Kinsley Aspen
July
Tuesday, 2:01 pm
Darlene Barrett’s Victorian home stood across from the Bell mansion like its more optimistic cousin. Where the Bell property had fallen into neglect over the past couple of years, Darlene’s house had embraced change. Fresh paint in soft blues gave the exterior a welcoming warmth, updated fixtures caught the afternoon light along the porch railing, and the wraparound itself was clean and well-maintained, free of the layer of grime and fallen leaves that had accumulated on the Bell mansion’s porch across the street.
“Please don’t mind the mess,” Darlene said as she led Kinsley through the entryway, though Kinsley couldn’t spot a single item out of place. The floors had been recently swept, the hall table was dusted, and a small vase of fresh-cut flowers sat near the door as if it had been waiting for a visitor. “I didn’t have time to tidy.”
“Your home is lovely,” Kinsley replied, and she meant it.
“Can I get you something to drink? Water? Coffee? I have a lovely herbal tea that my daughter brought back from Seattle last month.”
“No, thank you. I appreciate the offer, though.”
Darlene had showered and changed since their encounter on the sidewalk that morning. She now wore a flowing knee-length skirt and a pale green blouse that complemented her coloring, and her hair was no longer pulled back but blown out to frame her face in a way that came across casually elegant. Everything about her appearance was orderly and deliberate, from the carefully applied makeup to the matching two-inch heels that clicked softly on the hardwood. She’d prepared for this interview the way some people prepared for a date, which told Kinsley that Darlene Barrett took being perceived a certain way very seriously.
“Let’s sit in the kitchen, then. It has the best light this time of day.”
Kinsley followed her through an archway into a kitchen that had been updated with stone countertops and stainless steel appliances. A small table had been positioned near a bank of windows overlooking a well-tended garden, the chairs around it mismatched, but deliberately so, each painted a different pastel shade. The effect was charming rather than chaotic.
As they settled at the table, Kinsley noticed handmade pottery displayed on open shelving along one wall. Mugs, bowls, plates, and vases in earthy tones of blues and greens, each piece slightly different from the next in the way of things made by hand rather than machine. Family photos dotted the surfaces between them. A young woman holding a baby, the same child at various ages, and more recent photos of what appeared to be a granddaughter in a dance costume, her arms raised in a graceful arc above her head.
“My granddaughter’s recital is this evening,” Darlene explained, following Kinsley’s gaze to the photos. “Abbie has her mother’s grace, thank goodness. I’ve always had two left feet myself.”
“How old is she?” Kinsley asked, building rapport before steering the conversation toward more difficult ground.
“Eight. And going on thirty, if you know what I mean.”
“My niece is a couple of years older, so I understand completely,” Kinsley replied with a light laugh. Her phone vibrated with an incoming call, but she ignored it. Whatever it was could wait. “I’ll try to keep this as brief as possible. I’ve reviewed your initial statement and the court transcripts from your testimony, but I’d like you to walk me through what you remember about the evening Iris Bell died.”
Darlene reached out and adjusted the placemat in front of her, aligning its edge with the table’s border in a small, precise movement. She drew a slow breath and rested her hands in her lap after smoothing her skirt over her knees.
“Iris used to babysit Frannie, you know. Frannie is my daughter. The neighborhood was close back then. Not the way it is now, with everyone so caught up in their own lives that they can’t even wave good morning.” Darlene frowned, tilting her head as though looking back at something she could almost but not quite see. “I couldn’t even tell you how many years it’s been since we’ve had a block party. Seventeen? Eighteen? It’s sad when you think about it.”
Kinsley let the silence settle, giving Darlene the space she needed to sift through the layers of memory. She would have been in her late twenties when Iris Bell was murdered, living alone with a young daughter in a neighborhood where everyone knew everyone and a block party could still draw out the entire street. A simpler time, as Darlene had implied, though Kinsleywas learning that simplicity in Fallbrook had always been more of a surface quality than a structural one.
“It was a Friday, mid-October. Chilly, but not cold enough for a heavy coat.” Darlene’s voice shifted to something more factual now, as though she were intentionally distancing herself from the emotions that clung to the recollection. “Most of us had worn either a light jacket or a sweater. The neighborhood was having its annual block party at the end of the street. As was typical, the teenagers were either at the football game or the bonfire down at Miller’s Pond.”
Darlene pointed to the south through the French doors leading out to her patio.
“You can see Miller’s Pond from Mr. Wilson’s backyard, so the parents could give the kids their space while still keeping an eye on things from a distance.”
“What time did you notice something was wrong at the Bell house?”
“Around eight, I think. Maybe a little after. It was getting dark, and the streetlights had already come on.” Darlene’s fingers traced the pattern in her skirt, following the fabric’s design as though it were a map to somewhere safer than the memory she was about to share. “As Ginny already told you, we’d made these mini strawberry cheesecakes that everyone loved. We’d brought out the first batch earlier, but I went back to my house to get the last tray.”
Kinsley noticed how Darlene’s posture had subtly changed, her shoulders drawing inward as the memory took hold. The confident, composed woman who had greeted her at the door was receding, replaced by someone smaller and more guarded.
“I was walking down the sidewalk, humming to myself. ‘Twist and Shout,’ I think, because the Hendersons had been playing oldies on their portable stereo all evening.” Darlene’s hands stilled in her lap, her fingers interlacing. “That’s whenI noticed the Bells’ front door standing wide open. At first, I thought maybe Richard or Iris had forgotten something and run inside. But as I kept walking, no one came out.”
“What did you do?” Kinsley kept her voice neutral, careful not to lead or influence the account.
“Well, I thought maybe one of the kids had left in a hurry and forgotten to shut the door behind them. I crossed the street, intending to close it for them. It seemed like the neighborly thing to do.” Darlene stopped and met Kinsley’s gaze, as though expecting some kind of agreement or reassurance that her impulse had been reasonable. Kinsley didn’t react one way or the other, and the silence compelled Darlene to continue. “I reached the bottom of the porch and called out, but no one responded.”
Darlene paused, picking at imaginary lint on her skirt. The kitchen clock ticked loudly in the gap between them.
“Take your time,” Kinsley encouraged softly.
