“I’m sorry about your husband,” Spencer says, picking up on it as well.
“It’s been fifteen years now. But you aren’t here to talk about me, are you?”
“Afraid not.” Spencer takes another sip of his tea. I’m morbidly curious to know if he’ll finish the whole thing. I bet if she had a pot plant, he’d pour it out while she isn’t looking. He has no choice but to either let it go cold or drink it. Mine isn’t terrible,exactly. Knowing Spencer made it himself helps me get through it despite the light bitterness. Not black tea; it’s something else. Some kind of green tea hybrid?
“How long have you known Ms. Ferguson?” I ask, giving Spencer a momentary reprieve to deal with his tea issues without an active audience.
“About five years now. She moved in right in the middle of winter, the poor dear.”
“And is she a good neighbour?”
“Oh, she’s lovely. Mostly keeps to herself. No wild parties or thumping music. She pays for her gardener to mow my lawns too when he’s here.” She pauses. “Paid, I suppose.” She frowns at her own tea, curling her hands around it to stop the shaking.
“How did you find her?” Spencer spreads his knees, leaning his elbows on them. “You have a key to her home?”
Irene takes a moment to answer. “I water her plants and take care of her mail when she isn’t home.”
“Does she travel a lot?” I ask.
“Mostly when she visits her parents. But occasionally, she stays in the city when she has a big event for her fancy actor gig. She kept saying she wanted to get a dog, but she never got around to it.”
Spencer leans forward, face thoughtful. “Was she supposed to be away this weekend?”
“No, no. I’d baked a carrot cake and went over to give her some. I can never eat a whole cake by myself. Not anymore.”
Spencer’s mouth tips up. “I love carrot cake.” He’s not subtle at all about it. The nudge at the alibi is cleverly disguised by his love of sweets. He’ll get fed at the same time we confirm that her carrot cake story is legitimate.
“Would you like some?” she asks, eyes brightening. “I still have some left. Well… because—”
“He’d love some,” I interject. There’s something about her statement that bothers me, though I can’t quite put my finger on it.
It doesn’t take long for Spencer to settle back on the couch beside me with a plate of the cake. “Bit late for cake, wasn’t it?” he asks casually.
He’s right. We were called outearly. Why was she bringing Veronica cake after midnight?
“I—” Irene hesitates. “I found her hours before that. I didn’t know what to do. I panicked. Waited too long to call the police.”
It’s not as unusual as it sounds. Responses to discovering bodies can vary wildly, and some of the decisions made aren’t always rational.
“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary that night? An unexpected visitor, loud noises, any disturbances?”
“She always had people coming and going at weird hours of the night and day,” she says, a light wrinkle of disgust on her face. “But not that night.”
“You didn’t like that she entertained?” Spencer asks, mouth lifting slightly into a knowing smile.
“I think that if she hadn’t spread her legs quite so much, she might not be dead,” Irene replies bluntly.
“Did you know any of the people?” It’s highly likely that her killer was one of her “frequent visitors.” It would explain how they got so close without damaging anything. “Were any of them frequent visitors? Faces you may recognise?”
She shakes her head. Some of her tea spills over the side as she puts it on the coffee table, hands unsteady. “No, I’m sorry. I just water her plants when she’s away for the weekend. I hear the cars, but I don’t look.”
I don’t believe that for a second. I doubt she’s going to admit to being a voyeur, though. I’m at least convinced she has no useful information we can use. I pull out a card from my inner pocketand pass it over. It simply has my pseudonym, fake details about my profession, and the address of Riley’s precinct—he’ll cover if she goes a roundabout way and contacts the station instead of me directly—and a number for a burner phone that’s not linked to anyone and used for situations like this. “If you think of anything else that may be relevant to the investigation, give us a call. If we have any follow-up questions, we’ll be in touch.”
“Thanks for the cake, it was delicious!” Spencer says. “Let me put these dishes back into the kitchen.”
I stand and awkwardly shake her hand while we wait. It’s clammy and cold, and I resist the urge to wipe my hand on my pants right after. “Thank you for your time,” I say politely. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“I won’t say anything,” she promises. “I signed all your paperwork. I hope you can find who did this to her and let her soul rest.”
