“You’re rich.”
September gave a slow nod. “My father is,” she corrected. She was a little surprised Grace Myles knew of Braden Rafferty, but he and Rosamund knew how to get their names in the paper, and if you were paying attention to the Portland Who’s Who, their names would certainly be there. “I’m a police officer, Mrs. Myles,” she repeated.
One hand flew to her chest and she cried, “Oh my. What happened?”
“Nothing. I’m here about a different matter. Do you remember meeting me before?”
“You gonna arrest someone? Not me! Not me!”
“No. No, not you. I’m just looking for information about the Singletons. Do you remember them? Jan and Phillip Singleton?”
“Harry?”
“Yes, Jan’s brother’s name was Harold,” September said, encouraged.
“He was a randy one,” she said, giving September a knowing look.
“You knew Harold?”
“Not that way,” she said with an outraged sniff.
“I meant you were acquainted with him?”
“He was sweet on me, but I was loyal. You don’t cheat. Uh-uh.” She wagged her finger in front of September’s face. “You don’t cheat.”
This was more than September had hoped for. On her previous trips to see Grace, the older woman hadn’t been able to remember the Singletons at all. “The Singletons had a son, Nathan, who died in an automobile accident,” September reminded her.
“Oh yes.” She nodded gravely.
“I’m trying to identify a man who’s been deceased for about a decade. He may have known Nathan, and he would be in between Nathan and Frances’s ages, I believe. Maybe a friend . . . ? He’s someone who’s likely connected to the Singleton family.”
“You mean Tommy.”
“Tommy?” September repeated.
“He mowed their yard.”
Grace seemed so clear and on target today that September had to remind herself she suffered from dementia. “Was Tommy around eighteen?”
Grace chortled and clapped her hands together. “Oh, heavens. You gotta be kidding. He was a kid.”
“Okay. How many years ago was this?”
“I don’t know. You ask a lot of questions.”
“I do ask a lot of questions.” September smiled. “I was talking to your son, Tynan, and your grandson, Caleb, and his wife, Hannah.”
“Oh, her . . .”
September soldiered on. “The man I’m trying to identify would have been about eighteen when he died. He may have known the Singletons or been connected to them in some way. He would be about thirty now.”
“Talk, talk, talk.” She flapped a hand at September.
Realizing she’d probably gotten everything she could from Grace, she nevertheless asked, “What do you remember about the Singletons?”
“Oh, them. Stuck-up. No good. Snotty, snotty.” She sniffed. “And that son of theirs . . . a no-goodnik through and through. Yes, ma’am.”
“Nathan?”
“Uh-huh. And his wife . . .”
“Davinia.”
“Who?” She frowned and shook her head. “The blond one. Always had all the jewelry. La-di-da. I hated her.”
“You could be describing Davinia, Nathan’s wife?” September heard voices outside Grace’s door and readied herself in case someone was coming to find out who Grace’s visitor was.
“Naughty, naughty,” she singsonged, nodding sagely.
“Why do you say that?”
Grace pressed a finger to her lips and looked around surreptitiously, as if afraid someone would overhear. “You know they were having intercourse.”
“Who?”
“Davinia,” she hissed. “And that boy.”
“That boy?”
The voices outside the door grew louder and September heard keys rattle. She braced herself, but another door opened and slammed shut, and she guessed whoever was there wasn’t coming to Grace’s room.
“Yes, ma’am. The one she was mmm-mmm-mmm-ing with,” Grace clarified.
“Davinia was having an affair? Do you remember with whom? His name? The boy?”
She drew back and eyed her up and down. “What do you want him for?” she asked suspiciously.
“I’m trying to identify a . . . body . . . a male who died when he was about eighteen. He would be thirty now.”
“He died?”
“Yes. He could maybe be Davinia’s lover?” she tried.
“Go ask the blond bitch. She’s a cheater. You shouldn’t cheat. Never, never.”
“If you mean Davinia, she died in the automobile accident with Nathan.”
“She cheated. Everybody knew it.”
“Did Nathan know it?”
“Oh sure.”
“Do you remember who she cheated with?”
“That boy,” she said, as if September were the densest person on record.
They were stuck in a loop. “Who is that boy?” September asked a trifle wearily. “Tommy?”
“No, he grew up and got fat. Big blubbery blubberhead. That’s what my grandson says.”
“Your grandson, Caleb?”
“Caleb . . . no. Not him. The other one.”
“What’s the name of your other grandson?”