“Brendan’s not answering,” I said as the phone continued to ring.
“He’s probably still sleeping. Leave him a voice mail.”
“It’s not rolling over.”
Vero shrugged. “We’ll try him again later. He can pick up Granny Oakley when he wakes up.”
Later that morning, I eased my van to the curb in front of a two-story Colonial in Broadlands. The homes in Broadlands didn’t look much different from most of the homes in South Riding, all of them having been constructed around the same time from a handful of cookie-cutter shapes. Some had orange or redbrick façades, all with an alternating color palette of neutral vinyl siding and two-car garages either on the left or the right. Vero climbed out of the back seat of my minivan and opened the passenger door for Mrs. Haggerty to get out. Letting Mrs. Haggerty ride up front with me had seemed preferable to listening to her complain about the children’s sticky, crumb-speckled seats in the back, but she’d only managed to find other things to fuss about on the short drive to her book club meeting. She did not, she said, want a reputation for being late. Punctuality was not a virtue she was willing to compromise, regardless of the heavy traffic on Route 7 or the length of the take-out line at Panera Bread when we’d stopped to pick up lunch on the way.
I reached for a platter of sandwiches. Mrs. Haggerty took it from me. “Wait here,” she said when it occurred to her she didn’t have enough hands to carry both the platter and a tray of cookies into the house by herself. “I’ll come back for the rest.”
“Please,” I insisted when she nearly dropped the plastic dome. “Vero and I are happy to help.” Vero was all too willing to take the tray of cookies. I took the sandwiches and handed Mrs. Haggerty the paper bag full of sides and condiments so she wouldn’t object to being left with nothing to do.
“Very well,” she harrumphed, “but there’s no need to come inside. We don’t read your kinds of stories.”
“What kind of stories?” I asked.
“The kind with shirtless hunks on the covers.”
“I think you mean under the covers,” Vero clarified. “They don’t put hunks on the covers of those books anymore. Nowadays, they put lots of flowers on the front, so you can read them on an airplane and the person next to you won’t know you’re reading smut. Like those Georgia O’Keeffes,” Vero explained. “You can hang one of those in your living room and everyone will say, oh it’s so sophisticated and lovely, but we all know that sophisticated orchid is just a painting of some lady’s twa—”
“Those paintings have plenty of artistic merit,” I said, slamming my van door shut. “And I do read other kinds of books, you know.”
Mrs. Haggerty rolled her eyes, and Vero smirked. I wondered if this is what it would feel like to drop Delia off at a sleepover once she became a teenager.Thanks for the ride and the snacks, Mom, but could you please stay in the car so none of my friends see how uncool you are?I didn’t know many senior citizens—my parents were barely sixty—but I’d made some observations after all the time I’d spent with my mother and Mrs. Haggerty over the last few weeks, and getting old seemed a little like going through adolescence backward. Between my mother’s romantic drama with my father, his brooding one-word answers to just about everything, Cam’s constant demands for foodand money, and Mrs. Haggerty’s petulant know-it-all attitude, I had amassed enough research material to write a YA novel.
We followed Mrs. Haggerty toward the house. The other cars parked along the street were an odd mix of luxury brands and more price-sensitive models. Some had stick-figure decals of mothers with children. Others had parking stickers for government offices or hospitals. Several had bumper stickers about coexisting with nature, fucking the patriarchy, and loving Jesus.
The front door of the home opened as we approached. Women’s voices and laughter spilled from inside it. A middle-aged woman in a smart pantsuit stepped outside to greet us. The warm umber skin around her eyes creased with her smile.
“Maggie, it’s good to see you! We’re all so glad you’re back.” She glanced at Vero and me over Mrs. Haggerty’s shoulder as she took the older woman into a wide, enveloping hug. The voices inside seemed to quiet at Mrs. Haggerty’s arrival. Several curious faces appeared beyond the doorway inside. “We’ve all been watching the news,” the woman said, taking Mrs. Haggerty’s bag for her. “We’ve been so concerned about you. Everyone is eager to hear what happened. Who did you bring with you?” she asked brightly, inviting Mrs. Haggerty to introduce us.
