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  The interview was brief; she didn’t have much to tell. In response to the detective’s questions, she answered:

  “I’ve lived there for thirty-five years.”

  “No, I didn’t know her. Not really. We talked a couple of times but that was about it.”

  “I read her name in the paper this morning. I didn’t know it before.”

  “My dog seemed upset about something.”

  “No, that was unusual for her. She’s usually very calm. That’s why I followed her to the back of the house and I found—”

  “I wanted to see if she was alive. I felt for a pulse. To be honest, I can’t remember if I moved her in any way. I mean, maybe her arm. I didn’t try to pick her up or anything.”

  “My phone had no reception. I was almost home by the time I got two bars. I thought I might as well call from there. It’d be a better connection. That way, too, I could get rid of my dog. I mean, leave her at home.”

  “Yes, the door was unlocked. I guess I was wrong the first time I tried it. I was in a rush to get help; I might not have turned the knob hard enough or something.”

  “No one told me I couldn’t. The dog seemed upset. And I thought there was no one to take care of it until someone claimed her.”

  “No, I didn’t know for sure she lived alone, but I’d never seen anyone else there.”

  “I’d never been in the house before, so I don’t know if there was anything unusual.”

  “No, nothing strange. Other than the house felt like a moldering Russian dacha.”

  “Dacha. A Russian summerhouse. I guess the smell of cabbage suggested it.”

  Detective Griffin had no more questions.

  When she got home, Helen didn’t know what to do with the rest of the day—exactly the problem she feared if she retired. She’d been thinking of it; she’d been teaching for over thirty years after all. But the question of what she’d do with her days stymied her. She’d miss the children, of course; each class new, each student a challenge and a joy. She was ready for a change, though. But to what? Her unexpected day off brought the problem to the fore. She was relieved when the doorbell rang.

  The woman at the door appeared to be at most twenty years old. Helen couldn’t help thinking of her as a girl. At first sight, she seemed to be wearing nothing but a black, see-through lace dress although a second look convinced Helen that she had a flesh-colored bodysuit under it. Her hair was close-cropped and shaggy. Bracelets clanged at both wrists. A silver stud poked from the side of her nose, and a line of silver rings ran along the edge of the opposite ear.

  “Mrs. Terfel? I am Sophie Poirier. I am the niece of Cécile DuQuenne. The police told me you had taken her dog.”

  “Oh, come in.” As the girl walked past her, Helen saw that she was thin and remarkably graceful as if she’d studied dance and been serious about it. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Hesitating slightly before making the th-sound, Sophie said, “Thank you.”

  “I didn’t know her well,” Helen added. “Not at all really. Frank and I talked with her a couple of times.” Helen expected some response, but Sophie merely turned a blank gaze toward her. After an awkward moment Helen said, “I expect you’re here to pick up your aunt’s dog.”

  “I was hoping you could keep it for a while.” Her accent was again betrayed by an exaggerated, breathy “h”. “Until I find someone else to take her in.”

  “Of course. Coco’s enjoying the company. Coco’s my dog. Would you like to see her? I mean your aunt’s dog. She’s out back.”

  “Non, merci. It was my aunt’s pet. The police will not let me into her house, but they believe I am responsible for her dog. I told them they could take it to the…la fourrière.” To Helen’s puzzled looked, she added, “Where they take stray animals.”

  “Oh, no. Don’t do that. She’s welcome here as long as it takes.”

  “They would not believe that I have a right to go into the house.”

  “Can’t you get to your things? If you need some clothes…”

  The girl smirked. “I am staying with a friend. After a week my loving aunt told me I must pay rent if I stayed longer. She was an old peasant woman worried people were stealing her persimmons without paying. No different than if she had lived in our village her whole life. I would not care except she has a family…relic. You know. Something that has been with the family for a long time.”

  “Oh, a family heirloom.”

  “Oui. A painting we have owned for three hundred years.”

  “Is it very valuable?”

  “The painting is religious. La crucifixion. Such paintings are very common with old people.”

  “Still, something so old. It must be worth something.”

  “I think only to my family. It has a silver frame, but my brother said the jewels in it are glass. Still, my father would be very happy if I brought it home. He never forgave my aunt for leaving with it. I thought I might just take it before the police knew it was there, except I cannot get into the house because of their investigation. Did you happen to notice it when you were there?”

  “No. I was focused on finding the dog. I’m sorry.”

  Sophie looked around as if suddenly aware of where she was. “But I must not keep you.” She turned and let herself out.

  Helen called, “It was nice meeting you,” to her retreating form.

  Helen imagined her Aunt George saying, “Now that’s a real piece of work!” Sophie hadn’t even left a phone number.

  From his studio, Frank called, “Who was at the door?”

  “The niece of the murdered woman.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “It seems we have a new dog in the family.”

  “Okay.”

  He wasn’t listening but Helen knew he was as happy about it as she was. Or would be, as soon as it registered with him.

  “Do you want some lunch?” she asked.

  “Sure. I just need to finish one thing.”

