was maternal, but home was a quality she projected more than a place she inhabited. She gave Miranda confidence that Jill was well cared for and loved.
“Have you always been with Molly and Jill?”asked Miranda.
“I was here from day one. I took them in for Mr. Robert Griffin. I used to clean for him. After the baby was born, we searched out this place. Molly thought it was just right, so Mr. Griffin bought it and we moved in. We’ve been here ever since, for fourteen years. Just over there is where Marshall McLuhan used to live.”
A brief look of defiance crossed her face, which immediately softened to forbearance. “I don’t know if we can afford to stay. Molly paid the bills. But don’t you worry. I’ll look after the girl. Molly counted on me.”
“You’ll be all right, Victoria. This is your home.”
“I come from Barbados,” she said. “I speak Barbadian with my friends. Lord, you wouldn’t understand us. No, you wouldn’t. We speak Canadian dialect here.”
“Do you know who Eleanor Drummond is?”
“Never heard of her before yesterday, the night when you brought the girl home. Jill asked me about that — did I know Eleanor Drummond? I don’t think there are any relatives or otherwise out there, not at all. There’s not anyone but me and the girl. Miss Molly never got a Christmas card in her life.”
“Tell me about Molly Bray.”
“Oh, dear, it’s hard to believe she’s gone.” Victoria lifted her hands to shoulder height and gestured into the depths of the house. “She’s everywhere here. She was so young, too young, you know. There’s no good age for dying, but there are some worse than others. She was too young to be dying on us.” She looked into Miranda’s eyes. “She never took something for nothing, nothing that wasn’t rightfully hers.”
Victoria smiled almost wistfully. “But, boy, oh, boy, if it was hers, she was fierce.” She wasn’t crying. Her eyes glistened with pride. “Boys,” she declared as if there was an argument. “She could be as cool as a breeze from heaven, and hot as the fires of hell.” She nodded in affirmation to herself, evidently pleased with her summary description, enjoying the familiarity of her own words. She had clearly said them before. “The hellfire was all inside,” she clarified. “She was serene, a lady, out where it counted.”
“And you never even heard the name Eleanor Drummond before?”
“No, ma’am, I never. Like I said.”
“Was Mr. Griffin a part of your life?”
“Oh, no, ma’am. Molly hated old Robert Griffin. I never thought there was enough of him to make any difference.”
“How do you mean?”
“He wasn’t much of a human being, one way or another.”
“He certainly had an impact on her,” said Miranda. Victoria suddenly became wary.
“All this,” said Miranda, indicating their surroundings.
“Don’t you believe it. This was Molly Bray’s doing. From the time she was sixteen she was who she was. This is what she set out to make for herself.”
“Tell me about Jill.”
“She’s sleeping now, or as good as asleep.”
“What’s she like?”
“She’s family, Miss Quin. Family is family.”
“And was Molly Bray family?”
“Well, she was and she wasn’t. She was Jill’s momma, and Jill is my very own child, like the child of my womb. We loved her no matter what, so I guess we were all family.”
Miranda picked up on the phrase “no matter what.”
“Was she difficult sometimes?”
“Jill or Molly? Molly wasn’t difficult, Detective. Distracted maybe. Sometimes Molly Bray was, like, here and not here.”
“Distracted?”
“Like she was following another agenda, you might say. You know, in her head. She was a loving mother. She was my very good friend. Nobody should die so young. Nobody should die if they can help it.”
“I’ll call in to see Jill in the morning,” said Miranda, getting up and moving through the central hallway toward the panelled vestibule by the front door.
“It’s Saturday tomorrow. She’ll be here. She went to school today. I wanted her to stay home, but she’s headstrong like her mother. She was going, and that was that.”
Miranda noticed the rug in the vestibule. It was like one of Morgan’s, a Gabbeh, a thick weave from Anatolia done with old-style vegetal dyes. She could hear his voice, expounding. “It’s a Gabbeh,” she said. “The rug’s very beautiful. It fits in perfectly.”
“Maybe so. I don’t know about Gabbeh. It’s the last thing she did, buying that, the last thing to make this house like it is.”
Before leaving, Miranda had reached out and given the woman’s hand a reassuring squeeze.
“Now don’t you fret, Detective, and I won’t worry too much myself, just enough. Jill and I, we’ll manage fine.”
Now, the next morning, at the large front door with a full night’s sleep behind her, Miranda felt good about coming back to see the girl. For now Miranda was content with getting to know this strange woman-child who, like herself, was a link between Molly Bray and Eleanor Drummond, and who was virtually, as events were unfolding, Miranda’s ward.
Jill came to the door and opened it wide. She welcomed Miranda with a flourish, then turned and walked purposefully toward the kitchen. Miranda followed, thinking the outfit Jill was wearing, prescribed to make young girls feel sexy, made her look as if she were playing dress-up — pretending to be women without quite developing the knack.
“Hello, Victoria,” Miranda said when they reached the kitchen. “Good morning.”
“Good morning, Lady Detective. We’re just having breakfast. Pancakes or French toast?”
“Scrambled eggs,” said Jill. “Let’s have scrambled eggs and brown toast and coffee.”
“You don’t drink coffee,” said Victoria matter-offactly. “You can pour Miss Quin a cup. We’re having French toast.”
After breakfast, Miranda and Jill sat out on the front steps. A few people strolled by, walking dogs, exchanging pleasantries as they passed one another without stopping.
“How are you doing?” Miranda asked.
“I don’t like my mom being dead.”
Miranda waited.
“She left me. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I’ve got to look after Victoria. Do you know that she’s got three kids in Barbados? They live with her mother,
