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“I love that dress, Constance,” Donna says to me, leaning forward to dip a carrot stick in hummus. “Where’d you get it?”
“My mother’s,” I say.
“Oooh… vintage,” Donna says with a wide smile. “Compliments to your mother then.”
“She’s dead,” I reply.
Donna shoots a look at her husband. Then turns back to me, pressing a hand to her chest. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”
“It’s all right, it was a while ago.” I stare down at the spread of crudité sitting on the low coffee table. I haven’t had it in me to eat even a bite, though I’d usually be all over a tray of mini quiches.
Donna clears her throat. “Well, I’m very pleased you were able to join us. Fred said you two had a very illuminating conversation. I know I’m very interested in hearing all about the nooks and crannies of our darling home.”
I glance at the clock. Twelve past six. Whereishe? “Yes, well, I hope to illuminate further why this home is worth preserving rather than dismantling.”
“After some dinner, of course,” Fred says.
The doorbell sounds. “Ah! The sweet sounds of a twist doorbell. I’m so pleased that it’s still in use,” I say, crunching my fingers nervously under the sofa cushion.
“Expecting someone, dear?” Donna asks.
Fred frowns. “No. Let me go check on that.”
My heart thumps in my chest as Fred disappears into the front hall. Donna and I smile at each other pleasantly, but there’s not much more to say, thankfully. I glance at the three children who sit like ducks in a row. Two boys, close in age, both with heads of dark hair like their father’s. They keep flicking each other, vacillating between laughing at the ongoing joke and baring their teeth in intimidation. Their older sister must be high school-aged, and is completely withdrawn from them. She and Donna are almost like twins, save the bleached blonde hair. She flips her phone over and over in her lap, checking it from time to time, clearly frustrated that there’s not enough going on in the world to distract her.
“Sheriff! To what do I owe the pleasure?” we hear Fred call out.
Donna shoots to her feet and hustles out of the room. Guess Rory had her pegged. “Is that Rory McEvoy?”
I follow, albeit slower, staying a few feet behind the hubbub in the front hall.
“I’m sorry to bother you, I was just driving past and I realized your mailbox—” Rory’s eyes land on me. “Dr. Chaplin! What a surprise!”
Thank goodness he’s in law enforcement, because his acting skills are atrocious. “Hello, Sheriff McEvoy.”
“I’m afraid we were just about to sit down to a dinner. Dr. Chaplin was going to enlighten us on the worthiness of preserving the old girl,” Fred says, gesturing to the house.
I can practically hear the floorboards groan with disdain.
“What a formidable endeavor, Dr. Chaplin,” Rory says with a nod.
Okay, Mr. Thesaurus. “Thank you, Sheriff.”
“What were you saying about the mailbox?”
Rory hops to attention. “Right! Well, someone must have run into it because the thing is flat out on its side. I thought you should know.”
I hold in the beginnings of a laugh. Why does something tell me he created a whole crime scene to justify his coming up to the Wilhelm House?
“Oh, that’s a shame. I’ll have to take a look after dinner.”
“I did what I could to prop it up, but—” Rory scans us and then takes a step back. “I’m intruding and I don’t?—”
As expected and hoped, Donna swoops in. “Nonsense. You should stay. Eat with us.”
Fred’s eyebrows jump. “He should?”
“I couldn’t,” Rory says. “I wasn’t invited.”
