As I backed out of the driveway, I watched her walk unsteadily back to the rake she had left leaning against a maple tree. I felt a surge of love for this woman, so willing to discard her old life, to not look back, but really I was just grateful that I didn’t need to sit for an entire afternoon going through scrapbooks.
I dropped the box back at Winslow, answered a few more e-mails, then drove to my house, a cottage-style two-bedroom built in 1915. It overlooked a picturesque pond, lousy for swimming (it bred mosquitoes all summer), but decent for ice-skating in the cold winter months. I checked my phone, and there was no call yet from Cooley’s. My doctor’s office had called to remind me of an appointment, and my mother had called but had not left a message. It wasn’t yet five o’clock, and I thought I’d try to take a short nap before making dinner. I lay down on the couch in my living room, and just as I was falling into a light sleep, the doorbell chimed and I jerked upright, confused for a second about where I was. I ran my fingers through my hair, stood, and walked to the foyer. I peered through the leaded glass that ran along the side of the front door. A slightly shaggy-looking man in his thirties stood there, scratching at the back of his neck. I partially opened the door, keeping the chain on.
“Can I help you?” I said.
“Are you Lily Kintner?” said the man, pulling his wallet out of his herringbone tweed jacket. Before I had a chance to answer, he flipped the wallet open to show a Boston PD Detective badge. “I’m Detective Kimball. Do you mind if I have a quick word?”
I unchained the door and swung it open. He scraped his feet on my welcome mat and stepped inside the house. “I like this house,” he said, glancing around.
“Thank you. What can I help you with? You’ve got me curious.” I took a few slow steps into the living room and he followed me.
“Well, your name has come up in an investigation, and I have a few questions. Do you have a moment?”
I offered him the red leather club chair and he perched on its edge. I sat down on the couch. I was scared to hear what he was about to say, but also anxious to hear it.
“What can you tell me about Ted Severson?”
“That man who was killed in Boston over the weekend?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I can tell you what I read in the newspaper, but that’s about all. I do have a vague connection with him, but I don’t know him. He was married to someone I went to school with.”
“You went to school with Miranda Severson?” The detective pulled a notebook from his coat and flipped it open. He pulled a small nub of a pencil from its spiral binding.
“Yes, Mather College. She was Miranda Hobart then. Faith Hobart actually.”
“She went by a different name?”
“Faith is her middle name, I think. That’s what she went by in college.”
“Have you kept up with her? How did you know that Ted Severson and she were married?” He sat up a little, pushing back fractionally into the chair. His hair was a little long, especially for a police detective. He had round brown eyes under thick eyebrows, an imposing nose, and a mouth that could belong to a girl, with a plump lower lip.
“We met in Boston a few years ago, just by accident.”
“Was she with her husband then?”
“You know, I was wondering that myself after I read the story. She was with a man, I think, and she introduced us but I don’t remember much about him. I couldn’t believe it when I read about what happened in Boston. Detective . . . is it Kimball? . . . I was going to make coffee. Should I make enough for two?” I stood, aware that I was potentially acting suspicious, but I needed time to think.
“Um, sure. If you’re going to make it for yourself.”
“Unless you think we can wrap this up right away. I’m actually pretty curious as to why you’re here,” I said as I walked toward the kitchen.
“No. Make coffee, and I’d love some.”
Once in the kitchen, I took a deep breath, put the water on to boil, and put ground coffee at the bottom of my French coffee press. I needed to think clearly. Something had happened to connect me with Ted Severson and I had to be extremely careful to not get caught in a lie, not to contradict myself. They had found something out, but I didn’t know how much. When the water had started to boil I poured it over the coffee, inserted the plunger. I put the coffee on a tray with two mugs, a carton of milk, and a bowl of sugar cubes, and brought it back into the living room. I was startled to see the detective standing, peering closely at the bindings in my living room’s built-in bookshelf.
“Sorry,” he said, sitting back down on the lip of the chair. “You have some interesting books. I hope you don’t mind my asking . . . you’re David Kintner’s daughter, right?”
I placed the tray on the coffee table and sat down on the couch. “Uh, yes. Do you know him? And please just help yourself to coffee.”
“I do know him. I’ve read several of his books, and I saw him read once. In Durham, New Hampshire.”
“Oh yeah?”
“He was quite the showman.”
“So I’ve heard. I’ve never seen him read before.”