  Helen knew one thing would lead to another thing, and he wouldn’t leave the project until it was done, or he’d hit a snag and showed up grumpy from frustration and low blood sugar. Helen envied such passion. She’d once joked ADHD had killed passion’s requisite obsession in her, but having said it, she wondered if it weren’t true. And if true, whether it was a bad thing. Frank seemed to have enough for the both of them.

  She fixed herself a sandwich and let him fend for himself.

  ◆◆◆

  After lunch she took the dogs for a walk. She hadn’t thought to ask Sophie the spaniel’s name. She decided to christen it Mollie. “You look like a Mollie,” she told the dog. “You might as well get used to your new name. You’re going to be living with us now.”

  Helen’s usual walk took her past the DuQuenne house. Yellow police tape stretched from fence to tree to bush to corner of the house, a moral barrier more than a physical one. A white and green sheriff’s car and van sat in the drive, although Helen couldn’t see anyone outside or inside the house. She stopped to pay her respects, not to a woman she hadn’t known, but to the enormity of that woman’s murder.

  Mollie started down the drive to her old home. “Sorry, girl. You don’t live there anymore. Let’s go.” She gave a gentle tug on the leash and turned to walk on.

  A woman got out of a car parked on the edge of the apple orchard across the road. “Hello,” she called. She pulled something from the front pocket of her green windbreaker and held it up as she approached. “I’m Delyth Bitersee, a reporter for the Redwood Post. Did you know the woman who lived there?”

  Short and thin, the reporter had corralled her hair under a black watch cap.

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you,” Helen said from her side of the road. “I barely knew her. But I guess you don’t need much.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your article this morning spun a plausible story out of very little thread as far as I could tell.”

  The reporter flinched. “T
hat was Vickie Sullivan. She’s on maternity leave. She started having contractions yesterday. She just wanted to finish the story and get out of there as fast as she could. I’m taking over while she’s gone.”

  Helen flushed. She asked, “Oh, how is she?”

  Both dogs nosed up to the stranger, sniffing at the hand she held out to them.

  After the greeting, the reporter gave each a quick scratch on the head, then turned back to Helen. “Fine, I guess. No word about a baby.”

  Her face was all angles and planes. Some people would have called her sharp-featured, but a better word, Helen thought, might be keen. Everything about her was smart and passionate, especially her blue eyes. Helen immediately decided she liked her.

  Because of the positive impression and to atone further for her blunder, she wanted to help but had to admit, “I’m sorry but I don’t think I can add anything to what I told the police.”

  Delyth looked more closely at her. “Aren’t you the neighbor who found the body?”

  “Guilty as charged. Oh dear. I guess one shouldn’t say that when a murder’s involved.”

  “What was she like? Mrs. DuQuenne?”

  “Like I said, I really didn’t know her. We rarely spoke. I can remember one time we—that’s Frank, my husband and me—we asked her who bought her persimmons. Most neighbors can’t give them away, you see. ‘Tourists,’ she answered. I felt sorry for her. I thought money must be tight. Why else would she haul out her table and bags of fruit year after year?”

  “So you’d say theft couldn’t have been the motive for her murder?”

  Helen laughed. She could see how the other reporter had come up with her story despite the labor contractions and lack of real information. “I’m afraid you’re putting words in my mouth. I have no idea what her financial situation was. Maybe she was a miser and squirreled all her money into the walls.”

  “Fair enough.” Then looking around, Delyth asked, “What’s it like around here? It doesn’t seem the kind of area where you’d expect a murder.”

  “Coco, stop pestering your new sister. Sit.” Helen turned back to the reporter. “No, it’s not a big city but we’re close enough for crime to leach our way.”

  “You know, one of your neighbors was seen arguing with Mrs. DuQuenne the day she was murdered.”

  “Really? Who?”

  “Mykolas Vitkus.”

  “Mikey? Oh, he’s harmless. I watched him grow up. He’s a little older than my son, and he was in one of my classes. What was the argument about?”

  “Supposedly Mrs. DuQuenne discovered him stealing.”

  “That’s ridiculous. I’d be surprised if there was a dollar in the box. Besides, Mikey has some kind of pension from the Army. He doesn’t need to steal.”

  “Not money. Fruit. She’d caught him picking persimmons from her trees.”

  Helen smiled. “That’s Mikey. He seems to believe that trees are community property. He’s had a go at our plums. Everyone just accepts it.”

  “I heard he lives in his car on his mother’s property because she won’t let him into the house.”

  “It’s a pickup with a camper top, and he’s the one who doesn’t want to go into the house.”

  “Why is that?”

  “You’d have to ask him. All I know is that he hasn’t been the same since he returned from Iraq. It’s ironic, you know? They say the army makes a man out of you. Mikey came back less than a boy.” The dogs were pulling at their leashes. “I’ve really got to get going. I wish you luck with your article.”

  THREE

  Watching Helen Terfel walk away, Delyth mused on how to describe her in an article. She’d have liked portraying her as she first saw her, tromping around in green rubber wellies and orange mac like an English-village extra in a British television series. That might work in some uptown mag, but Delyth couldn’t imagine her editor allowing that kind of comparison in the Redwood Post. On her first day he told her to “stick to the facts, the bare facts, no editorializing and definitely no poetry.” Calling Helen a “BBC extra” would have transgressed both rules.

