never said, and I never thought to ask. Tell me more.”
“I don’t know much more,” Jim said. “Audrey Melbourne, from Houston, small, curly red hair, lots of makeup and jewelry. She turned up not long after New Year’s saying she was thinking about relocating to Boston but didn’t like the high rents. She found a place to live a few blocks from here, says it’s temporary. I’ll admit, I didn’t think she’d come back in here after that first night, but she and Iris have kicked up this friendship...” He trailed off, eyeing Susanna. “You okay?”
“Melbourne...” She almost couldn’t get it out. She was shaking visibly now, unable to contain her shock. Davey eased off his stool, obviously ready to come to her aid. She tossed her head back a little, trying to rally. “The next time this woman comes in, will you call me? You have my cell phone number? I want to meet her.”
“Susanna.” Jim’s blue eyes drilled into her, and she remembered he had long experience with his own daughter and her half-truths, including her recent dissembling about her haunted carriage house and the dead body in the cellar. He set the finished drink he’d been making on a tray and pulled her soup bowl away, dumping it into a dishpan to bring out back. “If there’s something I need to know about Audrey Melbourne, you need to tell me. Now. No screwing around.”
“She—I don’t want her near my grandmother.”
“That goes for Maggie and Ellen as well?”
Susanna stared at him dully, unable to think. “What?”
“The twins. They had soup with Iris and Audrey a few nights ago, when you were at your tai chi class.”
“Oh, my God.”
Before she knew what was happening, Susanna had fallen off the stool, but Davey Ahearn was there instantly, bracing her with a muscular, tattooed arm. “Easy, kid,” he said.
“I don’t usually come apart like this.” But her daughters. Maggie and Ellen. Gran. Susanna placed a shaking hand on her temple, as if that somehow would help her organize a coherent thought. “Damn it. I could be wrong—I hope so. I’ve been living with a Texas Ranger for so long...” She looked at Davey, managing a weak, unconvincing smile. “It’s because of Jack I could tell Tess about decomposing bodies.”
Davey continued his iron grip on her arm. “Susanna, who is Audrey Melbourne?”
She didn’t answer him, instead turning to Jim. “Do you know where she lives?”
“No,” he said, “and I wouldn’t tell you if I did. You’d go over there and get yourself into trouble. I can see it in your eyes. Then I’d have to call Jack and tell him.” He picked up his drinks tray, straightening. “Answer Davey’s question, Susanna. Who is this woman?”
“I’m not positive—really, I could be wrong. The woman I’m thinking of is blond—”
“The red’s a dye job,” Davey said, not letting up on his grip.
Some of the adrenaline oozed out of her, some of the tension in her muscles released. They deserved to know. This was their neighborhood, Iris was their friend. “The man I told you about who killed his wife,” she said, pausing for a breath, feeling the clam chowder churning in her stomach. Davey remained at her side, steady, not interrupting for once. She tried again. “The local police officer who found her—the wife—ended up in prison for official misconduct. Witness tampering. She got out on New Year’s Eve. She took off a few days later. She was obsessed with Australia, and everyone thought—”
“Melbourne,” Jim said. “That’s in Australia.”
Davey released his grip now that Susanna was steadier on her feet. “I knew that was a phony name.” He gave her a hard look. “Are you going to call Jack, or do you want to leave that to me and Jimmy?”
Meaning Jack would get called, one way or the other. “I’ll call him,” she said. “Just first let me make sure I’m right about this woman.”
* * *
Alice knew something was wrong the minute she walked into Jim’s Place. It was chowder night, and she deliberately arrived after Iris would have come and gone. Alice didn’t want to draw too much attention to their friendship and tried to stagger their visits, not make it obvious the old woman was her focus.
With freezing rain forecast for the evening, the bar was relatively quiet, the television tuned to a repeat of an old Red Sox game. Davey Ahearn was staring up at it, his broad back to Alice as she eased onto a stool at the bar. Jim Haviland put a bowl of chowder in front of her even before she’d ordered it.
Definitely, something was up.
She’d never had particularly good instincts, but prison had taught her to tune in to her environment, notice the undercurrents, see trouble before it happened—not wait to get her ass kicked. She’d been trying to show her best side in Boston. She found herself wanting Iris Dunning to think well of her. It was as if she were adopting the new persona she would use in Australia—letting her real self out. That was what she used to tell herself about her parents. When they were sober and straight, that was their real selves. That was who they really were. Not perfect, but decent, interested in her.
When they were drunk or high on drugs, they weren’t their real selves. Her grandma said it was the devil, but Alice didn’t believe that. She could never see the devil in her mother and father, even when they were passed out in their own vomit. They weren’t mean, just a couple of no-accounts.
She wasn’t like them.
Her real self was pleasant, optimistic, empathetic, kind to old people and not one to hold a grudge. Sure, she was still trying her damnedest to extort fifty thousand dollars from a murderer, but she’d also learned in prison that she had to be practical, use what she had. Attainable goals. She hated to involve Iris and the Galway women in her scheme, but that just couldn’t be avoided.
If she had to sit in judgment of herself—well, she’d opt for forgiveness. She’d see a woman who’d been through a lot and was just trying to get to a point where she could make a fresh start, maybe put the screws to a murderer who was otherwise getting off scot-free. That wasn’t so bad.
Beau was still dragging his heels—but he’d crack. He was getting close. He asked questions about Susanna Galway. He repeated things he’d said to her in the kitchen that day, insisting he hadn’t said anything bad. But he wasn’t sure—he wanted to hear what was on that tape.
Every week, Alice told herself, okay, one more week. She had to stick to her guns, because it wasn’t a good idea to waffle with Beau. She couldn’t give up too soon or he’d wonder, and that’d make him dangerous. He’d wondered what she and Rachel were up to, wondered if they were plotting to kill him and get his money—wondered about Alice’s remark about smothering him.
Boom. Next thing, Rachel was dead, and Alice’s monogrammed change purse was floating in her blood.
What Beau needed was some encouragement—maybe she just needed to get on with it, break in to Iris’s house, search Susanna’s room and pretend she’d found the tape. Then tell Beau she was bringing it to him or the Texas Rangers, either one. Maybe the media. Something that’d rattle his cage.
She was dillydallying, she knew, because of Iris and clam chowder nights at Jim’s Place, fooling herself
