“I don’t want you to think it’s in any way your fault,” Mrs. Castleton had said, over the phone, while she was canceling her appointment for the afternoon. “Of course, you had nothing to do with it. It’s just that you have to be so careful these days, when you’re looking for a place to raise your children. It isn’t like it used to be. We didn’t have all these sexual predators hanging around when I was growing up.”
Darvelle had wanted to scream at that point. Sexual predators? Who was talking about sexual predators? Chester Morton had never been anything like a sexual predator. He hadn’t even liked sex all that much. Or did this woman mean that she thought that sexual predators went around stealing bodies from funeral homes?
At least Mrs. Castleton didn’t know that Darvelle was in some way “involved” in the situation. A lot of the others did know. Darvelle was sure that some of them had chosen her because of it. That was something she had Charlene Morton to thank for. Darvelle would never have done that interview with Disappeared if she’d realized they were going to make her sound like Lizzie Borden reincarnated.
Of course, when all this started, she hadn’t even known who Lizzie Borden was. She learned that from one of her buyers who liked to gossip.
The buyer who liked to gossip was not Mrs. Lord, but Mrs. Lord was the buyer for the late morning, and Darvelle was stuck with her.
“It must be so painful for you,” Mrs. Lord kept saying, as they drove from one house to the other across the length of Sherwood Forest. “I mean, he was a young man you knew, wasn’t he, and you had a relationship with him? And you were only eighteen. That might have been your very first love.”
“I don’t think it was that serious,” Darvelle said. “And it was a long time ago.”
“Of course it was, dear. But time doesn’t really mean much when you’re in the grip of strong emotion. And then to have him disappear like that, and everybody thinking he was dead.”
“Actually,” Darvelle said. “I never did think he was dead.”
“And then to have it on all those television shows,” Mrs. Lord said. “I feel sorry for you. I really do. It must have been horrible, to have that brought back to you over and over and over again, when you probably just wanted to forget about it. And those billboards. Mrs. Morton must be such a dedicated mother. But I know how she feels. I’d do the same if something ever happened to one of my little children.”
Mrs. Lord’s little children were twenty-four and twenty-six, with wives and children of their own. They lived on the West Coast. When Mrs. Lord wasn’t obsessing about Chester Morton, she was telling Darvelle all about the wonderful things her grandchildren did and where they were all going to go to college when they got big enough.
Darvelle pulled into the driveway of the last house they were scheduled to see. It was a Tudor split-level, and it was blessedly empty. It was also directly across the street from the Morton’s house. Darvelle had debated with herself long and hard about showing it today at all.
She cut the engine and put her car keys in her purse. “Well,” she said. “Here we are. This is absolutely the best section of Mattatuck. And this is a beautiful house. It was custom built. It has all hardwood floors. It’s got a brand new kitchen and brand new baths, everything updated within the last year. It’s the best buy on the market, if you ask me.”
Mrs. Lord beamed. “And now,” she said. “Now with all of this. He comes back, but he comes back only so that somebody can murder him. And steal his body. It must be terrible for you, dear. It must break your heart.”
“Actually,” Darvelle said again, “at the moment, the word is that it’s more likely that he committed suicide than that he was murdered.”
“Is it?” Mrs. Lord said. “But they don’t bring that Mr. Demarkian in to investigate suicides, I don’t think. I hear he’s very expensive, and very picky about the jobs he takes. It has to be something really mysterious and complicated before he gets interested. Oh, I’ve heard a lot about him. And of course, I’ve seen him on television. It’s really exciting to have him here, I must say. Have you met him? I’ll admit I’ve sometimes wanted to just find a way to run across him in the street, you know, just so I could say hello.”
“I think,” Darvelle said slowly, “that it was because of Mrs. Morton that they brought Gregor Demarkian in. The police think Chester committed suicide, but Mrs. Morton doesn’t, and they wanted an independent evaluation. Just so nobody could say they hadn’t done everything they could.”