the room behind her, but that was no guarantee someone might not enter behind her.

“I’d like to talk to you,” September called loudly.

“Sit down, then. Don’t take my chair.”

That was as good an invitation as she was going to get. September looked around and settled herself on the small love seat that was hugged up against a La-Z-Boy with a green and gold afghan draped over the back. It took another ten minutes before Grace appeared, and when she did, she walked without the aid of a wheelchair or walker and chose the La-Z-Boy. “Who are you?” she asked.

“I’m September Rafferty. I’m a police officer. I came to visit you before and—”

“Braden Rafferty?” she interrupted sharply.

September gave her a long look. The two times she’d interviewed Grace before, she hadn’t made that connection. “My father’s name is Braden Rafferty. I’m one of his daughters.”

“You’re rich.”

September gave a slow nod. “My father is,” she corrected. She was a little surprised Grace Myles knew of Braden Rafferty, but he and Rosamund knew how to get their names in the paper, and if you were paying attention to the Portland Who’s Who, their names would certainly be there. “I’m a police officer, Mrs. Myles,” she repeated.

One hand flew to her chest and she cried, “Oh my. What happened?”

“Nothing. I’m here about a different matter. Do you remember meeting me before?”

“You gonna arrest someone? Not me! Not me!”

“No. No, not you. I’m just looking for information about the Singletons. Do you remember them? Jan and Phillip Singleton?”

“Harry?”

“Yes, Jan’s brother’s name was Harold,” September said, encouraged.

“He was a randy one,” she said, giving September a knowing look.

“You knew Harold?”

“Not that way,” she said with an outraged sniff.

“I meant you were acquainted with him?”

“He was sweet on me, but I was loyal. You don’t cheat. Uh-uh.” She wagged her finger in front of September’s face. “You don’t cheat.”

This was more than September had hoped for. On her previous trips to see Grace, the older woman hadn’t been able to remember the Singletons at all. “The Singletons had a son, Nathan, who died in an automobile accident,” September reminded her.

“Oh yes.” She nodded gravely.

“I’m trying to identify a man who’s been deceased for about a decade. He may have known Nathan, and he would be in between Nathan and Frances’s ages, I believe. Maybe a friend . . . ? He’s someone who’s likely connected to the Singleton family.”

“You mean Tommy.”

“Tommy?” September repeated.

“He mowed their yard.”

Grace seemed so clear and on target today that September had to remind herself she suffered from dementia. “Was Tommy around eighteen?”

Grace chortled and clapped her hands together. “Oh, heavens. You gotta be kidding. He was a kid.”

“Okay. How many years ago was this?”

“I don’t know. You ask a lot of questions.”

“I do ask a lot of questions.” September smiled. “I was talking to your son, Tynan, and your grandson, Caleb, and his wife, Hannah.”

“Oh, her . . .”

September soldiered on. “The man I’m trying to identify would have been about eighteen when he died. He may have known the Singletons or been connected to them in some way. He would be about thirty now.”

“Talk, talk, talk.” She flapped a hand at September.

Realizing she’d probably gotten everything she could from Grace, she nevertheless asked, “What do you remember about the Singletons?”

“Oh, them. Stuck-up. No good. Snotty, snotty.” She sniffed. “And that son of theirs . . . a no-goodnik through and through. Yes, ma’am.”

“Nathan?”

“Uh-huh. And his wife . . .”

“Davinia.”

“Who?” She frowned and shook her head. “The blond one. Always had all the jewelry. La-di-da. I hated her.”

“You could be describing Davinia, Nathan’s wife?” September heard voices outside Grace’s door and readied herself in case someone was coming to find out who Grace’s visitor was.

“Naughty, naughty,” she singsonged, nodding sagely.

“Why do you say that?”

Grace pressed a finger to her lips and looked around surreptitiously, as if afraid someone would overhear. “You know they were having intercourse.”

“Who?”

“Davinia,” she hissed. “And that boy.”

“That boy?”

The voices outside the door grew louder and September heard keys rattle. She braced herself, but another door opened and slammed shut, and she guessed whoever was there wasn’t coming to Grace’s room.