Then again, she did miss using her brain for something that didn’t involve calculating how many ounces of milk Maddie had had, or whether three-day-old mac ’n’ cheese was okay to eat.
“Tell you what,” she told Hallie as she popped the dish into the oven. “You write the first batch of articles, or come up with some ideas for them, and I’ll take a look.”
“Boo!”
Hallie jumped, and out from behind her popped a triumphant Thomas, a blanket draped over his head, laughing like crazy. “Woooo!” he yelled, in his best impression of a cartoon ghost. “Wooo!”
Not missing a beat, Hallie took off running, grabbing a throw from the couch and ducking underneath. “The ghost of Hallie thanks you, Miss Clara!” she called, and Maddie got unsteadily to her feet and toddled after them to see what the fuss was about.
“It’s Ghosts versus Maddie!” Thomas called, circling his sister with exaggerated steps.
Clara shook her head. She was going to have to pay more attention to what was on these shows he was watching. It wouldn’t be Halloween for, what? Six weeks? Seven? Then again …
She hadn’t quit her job so she could spend all day making lopsided lasagna.
Spotting a basket of laundry she’d meant to fold days ago, she grabbed a pair of Benny’s baggy flannel pajama pants, draped them over her head, grasped the cuffs in her hands, and started waving her arms in slow motion. “How about Ghosts versus Pants?” she asked, and Thomas let out a squeal. She chased him around the couch as Hallie threw her blanketed arms around Maddie and yelled, “I’ll save you!”
Thomas’s stocking feet slid onto the foyer tile, with Clara on his tail. She was laughing so hard she probably wouldn’t have heard the knock at the front door if she hadn’t been running past it. She flung it open and realized too late that she still had the pants on her head.
A uniformed policeman raised an amused eyebrow even as her heart slowed at the sight of him. She tossed her head back, and the pants fell to the floor.
“Clara Tiffin?”
She smoothed her hair with a hand. “Yes?”
“I’m Detective Bryant, with the—”
Thomas slid violently into her legs and clutched her around the knees. “Wow! A real police officer!” He peered out the door past him. “Where’s your woo-woo?”
The officer glanced down at him, then back at Clara. “My woo-woo?”
But he wasn’t just an officer. He’d said detective.
She flushed. “He means your car. The siren.”
“Oh! Well, little sergeant, it’s parked down the street. Maybe you can look at it later if I can just have a few minutes with your mom?”
Clara’s mouth went dry. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes, I just wanted to ask you a few questions regarding—”
“Thomas!” Hallie thumped down the hallway behind her, holding Maddie, and Clara fought the urge to reach out and take the baby. Sometimes Hallie seemed to forget she was a real live thirteen-month-old and not a doll. “Oh.” She stopped short when she saw the officer.
Clara turned, careful to keep her face calm. “Hallie, could you please play quietly with the kids in the living room? Maybe show them some books or puzzles? I need to have a quick grown-up talk.”
Hallie nodded, her eyes wide. Clara gave Thomas a pat on the shoulder, and he followed Hallie reluctantly down the hallway.
“Full house,” Detective Bryant said.
“The oldest is my neighbor’s daughter. But yes. Quite full.”
“Which neighbor is that?”
“Natalie King, directly behind me.”
He nodded. “I’m here to ask about Kristin Kirkland. Next door. I understand she was here Saturday night?”
“Yes, I hosted a—” Clara stopped short. “Is everything okay?” she asked again.
“Just a few moments of your time?” He gestured toward the formal dining room to their right.
“Of course.” Clara led him to the table, took a seat, and watched uneasily as he settled himself across from her and flipped open his notepad. He looked to be about her age, which made her feel a certain skepticism for no fair reason. Clara still expected authority figures to be significantly older than her, a fact she felt as strongly in her midthirties as she had in her teens and twenties. One of these days she’d get used to the idea of growing up.
“Have you seen or spoken to Kristin since she left here Saturday?” He looked up expectantly. His face was boy-next-door friendly, without a hint that he might be practiced at the art of intimidation, and his build was somehow both soft and sturdy, like an ex-athlete who didn’t work out much anymore. She wondered how long he’d been doing this job.
She shook her head.
“I understand your son goes to the same school as her twins. You didn’t see her or the kids on your way to drop him off this morning?”
“Thomas does preschool part-time, only Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
He made a note.
“But I know she was taking the afternoon off work to volunteer at the pre-K Farewell to Summer party.” He looked unconvinced somehow, so she continued. “They’re big on having it near the actual calendar end of the season, not around Labor Day like everyone else.”
“I understand she was supposed to.”
“Supposed to?”
“We’re trying to account for her whereabouts, Mrs. Tiffin. She didn’t show at work today, and Abby and Aaron never arrived at school.”
She sat up straighter. “She’s missing? The twins are missing?”
“They look to have packed some things. Her minivan is gone. She didn’t mention plans to go anywhere?”
“I can’t imagine where she’d go.”
“Think back to Saturday. See or hear anything unusual after she left that night?”
“Not at all.” Clara didn’t mention that she’d been so tipsy from the wine that she’d slept like the dead.
“And what time did she leave?”
“Everyone left around the same time—midnight, maybe?”
“Looks like your backyard might have some of a side view into hers. Did you happen to notice if any lights were on in her house yesterday? Or last night?”
Clara replayed the day in her mind. It had been so miserable outside but so cozy inside. Benny was always doing something—weed-whacking, stacking wood, running to the hardware store. Not that she didn’t appreciate all he did, but she had come to love the rare days when he was forced to be lazy. She’d made banana pancakes, Benny had done a pan of his famous scrambled eggs with cheese, and they’d had such a feast it made everyone sleepy again. The kids dozed on the couch with Benny through most of the Bengals game while Clara baked zucchini bread with the extra squash Randi and Rhoda had given her from their garden. She didn’t remember so much as glancing out the window into the driving rain.
“I have no idea. I’m sorry.”
“How close are you to Kristin? Are you good friends?”
“We’re getting to be. I just moved in last summer, and we’re both busy with our kids. But they love to play together, which has been nice.”
He made another note. “Does she ordinarily call or text you on weekends?”
“Sometimes.”
“She talk much about her divorce?”
“A little.”
“Did she talk about it Saturday night?”
Clara played it over in her mind—the laughter in the firelight, the way the conversation had turned personal as the wine flowed. Too personal, probably. There were some things she’d take back herself if she could. A tirade about her flat chest, for instance. “A little.”
“What did she say?”
Clara tried to remember. “Just that it didn’t seem to be affecting the kids much, which was a good thing. She said Paul was always getting called into work even when he was around. He’s an OB, so anytime someone goes into labor or is worried about some symptom or dials the physician on call…” Her voice trailed off. Of course he would already know all this.
“How would you describe her mood Saturday?”
“Her mood? Good. Happy. It was nice to be doing something social without the kids, even if it was only out back. We’d never done that before with the whole group—my husband recently finished laying the patio, and it’s sort of in the middle. It turned out everyone’s baby monitors reached.”