  Her editor, Ted, had made it clear that, for the three months she’d be filling in for the regular crime reporter, he wanted stories on time rather than in depth. “The beast is always hungry,” he’d said. “It’s not particular about what it eats. Your job is just to feed it words.” Instead of hiring someone new, Ted distributed the mundane general-assignment duties Delyth had been doing all along among the newer reporters with Delyth getting the heavier load, including the weather reports and current events calendar.

  Delyth wanted to take advantage of whatever opportunity the interim position offered. She hoped to justify a double major in law and journalism, and to prove, at least to herself, that she’d not been too much of an idiot ditching a well-paying paralegal job to save the world through journalism. It wasn’t just about the money. She needed to squash her fear that she’d merely jumped from one profession filled with cynics to yet another.

  Ted wanted a follow-up story about the murder victim. “She was old,” he’d said. “Make it into a granny-and-the-big-bad-wolf story.” But Delyth was hoping to write a feature that could run above the fold on Sunday and help her make a name for herself. What that story might be hadn’t coalesced in her mind yet.

  She’d talked with the neighbor, Helen Terfel, without anything specific in mind, mostly hoping to get a feel for the neighborhood that might spark an idea. She hadn’t even bothered to take notes or get Helen’s permission to quote her by name. Delyth looked in the opposite direction from Helen’s receding figure to what she assumed to be Mykolas Vitkus’ house or, more correctly, Mykolas’ mother’s house. She decided she might as well see if he was home, telling herself no time like the present.

  “Damn!” she said out loud. She tried to improve her writing by banning clichés from her very thoughts, the same way she’d gotten rid of her Welsh accent when she was twelve and she and her mother had moved to the States. This time, though, she didn’t bother coming up with an alternative phrase. Instead she acted on the idea.

  ◆◆◆

  Water from the previous day’s rain dripped off branches the size of grown trees drooping over the driveway. The house looked in good repair, but its uniform dun color, relieved by neither bright trim nor cheerful accent, gave Delyth the impression of a mound of some burrowing animal. The only color came from weeds that, revived by the rain, might have masqueraded as lawn if anyone had bothered to mow them.

  “Can I help you?” a man’s voice asked from the shadows under the trees. His words were civil; his tone had an edge like a dog’s first, low, warning growl.

  Delyth could discern a dark beard and dark clothes on a sturdy frame. He was holding a small dog the color of soot in one arm.

  ”Hey, I’m Delyth. What kind of dog is that?”

  “A cairn terrier.”

  The dog started pumping its rear legs in a futile attempt to get down.

  “Steve, calm down.” He looked back at Delyth. “He gets excited around strangers. We’re not used to seeing many people here.”

  Everything he said was innocent enough but coming from a half-hidden figure it sound like a threat. “Steve’s a strange name for a dog,” she ventured.

  “It’s a good name.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. I think it’s a fine name. How’d you come up with it?”

  He turned the dog toward his face. “He looks like a Steve. Don’t you, Stevie?”

  Delyth had come to the end of her dog-centric gambit.

  “So what’s your name again?” the man asked after a moment.

  “Delyth Bitersee.” She could hear her ethics professor saying she needed to explain she was a reporter upfront. Not doing so was not only a breach of ethics, it could jeopardize any rapport she thought she was building by withholding the information. But she was alone with a man who stood a foot taller than her and may be involved in a murder. She wasn’t sure whether she wanted to go ahead wi
th an interview or run away.

  “Now that’s a strange name for a woman,” he said.

  “It’s Welsh. Bitersee is a corruption of ‘by the sea’. I guess my ancestors lived by the sea.” She made a feeble attempt to sing. “By the sea, by the sea, by the beautiful sea.” She wished he’d step into the light so she could see his face.

  “Is that where you’re from? Wales?”

  “No, Georgia.”

  “What brought you out here?”

  “Georgia.” It was Delyth’s standard response, clever enough to forestall further questions.

  The man gave a suggestion of a laugh. “So, Delyth from Georgia with a Welsh name, what can I do for you?”

  Delyth still wasn’t ready to commit to an interview and admit to being a reporter. She took two steps closer. “Is this your house?”

  The man backed further into the shadows. “My mother’s.”

  That confirmed that it was Mike Vitkus. “You live with your mother?”

  “No. Over there.” He stepped aside and pointed behind him, “In the camper.”

  The camper sat under the trees surrounded by grass growing running-board high. It didn’t look like it’d moved for a while.

  The first thing that popped into Delyth head was, “Where do you…eh…shower?”

  Mike snorted. “I shit in the woods like a bear.” He peered at her, waiting for her to react. When she didn’t, he added, “Marija built an outside toilet for me. Shower and all.”

  He was toying with her and she couldn’t think of another question. What kind of reporter are you? she chided herself.

  Mike broke the silence. “I ask again, what do you want?”

  Okay, she told herself, stop being a coward. She came to interview the man, and interview she would. “I’m a reporter for the Post. Did you hear about the woman who got killed last night? One of your neighbors.”

  Even in the dim light, she could see him tense up. “The police told me. What’s that got to do with us?”