Morning Glory(83)

I think about what Joanie said for a little while after hanging up the phone. But I know that I won’t be able to put the pieces of Penny’s story together without hearing from Dexter. So I use my well-honed reporter’s Google skills and manage to find his address at the Lakeview Retirement Community. A fan of his artwork set up a page devoted to his past work, with a forwarding address to his retirement home.

I key in the number on my phone, and as it rings, I scroll through the abstract landscapes of Dexter Wentworth, at least the ones curated on the fan site. They’re big and bold, with little warmth. I wonder if Dexter Wentworth the artist is any reflection of Dexter Wentworth the person.

On the third ring, an operator picks up, and I ask her to connect me.

A moment later an elderly man with a deep, gravelly voice picks up. “Hello?”

“Mr. Wentworth, my name is Ada Santorini.” I’m surprised by how nervous I feel. I don’t want him to hang up; I’m desperate to hear what he has to say about his wife. “Well, you see, I’m living in a houseboat that you used to own, and I’m calling to ask you something.”

“You live on Boat Street?”

“Yes,” I say cautiously.

“My daughter owns the property. If you have a rental issue, you’ll do best to take it up with Roxanne.”

“It’s not about the house, exactly,” I say. “It’s about your wife, Penny.”

He’s silent for a moment.

“Mr. Wentworth? Are you there?”

“Yes,” he says. “Yes, I am.”

“Mr. Wentworth, I found some of your wife’s belongings here in the houseboat, and I thought you ought to know about them.”

“Miss . . .”

“Santorini.”

“Miss Santorini, why don’t you meet me this afternoon?”

“Yes,” I say, my heart beating faster. “That would be wonderful.”

“I live in apartment forty-seven at the Lakeview Retirement Community.”

“I can be there at three,” I say.

“That’s fine.”

I eye the leftover cookies, and decide to box them up to take with me. For Dexter. From Penny.





Chapter 31





Alex appears on my doorstep as I’m stepping out to catch a cab to Dexter’s apartment downtown. “I’m glad I caught you.” He’s out of breath from running down the dock; he holds a manila envelope with the flap dangling open.

“Where’s Gracie?”

“She’s watching a movie,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. Through the window, I can see her sitting on Alex’s couch. I grin. “You made her wear a life vest?”

“House rules,” he says.

“I love that you’re paranoid.”

“Listen,” he says, “I was going through some old shots I took five years ago, when I first arrived on Boat Street, and I found these.”

He hands the envelope to me, and I pull out a stack of eight-by-ten black-and-white images. I flip through the first three—shots of the dock and mostly my houseboat and the view beyond—and then look up at Alex. “I don’t get it. What am I supposed to be looking for here?”

He points to the corner of the frame, and I see a woman kneeling down on the deck in front of my houseboat. I look closer. “Is that . . . Naomi?”

Alex nods.

“It looks like she’s crying,” I say.

He flips to the next photo, and the next. In succession, they show a woman who is doubled over in grief.

“She must’ve had no idea I was taking photos that day,” he says. “Obviously, I didn’t see her there either.”

“What do you think this means?”

“I think it means she has some emotional pain associated with your houseboat, or someone who once lived there.”

I take the photo on the top of the stack in my hands and touch the corner where Naomi kneels, holding her head in her hands. I can almost feel her pain radiating between my fingertips.



I step off the elevator, and in the hallway, the scent of Pine-Sol floods my nose. What was the number again? Room 1201, yes. I walk around a corner and then I come to the door: 1201. My heart thumps wildly in my chest as I reach out my hand.

I knock once, then again.

A moment later, the door creaks open, and Dexter stands before me. He’s tall and fit. He hardly looks like a man in his early nineties. His hair is gray and clean and combed neatly to the side. “Ms. Santorini,” he says, smiling. I can see why Penny must have found him so charming.

“Please, call me Ada.”

He leads me through the door. His apartment is neat and tidy, and well-appointed with a modern, angular sofa and a sleek-looking coffee table. It looks like the kind of interior that’s been aided by a decorator. I wonder if he’s dating her. I imagine she’s half his age and drives a BMW.