The Kind Worth Saving (Henry Kimball/Lily Kintner, #2)(74)

“Are you planning on writing a poem about it?” Joan said.

Lizzie shook her head slightly, a half smile on her lips. Joan thought she looked closer to their mother’s age than she did to her own. It wasn’t just the gray hair or the lack of makeup. It was also just the resignation in her body. “Probably not.”

“I don’t care, Lizzie. Feel free to write as many dead brother-in-law poems as you’d like.”

“Oh, that reminds me, Joan,” Lizzie said. “Did you hear from that private detective, the one that’s looking into the boy who drowned in Kennewick?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I got a call. It was from . . . I don’t remember his name . . . some guy who said he’d been hired to relook at that drowning case. I told him I didn’t know anything about it, that he should probably talk to you.”

“When was this?”

“He called me during my office hours, so it must have been Thursday. We talked for about three minutes, and I told him I didn’t know anything about it. I thought he’d call you next.”

“What was his name?”

“Honestly, actually, I’m not sure he gave me one. He just said he’d been asked to take another look at the incident. Why are you so upset?”

Joan’s mother said, “She’s upset because you’re upsetting her, Lizzie.”

“That’s a tautology, Mom,” Lizzie said.

“I’m not upset,” Joan said, “I’m just curious. I hadn’t thought of that trip in years.”

“Well, don’t think about it now, sweetheart,” her mother said. “Let’s all go for a walk, why don’t we?”

Joan didn’t want to go for a walk, but she didn’t want to sit inside the house with her family either. “Let’s take a quick walk, and then I think I’ll take a nap,” she said, and her mother and sister agreed. They all left the house and did the shortest loop through the neighborhood she could think of.

When she was finally back in her house, alone, Joan allowed herself time to think about what she’d learned from Lizzie. The call must have come from Mr. Kimball. He’d figured out that both she and Richard Seddon had been in Kennewick at the same time that Duane Wozniak had died. He’d probably even read that stupid poem that Lizzie had written, called “Sea Tide,” or something like that. She went to the bookshelf in the living room and found Sea Oat Soup, a cheap stapled book that wasn’t a whole lot bigger than some STD pamphlet you’d get in a doctor’s office. She found the poem, the one where Lizzie said that her sister had gone swimming with a boy who didn’t come back, and she imagined Mr. Kimball reading it. He’d have eaten it up, of course, because it was poetry, and because it was a clue, probably his two favorite things. She thought that it would be a very good thing if Mr. Kimball never woke up from his injuries.





Chapter 33





Lily


I left Henry’s apartment the next day at seven in the morning, and as I was walking down the residential street where he lived a familiar car passed by me and double-parked in front of the apartment building. I looked over my shoulder and watched the same dark-haired woman, the one I’d assumed was Henry’s sister, dart out of the car and go through the front door. I wondered if she’d notice that Pye wasn’t particularly hungry.

I kept walking, stopping to get a cup of coffee and a breakfast crepe at a place near the subway entrance and thought about the best way to meet Joan Grieve Whalen. I didn’t particularly want to just go up to her front door and knock on it, but I couldn’t think of a better alternative. It seemed clear from her website as an interior decorator that she didn’t have an office. I also doubted she was going out to bars and restaurants so soon after her husband had died. It’s not that I thought she was grieving him—she’d most likely killed him, after all—it was just that it would look unseemly.

I did know that if I wanted to establish any kind of relationship with her we’d need something in common. And I’d already decided what that was.

After eating I walked to Porter Square, finding a chain store that sold cheap prepaid cell phones. I paid for one with cash, then went to another coffee shop where there was a place for me to charge it while I drank another coffee. At around eleven o’clock I found a bench in a small, quiet park on the outskirts of Harvard Square and called Joan’s work number with my new phone.

“Hello?”

“Oh, hi,” I said, stammering a little.

“Who’s this?”

“Sorry. My name’s Addie Logan. You don’t know me.”

“Okay.” Joan sounded annoyed.

“I was hoping that you and I could meet. It’s kind of important. I could come to you . . . to your house, or we could meet somewhere else, wherever you—”

“Are you calling about your house, because I’d be happy to come to you.”

“No, sorry. I didn’t have a different number for you, so I’m calling your work number. But this isn’t about work. It’s a . . . it’s a personal situation.”

There was a short pause, then Joan said, “Do you want to tell me what it’s about?”

“Yes,” I said, “although I’d love to be able to do it in person. I just think it would be better. You and I have a mutual friend, and . . . you’ll understand when we talk.”