“Later,” he said to me as he followed Mother.
I went upstairs and looked around the master bedroom. I brushed a few specks of dust off the glossy black dresser and plumped the pillows on the bed. I was starting to feel a little bit proprietary about the room.
What would I do if I walked in and found someone hacking at its walls with an ax? I liked to think I’d retreat to safety and call 9-1-1. But Clay had a hot temper.
“We need to find out more about the Greens,” I murmured.
Chapter 21
I was sure the chief could easily track down the Greens if he wanted to. But he might be too busy interrogating the Grangers right now. Which was fine if either Felicia or Jerry turned out to be the killer, but I wasn’t sure I believed that. Or maybe he was looking for whoever had been blackmailing Clay, but I wasn’t sure I believed that either—at least not as a motive for the murder.
It occurred to me that while it would be up to the chief to track them down, I might be able to find out a little bit about the Greens. All I needed to do was find a neighbor who’d been living here six years ago.
I stepped outside, went down the front walk to the edge of the street, and looked up and down.
Which house to try first?
I started with the house directly across the street. It would have the best view of the former Green house. There weren’t any cars in the driveway, but some people do keep their garages tidy enough to have room for cars. But after several minutes of knocking and waiting, with no answer, I gave up and strolled back to the sidewalk to try again.
The house to the left of the one I’d just tried hadn’t even had its front walk or driveway plowed, so I marked that off my mental list. But the one to the right had a shoveled walk and driveway. It was smaller and older than most of the houses in the neighborhood. I decided to try it.
I was delighted when the door opened to reveal an alert old lady wearing a purple velour top and matching leggings.
“Good morning,” I said. “I’m Meg Langslow, the organizer for the show house the historical society is putting on across the way.”
She cocked her head slightly, as if curious, but took my offered hand.
“Emily Warren,” she said. “What can I do for you?”
“Mrs. Warren, did you know the people who used to live in the show house?”
“Emily,” she said. “And yes, I did. In the neighborhood, we still call it the Green house. Would you like to come in?”
I followed her into a neat living room. The furniture was faded and well-worn, but both the television and the exercise bike in front of it were shiny and new, and from the size of her framed photo collection she must have had at least a dozen assorted grandchildren.
She sat down in what I suspected was her customary end of the sofa, surrounded by her TV remote, a half-completed crossword puzzle, and a tote bag full of knitting. I took the chair at right angles to it.
“Quite a lot of excitement thanks to you folks,” she remarked.
“Not the sort of excitement you want,” I said. “I’m sure it’s quite upsetting for everyone, having a murder in the neighborhood.”
“Well, it’s not as if he lived here, and from what I hear, he was a wrong ’un. Not that that’s any excuse for killing another human being, but in this life we reap what we sow, don’t we?”
I could get to like Emily.
“Chief Burke was over here yesterday, asking me if I’d seen or heard anything that night,” she went on. “But I go to bed early, and I take out my hearing aids, so I was of no use to him.”
“I was actually trying to find out some information about the Green family,” I said. “It only just occurred to me that some of the people who come to see the house might want to know about the family that used to live there, and so far I haven’t found anyone who knew them.”
“I knew them,” she said. “Not well, but probably as well as anyone who’s still living here. They moved in—let’s see. Twenty years ago this summer. Bob and Carol Green. In their thirties—seemed like a nice couple. They had a little boy when they moved in, and the little girl was born shortly afterward.”
“What were the children’s names?” I asked. Not that the children’s names seemed at all relevant, but I needed to keep up the pretense of working up a short history of the house.
“The boy was Zachary,” she said. “Nice when old-fashioned names come back in style, isn’t it? And the girl was Jessica.”
“Jessica? You’re sure?” I had to struggle to conceal my excitement at this bit of information.
“Quite sure,” she said. “I always liked the name. On account of Jessica Tandy. You remember her.”