“What I mean is, whatwouldkill grass? Like, burn grass?”
His fidgeting stops, and he frowns at the lawn. “What do you mean, burn?”
“I mean, if you used the wrong weed killer, say, could that leave burn marks in the grass?”
He nods. “Yeah, of course. Or a propane torch.”
“What’s that?”
“A weed burner.” He looks directly at me for the first time, his forehead creased, as if he’s looking for some sign in me. “Why do you ask?”
I feel as though I’ve missed something; our wires are crossed.
“No reason,” I say. “Why do you say it like that?”
He settles back in his chair, his gaze still on me. “I had one stolen from my van the other day. A propane torch.”
“What?”
“Yeah. One of the tools I bought from Michael Harris,actually, when he stopped working. Joel helped him sell some of his stuff.” He says Joel’s name with a slight awkwardness.
I stare at him. “Did you report it to the police?”
He studies me for a moment. “Is there something you want to confess, Seraphine?”
“No!” I say, but I can feel the heat in my cheeks. “Don’t be ridiculous. What would I want with a weeding tool?”
He runs his hand over his beard as he glances at the lawn, and the sudden flash of amusement in his eyes triggers a stab of regret in me for our lost friendship.
“Fair point,” he says. “No, I haven’t reported it yet. I’ll mention it to Martin when I see him. I was stupid—the van wasn’t locked—and it’s the only thing they took. I thought it was probably kids mucking around. Or someone just”—his smile has gone—“borrowed it.”
He eases to his feet, the empty glass in his hand.
“Who would have borrowed it?” I ask.
He looks at his watch and grimaces. “I really need to run, sorry. Thanks for the drink.” I have to make an effort to keep up with his long strides back through the house.
“You’re not going to answer me?” I say as he opens the front door, and he turns to me with a startled expression.
“What?”
“Who do you think might have borrowed a weed burner from you?”
His eyes search mine, and he leans toward me, and when he speaks I hear the genuine concern in his voice.
“I’m really very sorry about your dad, Seraphine. He was a good man. We all miss him. Just—let me know if there’s ever anything you need, anything I can do.”
He swings round and jogs to his van.
I lean against the kitchen sink for a long time, waiting tomake sense of it. I’ve had so many off-kilter conversations this past week—not just with Ralph, but with Laura, Pamela, Alex, Michael—do they all know something I don’t know? Do they have an agenda, an ulterior motive? Is it personal? Is it me?
I don’t find any answers. The clock in the hall chimes, and I lift my chin, shaking off the circular thoughts. I make a cup of tea and prowl around the house, poking through the sideboard in the sitting room and browsing through the family photo albums again. I wander back toward the day nursery, an old memory niggling at me.
A walk-in cupboard opens into one corner of the room, and I have to replace the light bulb inside it to get a good look at the contents. It’s like a time warp in here, with the games and toys of several generations muddled together. I know what I’m looking for, and after a couple of minutes, I ease out a cardboard box, a bit bigger than a shoebox, decorated with glued-on postcards and tickets and drawings. This was Edwin’s treasure box.
I carry it over to the battered old nursery table. In my memory, the pictures stuck on the outside were colorful and exotic, but in the bright sunshine of this room now they look faded and tatty. I lift the lid gingerly.
There are shriveled pinecones inside, and conkers. A pebble that has an “S” shape gouged into it. Tickets to the pantomime, the aquarium, Madame Tussauds waxworks. Train tickets—many, many train tickets. Programs for primary school productions—Edwin Mayes as The Innkeeper. Certificates for swimming, for a spelling bee, for karate. And a bundle of cards and drawings at the bottom. I would guess Edwin stopped squirreling things away in here when he was around seven or eight. Danny and I caught chicken pox when we were six, and I remember Edwin digging the box out and letting us browse through its contents when we were housebound feeling itchy and grumpy.
