As he started the Pilot in Karin’s driveway, his phone buzzed with an incoming text from an unknown number.
“Cn u come by?”
Signed with the image of a cursive letter L, entwined with vines.
He shook his head. The last thing he needed was more of Lynette’s naked rage. But he suspected if he didn’t respond, the summonses would get more peremptory.
“10 min,” he texted back and reversed the car out of the driveway.
As he followed the broad curves of Shore Road in the sun, he decided he didn’t have anything to tell the Armitrages. The anomaly of Candy Jardin’s statement he’d hold onto until he could talk to her. It was probably nothing.
The lawn across the front of the mansion showed a pale green, fertilized new growth, an inch or two longer than neat. The mowing service was overdue.
Lynette opened the storm door for him, the glass panel replaced with a screen. Optimistic for this early in the spring.
“Come in, Mr. Macklin. My, that lawn could use a trim, couldn’t it?”
Maybe she was emerging from her grief, paying some attention to the world outside. A light scent, floral but undercut with a hint of sourness, rose from her skin as he brushed past her into the house.
It was chilly inside. He zipped up his jacket. She laughed.
“Martin always turns the heat off around now. Regardless of the weather.”
“Is he here?”
“Working,” she said. “Can I offer you some coffee?”
She led him away from the living room and its ocean panorama into the kitchen. He expected a House Beautiful version: racks of polished copper pans, stainless steel appliances, containers of shiny utensils, all unused but carefully staged.
Instead, he found a kitchen in actual use. A stand mixer sat on the counter next to an open bag of flour, drips down the outside of the bowl. A wire rack of cookies cooled by the window. The coffeemaker was on, the carafe half full. He felt her watching him.
“This is my place.” She laughed. “If I have a religion, it’s probably cooking.”