She said she would and I thanked her. My phone dinged—another text from Mimi Donnelly:Come anytime, it said. She also sent a location pin.
Fishing with a gill net wasn’t as bad as I’d thought.
Forty-two
I texted Mimi that I was on my way and then took off, obediently following the GPS’s directions till I reached my destination, which, as it turned out, was twenty miles away.
It was in a high-end condo complex called Maple Village that boasted a pool with a clubhouse, tennis courts, a small golf course, and really nice landscaping. I drove through it slowly. Judging by the residents I saw, some sitting on porches overlooking manicured lawns, others walking little dogs or going on assisted walks themselves, uniformed health aides at their sides, Maple Village catered to senior citizens. As far as quality of life went, it felt light-years beyond Leila Donnelly’s broken-down farmhouse.
It made me think,This is where her publishing earnings have been going.Because I knew how pricey these places could be.My parents had been looking into a few of them, just after Dad’s retirement. But they decided to hold off until they could better afford the HOA fees—and this was just for the independent-living section. Once you moved on to assisted living, memory care, and the nursing units, these regular charges went up exponentially.
I stopped my car in front of the pinned address—a ranch house with a neat row of pink roses in the front. There was one car in the driveway—a silver RAV4. I parked behind it and jogged up the steps and rang the bell.
The door opened quickly. Mimi Donnelly poked her head out. She looked similar to the way she did in her Instagram picture, but her hair had grown out a bit. She wore it in a ponytail. “Sunny?” she said.
I told her I was sorry for her loss.
“I’m just glad you wrote me,” she said. “The detective on Leila’s case seems to have tunnel vision.”
“He said you wouldn’t talk to him.”
“I just won’t say what he wants me to.”
“Join the club,” I said. “Full disclosure. I’m a private eye.”
“I know. I looked you up online.”
“And my client is Melanie Joan Hall.”
“The romance writer. The one Detective Droopy Dog is ready to arrest.”
“He reminded me more of Larry David,” I said. “But yes.”
She rolled her eyes. “I mean, I don’t know her personally,” Mimi said. “But I’ve seen enough of Melanie Joan Hall to know she probably can’t shoot a Glock .45.”
“I do know her personally,” I said. “She can’t shoot anything.”
Mimi managed a smile. She seemed calm, but her eyes were bloodshot and her face had a drawn look to it, as though she was using all her energy to keep from bursting into tears. She took a few steps back and opened the door wider and asked if I wanted to come in.
I could hear jingly music and hyperenthusiastic voices coming from the other room—some kids’ show playing. “Thank you,” I said.
Mimi wore white cotton slacks and pink Crocs and a pale blue T-shirt that saidWorld’s Greatest Grandmaon it. Despite the getup, she seemed a little young for this complex—and for the house, which, if the living room/dining room was any indication, was all cream-colored carpets and heavy wood furniture and oil paintings of big-eyed children with overly complicated frames. The sofa was beige, with a green pineapple print. It was covered in thick plastic, the likes of which I hadn’t seen since Richie and I were newlyweds and we visited his ninety-five-year-old aunt in Dorchester.Try not to say anything about the couch condom,Richie had said as we walked in.
It all looked clean and orderly, though—which was a lot more than I could say for Leila’s farmhouse. I thought of little Tommy, shuttling back and forth between these two vastly different homes. Then I thought of the farmhouse again. The Porsche parked outside.
“That RAV4 out front,” I said. “Is it yours?”
“Just finished paying off the loan,” Mimi said.
“Nice.”
“Thanks.”
“You own any other cars?”
“No.”
“Happen to know anybody who drives a Porsche 911 Carrera?”
