But there were at least ten other people around, all of whom I knew. This was not the time for a confrontation. That said, I couldn’t quite get myself to joke and say,We have to stop meeting this way,in part because a smile was beyond me. Having a beer at my favorite pub was bad enough. Now my post office?
He stared for several more seconds this time than last. We both moved right, then left before working it out, at which point he nodded and passed.
“Have you not met him yet?” Cornelia asked, having seen our little dance.
“Oh, I have,” I replied without saying where. “What was he picking up?”
“Bedding”
“Bedding.”
“From Wayfair.”
“Why does he need bedding?”
“He has to sleep on something.”
“But he’s with the Inn. Isn’t he staying there?”
“Not now that he has sheets. He bought the Barnstead place. Lord knows why. It’s been empty for three years and is falling apart.”
Bought.Bought?
“It needs major rehab,” Cornelia said, “and I do mean major. Bill Barnstead did nothing but mourn after his wife died, so the house is in a state of disrepair. Oh, the place has good bones, and it’s set on a good piece of land, prime waterfront property overlooking the Blue, but it’s overgrown. If he wants any sunlight, he’ll have to take down trees, and you know what the town thinks of that.”
I probably did, but the buzzing in my head muddled any thought of trees. Heboughtthe Barnstead house? Okay, he might buy it for someone else. But setting it up? Withbedding?
He was moving here. But without letting me know? Without calling? Texting?
It didn’t make sense. A venture capitalist might visit Devon; hewouldn’t move here unless he was retiring, and Edward was too young for that. Besides, I was here. No way would he want to live anywhere near the woman who had killed his only child.
“Maggie?” Cornelia tested softly. “Hello?”
I blinked and refocused. “Sorry. What?”
“Everything okay?”
“Yes. Uh, yes.” I had to think quickly. Cornelia wasn’t easily fooled. “I’m just worried.” I tipped my head toward the group gathered at the bank of steel PO boxes. “What are they saying?”
“Pretty much what you’d expect. Did the boy do it? Did Grace know? Will the Spa keep her on?”
“Then the talk is positive?”
“So far. They like her. They say she’s a good mother. They’re not pointing fingers.”
Yet,I thought.
Yet,her cocked brow confirmed.
I assumed Cornelia’s excuse for cynicism was age. Not wanting to get into my own, I asked, “Do we know anything more about the case against Chris?” I had been out of contact for several hours, and the post office was a hub for news. If anything had happened, Cornelia would know it.
“Officially, no,” she said for my ears alone. “Those who are involved with the prosecution are being careful not to jeopardize it.”
“They have Ben Zwick to say what they won’t. He’s a force.”
“He’s only describing what he perceives as his personal injury. That’s his right.”
Had it come from anyone else, I might have taken offense on Grace’s behalf. But Cornelia had been a professor before retiring here—a Radcliffe degree from way back, was the word, andon the Harvard faculty for years.I wouldn’t have taken that as proof of anything, if she wasn’t always right.
