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She opened a plastic storage container and said, “Would you like some cookies? They’re oatmeal raisin. I made themmyself.”
“That sounds great, thanks.”
“So you’re with the FBI. That is so exciting. But don’t FBI agents wear suits? They do on TV.” She put a hand to her mouth as she looked over Decker’s rumpled appearance. “Or are you undercover? You look like you could be an undercover agent.”
Decker took all this in and said, “I did some of that. But now I’m here helping thelocal police with what happened at the house down the street.”
“Yes, it was awful.” Martin shivered again. “I mean, I know the town has hit bad times, but we’ve never had amurderon our street before.”
She set out the plate of cookies along with paper napkins. “Do you take milk and sugar in your tea, like the British? Not that you’re British. Are you British? You don’t soundBritish, but I always like to ask.”
“I’m from Ohio. And, no, just tea, thanks.”
“It’s peppermint. Very good for your throat and sinuses.”
“I’m sure.”
“I had a friend from Ohio. Toledo. Have you ever been there?”
“Yes.”
“I liked my visit. But that was in, oh, 1965. Has it changed much?”
“I expect so, yes.”
“Most placeschange, don’t they?”
“Like Baronville?” asked Decker.
She gazed at him, and this time the look was far less like a scatterbrained old lady.
“I’ve lived here all my life,” she said. “Back when times were booming, there were certain elements that were not all that…nice.”
“Care to elaborate on that?”
She looked up at him over her cup of tea. “Waterunder the bridge. Now, what can I do to help you with your case?”
“We’re looking for anyone who might have seen something strange at the house in question.”
“Have you talked to anyone else on the street?”
“Just one. Fred Ross.”
At the sound of the man’s name, Martin’s face screwed up.
“That man,” she said derisively.
“You two don’t getalong?”
“My husband loathed him until the day he died. Fred is very hard to get along with. Hateful, prejudiced, manipulative.”
“The first two I understand, having met the man. But manipulative?”
Martin didn’t answer until the water had boiled and she had poured out the tea. She handed him his cup and sat down opposite him.
“Fred’s wife died, oh, it’s beentwenty years ago now or more, about the time my Harry passed. She was a nice lady but he never gave her a moment’s peace. If his dinner wasn’t ready and to his liking, or she’d gone over her grocery budget, or the house wasn’t spick-and-span, he would just abuse that woman no end. It was awful.”
“Did she ever call the police?”
