a broken coil in the chair seat opposite, looked up sharply. “You’re thinking of selling?”
“Yes, maybe. I’ve had a real estate agent through it already, just to see what he thinks I could get. I was pleasantly surprised. The house itself is worth very little, he said, but the land might appeal to a developer. Who knew when we bought this little patch of forest in the back of beyond that the city would be lapping at our toes one day, and all this rock and maple bush might be in demand for houses. ‘All the beauty of the country — at an affordable price, within twenty minutes’ drive of the city,’ the real estate agent said.” She grinned at him with a twinkle in her eye. “Twenty minutes in the dead of night perhaps, as long as you boys in blue don’t catch them streaking along the deserted Queensway.”
“How much property do you have?”
“Eight acres.” She shook her head as she poured the tea, remembering to place a sliver of lemon on his saucer. “I hate to see it overrun with bulldozers and cement, but the money … well, I could certainly use it. Not that I’ve breathed a word to the children yet. They’re eager enough to get their hands on the money. I told them I’m making friends and it’s my home, which is true.”
“Don’t rush into anything, Marilyn. Take your time. Whatever you do, don’t let a real estate agent talk you into putting it on the market until you’re absolutely certain. And I … I have some ideas I’d like to check out first.”
“Why? You fancy moving out here?”
He laughed. “No, not me. You know me and the country. My city lawn is already a challenge.”
She eyed him keenly over the rim of her raised teacup. “Oh, all right then, be mysterious. What did you come all the way out here for then? Certainly not to hear my singing.”
“I came to reassure you about James Rosten. I paid him a visit. He won’t be writing any more letters to you, or to Julia.”
“Oh!” She set her cup down hastily and clasped her hands together. “Thank you.” She breathed deeply as if wrestling back memories. “I suppose I should ask how he is.”
“You don’t have to do anything. You owe him nothing.”
“I know. How is he?”
“Still in a wheelchair but quite mobile. He’s working in the prison school, keeping to himself but out of trouble. In short, a model prisoner. Just one small flaw; he won’t face up to his past. At least that keeps him behind bars.”
Green was silent a half second too long. She jerked her head up. “It will keep him behind bars, won’t it?”
“Probably. He is scheduled for a routine parole review in a couple of months, and it’s possible, depending on what he says —”
“He wouldn’t be sent to a halfway house around here, surely!”
He held up a placating hand as he saw her indignation gathering steam. “No. But it won’t come to that. He will almost certainly say the wrong thing.”
“Holy Jumpin’, Sue! The place looks like it died and went to house hell twenty years ago!”
Detective Sue Peters stepped out into the soggy leaves and melting snow and eyed the bungalow at the end of the lane. Bob was right; it was a sorry sight. Way too small for the four kids she hoped to have; boxy and toad-like, with grimy peepholes for windows and a cracked cement porch that listed with age. Even the brick was ugly. Not the rich red of premium heritage brick, but the grey, second-class brick of the working class.
She and fellow detective Bob Gibbs had spent most of their days off since their honeymoon searching for the perfect house. Having grown up on a farm, Sue longed for wide-open fields, bridle paths, and a swimming hole for those hot summer nights. But Bob had never known a yard bigger than a postage stamp. He couldn’t imagine living deep in the country, and, besides, as Major Crimes detectives, they couldn’t afford an hour-long commute to headquarters in case of emergencies or overtime. The Village of Navan seemed like the perfect compromise.
When Inspector Green had mentioned the hilltop country house overlooking eight acres of rolling fields and woodland, Sue had pictured whispering trees, sunlit meadows, and a gingerbread cabin by the creek, not this plain little box. The house had been built during the Second World War, when no one had the luxury or the supplies for style. It stood now, seventy years later, overrun by lilac and juniper, its legacy built not on elegant lawn parties and ladies’ teas, but on sweat and struggle and simple dreams.
Sue loved it instantly.
“But we’d have to tear the place down,” Bob said, struggling to extricate his beanpole frame from her little Echo. “Start from scratch.”
“Not necessarily,” Sue shouted over her shoulder as she squelched through the mud toward the house. Bare canes of climbing roses clung to the brick, promising a beautiful display in the summer, and spring crocuses were already poking their tips through the decaying leaves. “It’s as solid as a tank. It’s real brick all the way around, not a phony façade. It just needs a second storey. Imagine the view we’d get over that valley.” She tilted her head up to the towering pines and maples that ringed the house. “And these trees! They must be as old as the house. Probably planted by the original owners. Oh, Bob, just think what we could do with all this land! A pond, a horse stable …”
Bob headed across the yard to the shed, which he pried open with a screech. “It’s full of junk,” he called out. “It’s going to be a real job just to clear it all out. Most of these tools probably haven’t worked in twenty years.”
Three sharp blasts of a horn startled them. Bob whirled around just as an aging Honda CR-V slewed into the lane. It jerked to a stop beside their car and a middle-aged woman climbed out. She was wearing a windbreaker that was much too large for her and her white hair stood out in all directions.
“What are you doing?” she cried.
Bob was frozen, with that deer-in-the-headlights look that Sue knew all too well. She stepped back into the drive. Aware that her pink-and-green neon ski jacket did not exactly scream cop, she tried for her most formal tone. “Mrs. Carmichael? Sorry to startle you. I’m Sue Peters and this is my husband, Bob Gibbs. We’re detectives, we work under Inspector Green. He told us …” Her voice faded under the woman’s scowl. “Maybe we jumped the gun. He mentioned you wanted to sell, and we’ve been looking for the perfect place for months.”
The woman’s glare softened marginally at the mention of the inspector. Sue walked closer, trying to disguise her limp. On damp days, or under stress, the old injuries still ached. The doctors said they always would.
“Well, he didn’t tell me,” Mrs. Carmichael said, slamming her car door and crossing her arms. “I wish he had. I would have told him not to rush out looking for buyers just yet.”
“Well, he didn’t really —” Sue broke off. The inspector had not actually said the house was on the market yet, but Sue had wanted an advance peek. What could be the harm in scouting the place out? The land and the location were the key elements anyway. “We figured it would be nice to save us all the real estate fees.”
“B-but we don’t mean to intrude, ma’am. We — we should have called.” Bob, already hustling down the lane, shot Sue an I-told-you-so glance. It had been her idea to drive out to Navan unannounced. But she had been so excited by the possibility they might
