Page 18

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

With the Carnells’ house out of range of my rearview mirror, I decided that if it was Dova, not Robbie, who set and maintained a distance from the Carnells, I could understand a protective mother’s reasoning.

Our visit with them left a nasty taste in my mouth.

Clara spoke abruptly. “It’s like Goldilocks and the Three Bears .”

“What is?”

“The three houses. Except we went to the just-right house first, then we had the uptight house and finished with the messy house.”

“Hah.” I made the syllable agree with her. But another observation pushed to my consciousness. “Did you notice—?”

Clara slid in on the tail of my start. “That Payloma didn’t say if she’d been to the hospice or not, had seen Derrick or not? Yup. She was interesting, wasn’t she?”

“That’s one word for her.”

She continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “Prickly exterior. Hard to know if the inside’s also all prickles or if the exterior was developed to protect a softer center.” She paused. “Maybe not all prickles inside. But still could be mostly.”

I took that as meaning she’d also interpreted Payloma as having moments of genuine sorrow, but those moments did not equate to confidence in her innocence.

“Turn left here,” she said.

That wasn’t the way we’d come in.

“Left? But—. The scene where Jaylynn was killed?”

“Uh-huh.” She pointed to an entry to a new development. “That’s where the little house Jaylynn and Derrick rented was. Torn down when this was built.”

“Truly around the corner from Olive and Payloma.”

“Yup. Great for childcare, but I wonder how Derrick felt about it.”

“If you’re saying that drove him to cheat—”

“No, no. Not giving him an easy out. See that stop sign down there? Turn right.”

I did. This road swept down, then up, following curves as it did.

“This whole area’s more built up than at the time of Jaylynn’s murder.”

It didn’t look that built up to me, with a sprinkling of houses, two barns, and horses inside irregular rectangles of fences.

“There.” Clara pointed on the right by one of the barns. “Pull into the drive there.”

It led to the barn, but we stayed at the wide-winged entrance.

“This is about where it happened, from what Ruby said. None of the houses were here then.”

Neither of us got out. Seventeen years later and with the changes, there wasn’t much point.

“This was barn here then?”

“Doesn’t look like it, but I don’t know for sure. Why?”

“Lights.”

She scooched down to get a better angle on the side of the building.

“Donna will know. I’m starving,” Clara added. “How about lunch at Haines Tavern?”

A new self-insight. A lingering nasty taste in my mouth did not stop me from wanting to eat.

****

Haines Tavern is the historic establishment the town’s named for. It has been a landmark since the 1800s. A handsome, symmetrical red-brick structure forms its core, with a white porch around much of the first floor. The porch adds practical seating in good weather and visual interest now.

After seeing the houses belonging to Robbie Dorrio’s various family members, I particularly appreciated the Haines Tavern holiday decorations — classy, yet with warmth. It pushed Dova and Robbie’s house out of the lead as just-right.

Okay, it didn’t hurt that these decorations were similar in style to what I’d chosen for my house. But still...

We stamped our feet on the porch to dislodge snow from our shoes, stepping to one side, so we didn’t deposit slick patches in the main traffic path.

Inside, we spotted Rich Chafford behind the lectern used to check in those with reservations and to assign tables. That’s Richard Haines Chafford with the middle name the important part when it came to Haines Tavern — this establishment and the town.

He simultaneously frowned and smiled at us. “Great to see you two. Happy holidays.”

We’d helped sort out a situation that affected the Tavern earlier this year and he remained disposed toward us. That explained the smile.

“You, too,” we both said.

“We’re hoping for lunch,” I added.

“We’re slammed. Completely full.” That explained his frown — on our behalf.

“That’s good news for you, not for us. We’ll—”

“Wait a minute,” Clara said. “Do you have a couple of extra chairs?”

She tipped her head toward the back of the two parlors-turned restaurant areas on the left side of the old house. Neither Rich nor I could see that room from where we were, but he apparently caught what Clara was getting at, because he smiled broadly.

“Sure do. You go on in and we’ll be right there with them.”

He pivoted and headed toward the back of the building. Clara made a follow-me gesture.

“Clara—?”

She repeated the gesture.

I followed.

Not as easy as it sounds, since these were 1800s-proportioned rooms with tables close together.

I focused on wending my way between tables and occupied chairs, nearly running into Clara’s back when a call of “Clara!” rose and she stopped at a large rectangular table in the back room.

“Hi, everyone. Do you mind if Sheila and I join you for lunch? Most of you know her, but for anyone who doesn’t, you’ve heard about her from Millie or me. This is Sheila Mackey.”

If my hands had been free, I would have used them to hold onto my spinning head as introductions and greetings came at me. But they were occupied, instead, with shaking hands.

Two of the hand-shakers were Linda and Carol, whom I’d met in connection with Clara’s high school reunion. Not that they were classmates of hers. They were a full generation older, having been friends of Clara’s mother-in-law, whom Clara cared for until her death, not long before I arrived in town.

Millie was another woman I’d met through Clara, one who’d asked our help because she’d been long dissatisfied with the official story of a friend’s death.

And then there was Fern. As I mentioned before, she was a fellow student at the Beguiling Way Yoga studio. She’d also been less than entirely forthright about the situation Clara, Kit, and I were involved with before Christmas.

Seeing her renewed my pang over the crack in my relationship with Urban Parhem. No doubt because it meant not knowing more about the name Riddle Road.

Fern clearly felt no pang, judging by the casual wave she gave from the far end of the table.

Two more women were introduced as Willa and Violet.

Amid all the introductions, Clara said, “Do you mind if we join you? It will be tight, but—”

A chorus of protestations that they would like nothing better arose as Rich and a busboy arrived, each with a chair, sliding them into spots that put Clara at the foot of the table and me at her right hand. That left Carol to my right and Linda across from me. Violet sat next to Linda.

That geography meant we talked mostly as a group, though Violet and Carol now and then dipped into the conversation at the other end of the table.

They’d already ordered, so we were behind them. When the server came by, we put our orders in quickly, emerging from that vital task to pick up an exchange that vibrated with tension.

“—those two women. Mother or daughter, can’t decide which is worse—” Linda was saying.

Violet next to her jumped in. “And what about the Dorrios? They—”

Linda interrupted in turn. “His sentence was for life. And that’s what he got. Can’t say any different than that.”

Someone snorted delicately. So delicately, I couldn’t be sure who it came from.

Linda spoke up rigorously. “I for one agree with Clara and Sheila that murder is murder and should not be condoned. I’m glad they’re investigating. And I support them.”

“I support them, too,” Violet fired back. “And I don’t approve of murder, either, or of a convicted murderer, who killed his wife, not serving his full sentence, and being treated with kid gloves.”

“Convicted on flimsy evidence after the deputies decided—”

“Stop, both of you,” Carol said, “We agreed we wouldn’t talk about this.”