“What?”
“Pretty sure it was her. Agile. Sparky. She had an apron on, but that was her alright, the woman you were with at the ball.”
“Are you saying Mrs West is Lucy Beston, son?”
“Saw it with my own eyes, Dad. What’s the problem?”
I’m silent as I digest Jamison’s words.
I force my fury about Lucy’s deception to one side as I explain to Jamison I’m selling the house. I’ll split the money equally between him and Dee.
“I won’t ever bail you out again, son,” I tell him. “This is it. Take my advice and buy property with it if you can. It generally holds its value. It’s real estate, something real, not promises from a swindler.”
“I hear you, Dad. I’ll do it. Thank you.”
I phone Dee to tell her the same. She’s sad. Sentimental about the old place. Thought she could have brought the kids back in summer, but I tell her she can afford farm stays anywhere with the funds. I tell her how much the upkeep is costing if we don’t sell, and she finally agrees.
Now to confront my two-faced neighbor.
As I drive, I remember that time recently when there was something different about my apartment. Usually there’s the hum of the dryer. That day it was silent. There was hot apple pie on the stove-top, in a different pie dish, but the oven was cold.
And there were no towels in the bathroom.
We even spoke about the strong smell of apple pie at her door, that time she dropped her key. It comes to me in an instant. She dropped it because she had a pile of towels in her arms – my towels.
The minute I get back to Brighton Court, I rush to Lucy’s door, and knock.
I knock again.
“Lucy?” And knock again.
When she opens it, slowly, her smile is fake. She won’t meet my eyes.
“Yes?” she says. It’s the first time she hasn’t invited me in.
“We need to talk,” I say.
“Mmm,” she says. But she hesitates; doesn’t stand back to let me in as she usually does.
I stand firm, on her threshold, expectant. She yields.
“Give me a couple of minutes, please, Doc.”
She’ll be hiding the evidence.
