Never Tell (Detective D.D. Warren #10)(77)

“Well,” she demands.

“Hired firebug, definitely. Didn’t even respond to Conrad Carter’s name, and frankly, too much of a burn freak to have pulled this off without help. Canvass the Carters’ neighborhood again, except this time ask about pest control. That’s how he did it. Uniform, or what’s left of it, is at the bottom of that burn barrel. If you look around, the pressurized spray canisters he used have to be around somewhere.”

“Who hired him?”

“He wasn’t that forthcoming. But”—I hold up my phone—“I have the address where I’m supposed to leave money for my future transaction. I’m guessing it’s the same drop spot as Rocket used last time, given he appears to be a creature of habit.”

“We can pull videos of the area from Tuesday night, Wednesday morning,” D.D. fills in thoughtfully.

“Which should give you the client, caught on candid camera.”

“Nicely done,” D.D. informs me.

I just smile.





CHAPTER 25


    EVIE


MY MOM MAKES SOME KIND of French stew for dinner. Filled with lentils and greens and all sorts of things perfect for a growing baby, she informs me. Never mind that with every comment she makes me feel more and more like a broodmare.

I set the table. Three martinis in, my mother shouldn’t be handling breakables. And it’s only six .M.

I need to get out of here, I think again. But how? Whom to call? Mr. Delaney? A teacher I sometimes sit with at lunch? I never realized how small my world is until now. How in keeping everyone out, I’d also shut myself in.

A knock on the side door. I’m so grateful for the interruption, I nearly knock over my chair standing up. “I’ll get it!” I announce.

My mom appears mildly annoyed. I notice she’s not eating her stew, just pushing lentils around in the bowl. This is what happens, I think, when you spend your afternoon filling up on vodka.

I head for the door. Sergeant D. D. Warren stands on the other side. She flashes her badge. Next to her is a younger woman in an oversized down coat and a gray hoodie. She looks like she’d be more comfortable on the mean streets of any major city than hanging out at an impeccably decorated Colonial in Cambridge.

I let them in.

“Evie Carter, Flora Dane. Flora, Evie.” D.D. makes the introductions. I shake hands with the woman, who looks like she could benefit from my mother’s stew even more than I. Her face is vaguely familiar but I can’t place it. Someone who knew Conrad? Or one of his half a dozen aliases?

I feel the first trickle of unease.

In for a penny, in for a pound. I lead them to the table and introduce my mother.

In response, my mother scowls, reaches an unsteady hand for her martini. “Really, Sergeant, couldn’t this wait? It’s dinnertime, and meals are very important for a woman in Evie’s condition.”

Yep, nothing but a broodmare.

The Flora woman eyes me with renewed interest.

“Please have some stew,” I mutter. Please save me from this meal.

“Actually, we have a few things to discuss. Perhaps we could move into the front?” D.D. suggests. Works for me.

“I’ll do dishes,” I inform my mother, because again, she shouldn’t be touching plastic plates, let alone Waterford crystal.

She only scowls, pushes more lentils around her bowl. She’s depressed, I think. About our conversation earlier? The news her husband didn’t kill himself? Or is this simply what midday martinis do to you? I’ve never known how to talk to my mom. I certainly don’t have any answers now.

I direct D.D. and Flora to the side sitting room, with its greenery-swathed mantel and professionally decorated Christmas tree. My mom likes to have a theme for each tree. This one is Hark the Herald Angels Sing, meaning there is a lot of gold and, yes, a lot of angels.

As for actual sitting space, the room has a silk-covered love seat in stripes of pale green and pink. We all stare at it. It looks like something out of a dollhouse. The pile of coordinating throw pillows doesn’t help.

I have to get out of this house.

“Can I take your coats?” I ask belatedly, because the sofa barely looks capable of holding two women, let alone their heavy winter coats. D.D. shrugs, unbuttons her long black wool coat. I notice the other woman follows more reluctantly. She’s been taking in the room. Assessing. Again, the pinprick of unease. What is she doing here?

I don’t know what to do with the coats. Walking to the coat closet in the main foyer will expose me to the reporters across the street. This is the problem with a nighttime siege—the house is nothing but a glowing fishbowl, putting both my mom and me on display. No doubt why D.D. used the side entrance. And why we’re not seated near any windows now.

Finally, I pile the coats on the back of a wingback chair. I should sit, but I don’t want to. In fact, I suddenly don’t want to hear what they have to say.

“How are you feeling?” D.D. asks quietly.

“Like a bird in a gilded cage.”

“Your mother brought you clothes for your arraignment.” The woman speaks. She glances around the room. “I get it now.”

“You were at my arraignment? Why? Who are you?” My tone is sharp.

“My name is Flora Dane—”