“My neighbors,” Mrs. Haggerty answered, dismissing us with an impatient wave. “The police took my car and I needed a ride. Don’t worry. They’re not staying.” She let herself into the house, leaving the rest of us standing on the porch.
The woman looked abashed. “Please, come in,” she said, realizing she didn’t have enough hands to relieve us of all the food. “You can set those trays down inside.” Vero and I followed her into the house, where Mrs. Haggerty had already been absorbed by a gaggle of women. They helped her with her coat and purse and ushered her into the living room.
The host showed us to the kitchen, gushing over the assortment of pastries and sandwiches as she took the platter from me and pried off the noisy plastic lid. She set it on the counter with the rest of the food. Someone else had brought vegetable crudités. Others had contributed bowls of fruit salad and chips.
“I’m Viola,” the woman said, extending a hand once all the trays had been set down.
“I’m Finlay,” I said, “and this is Vero.”
A spark of recognition lit in Viola as I shook her hand. “Finlay Donovan? The author?” Her smile faltered when I nodded, but she quickly recovered. “Maggie’s mentioned you. It was so kind of you to take her in.”
“Yes, Finlay,” Vero deadpanned. “So kind of you.”
“Why don’t you fix yourselves some plates?” Viola offered. “Our book club discussion won’t start until we’ve all visited for a bit. You can go after you’ve had a bite to eat. I’m happy to drive Maggie home after our meeting.”
Viola left us in the kitchen and excused herself to mingle with her guests. I studied the women as Vero and I loaded our plates with sandwiches. It was an oddly diverse group. While they all looked like they’d been cut from the same suburban Virginia cloth, they represented a broad spectrum of age and ethnicities. I had envisioned a handful of elderly ladies discussingWuthering HeightsorThe Great Gatsbyas they gossiped about their neighbors over cucumber sandwiches and bragged about their great-grandchildren, but Mrs. Haggerty seemed to be the oldest person there. Viola herself couldn’t have been much older than my mother. There were others who looked much younger, like the one who’d arrived carrying a laptop bag and wearing mom jeans; she couldn’t have been much older than me. Or the twentysomething who’d arrived in pink Hello Kitty nursingscrubs and a pair of thick-soled, pristine white sneakers, as if she’d just come from work.
A statuesque woman in a coordinated sweater set brought Mrs. Haggerty a heaping plate of food. She set it in the older woman’s lap and fluffed a pillow behind her. Another brought her a steaming cup of tea on a saucer. They all hovered close, lobbing questions in concerned low voices about how she was treated in jail and the damage to her home. Vero and I hovered in the kitchen, quietly eating our sandwiches. I felt like the unwanted parent chaperone at a high school dance.
After a few minutes of gossip and small talk, Mrs. Haggerty’s friends began clearing their plates. Mrs. Haggerty pulled a well-worn copy of a mystery novel from her handbag and set it in her lap. She uncapped a fountain pen as the women used their chairs and ottomans to form a circle around the sofa, scooting in tightly to close the gaps. Mrs. Haggerty opened her book and threw me a pointed look across the room.
Something Nick had said the other night bobbed to the surface of my mind as Mrs. Haggerty watched me. He said he’d seen books and a diary in her room—inmyroom. I’d always been curious (and more recently, concerned) about Mrs. Haggerty’s strange obsession with the daily happenings of my life, but now might be my only chance to know how much of it she’d actually seen. How much had she documented over the last few months, since the night Harris Mickler was murdered in my garage?
I tossed my empty paper plate in the trash can and waved a discreet goodbye to Viola as Vero and I headed to the foyer to show ourselves out. As I slung my purse over my arm, the strap caught the edge of a vase, nearly knocking it off the credenza where it perched. I reached to catch it, surprised to find it wasn’t a vase at all, but anurn. The gold plate affixed to the front bore a man’s name, presumably Viola’s late husband, judging by the engraved set of dates, and I quickly set the urn back in its place, hoping none of the women in the other room had noticed my close call.
“What’s wrong?” Vero asked as I took a step away from it.
