I told her I had to go, and she told me a few more stories about friends of hers I didn’t remember. When we hung up I noticed that the crowds around the lunch place had thinned, and I went in, got a large coffee to go. Then I walked some more, back past the Concord River Inn, where I’d had drinks with Ted and plotted the murder of his wife. Our plan would have worked. It was very close to what had eventually happened. Framing Brad for the murder of Miranda, then making sure Brad disappeared forever, that his body was never found. The details were different. His body was going to be dumped in the ocean while I drove his truck into Boston, leaving it where it would get stolen and stripped, but the outcome would have been the same.
I strolled along quiet back roads, lined with stately Colonials. I was working my way toward the back side of the cemetery I’d just been in. A crew of gardeners was clearing leaves from one of the larger yards. A preteen boy was throwing a football straight up in the air, then catching it himself. I saw no one else. I got onto a dead-end street that abutted the back side of the cemetery. I hopped a short fence, leaned against a tree, and waited. I could see the top of the hill, the headstones spread along it like the knuckles of a spine. The sun, a glimmer of whiteness behind the pall of clouds, was low in the sky. I pulled my coffee close into my chest to keep me warm. My hair was up under the same dark hat I’d worn the night that Brad and Miranda had died. I wondered, not for the first time, what would have happened between Ted and me if things had gone according to plan. We would have become involved, I knew that, but how long would we have stayed together? Would I have told him everything? Shared my life with him? And would that knowledge—the knowledge both of us would have had about each other—have made us stronger? Or would it have killed us in the end? Probably killed us, I thought, although it might have been nice for a while, nice to have someone with whom I could have shared it all.
I finished my coffee, slid the empty cup into my open purse. And I waited.
CHAPTER 33
KIMBALL
I had discovered that if I parked my car at the Dunkin’ Donuts at the five-way intersection just off of Winslow center I could spot Lily Kintner driving down Leighton Road away from her house. Very few cars came down Leighton, and she was easy to spot in her dark red Honda. I’d waited here every day since our second interview, following Lily a total of seven times. I’d followed her to and from her offices at Winslow College. I’d followed her to a grocery store, and to a farmers’ market one town over. Once, she’d gotten onto the interstate heading south; I guessed she was probably going to Connecticut to see her parents, and I turned back. The few times she’d driven into Winslow center to do errands I’d followed her a little bit on foot, keeping a big distance. I had seen nothing of interest.
I was doing all of this on my own, using my own nondescript silver Sonata. I didn’t know what I hoped to accomplish. I just knew, in my heart, that Lily Kintner was somehow involved, and if I kept watching, then maybe she might screw up somehow.
I was parked at Dunkin’ Donuts on Sunday afternoon and just about to give up when I spotted Lily’s Accord. She turned left on Brooks, heading east, away from the town center. I pulled out of the parking lot, slotting in about three cars behind her. Her Honda was an older model, boxier than the usual Hondas on the road now, and easy to follow. I trailed her through Stow, then Maynard, then into West Concord. I tried to keep at least a couple cars between us at all times. I only lost her once, going through Maynard Center, where I got stuck behind a UPS truck, but I guessed correctly that she was staying on Route 62, and I caught up with her again. She drove into Concord Center, parked on Main Street, and got out of her car. She was wearing her bright green coat, buttoned up to her neck. I watched her walk toward what looked like a large rotary that looped around a smallish park.
The only person who knew I was trailing Lily Kintner was Roberta James, my partner, although she didn’t know how often I was doing it. She certainly didn’t know that on two occasions I had parked after dark on Leighton Road and worked my way through the woods to spy on Lily’s house from the edge of her property. I’d watched her for an hour one night, as she sat in her red leather chair, her legs tucked up under her, reading a hardcover book. While she read she absentmindedly twirled a long strand of hair in a finger. A cup of tea next to her sent up a ribbon of steam. I had kept telling myself to leave, but I felt glued to the spot, and if she had suddenly come outside, and spotted me, I don’t think I could have left even then. I would never tell James any of that—she was already suspicious of my motives. “What does she look like, Hen?” she’d asked me the night before. I’d had her over for spaghetti carbonara and scotch.
“She’s beautiful,” I said, deciding not to lie.
“Uh-huh,” James said, not needing to add anything more.
“Listen,” I said. “Eric Washburn was her college boyfriend. He was also the boyfriend of Miranda Severson, or Faith Hobart, as she was known then. Miranda told me that Lily had stolen Eric from her, then Lily told me that Miranda had stolen him back. Eric died from a nut allergy the year he graduated from college. He was with Lily in London.”
“You think she killed him with nuts?”
“If she did, then it was pretty brilliant. You can’t really prove that something like that wasn’t an accident.”