“I still don’t see how—”
“When we were going through the phone logs, we found a call she’d made that we couldn’t quite explain.”
“She called here?”
“Yes.”
Marsha Hunter looked perplexed. “When?”
“Three weeks ago. June second to be exact.”
Marsha shook her head. “It could have been a wrong number.”
“For six minutes?”
That made Marsha pause. “What day again?”
“June second. Eight P.M.”
“I can check my calendar, if you’d like.”
“I’d like that very much, thank you.”
“It’s upstairs. I’ll be right back. But I’m sure none of us talked to this sister.”
“None of us?”
“Excuse me?”
“You said, ‘us.’ Who did you mean?”
“I don’t know. Anyone in the house, I guess.”
Loren didn’t comment on that. “Do you mind if I ask your babysitter a few questions?”
Marsha Hunter hesitated. “I guess that wouldn’t be a problem.” She forced up a smile. “But the boys will throw a fit if you use the word ‘baby’ in front of them.”
“Understood.”
“I’ll be right back.”
Loren headed through the kitchen toward the back door. She glanced out the window. Kyra was pitching underhand to Ethan. He swung wildly and missed. Kyra took a step in closer and bent lower and pitched again. This time, Ethan made contact.
Loren turned away. She was almost at the back door when something made her pull up.
The refrigerator.
Loren wasn’t married, didn’t have kids, didn’t grow up in one of those sweet happy homes, but if there was anything more Americana—more family—than the front of a refrigerator she did not know what it was. Her friends had refrigerators like this. She didn’t, and she realized how pitiful that was. Loren had two cats and no real family, unless you wanted to count her melodramatic and self-involved mother.
But in most American homes, if you wanted to find the personal, this—your refrigerator front—was where you looked. There was kid artwork. There were essays from school, all adorned with stars for mediocrity that passed for excellence. There were preprinted birthday invitations, one to a party at something called the Little Gym, the other to the East Hanover bowling alley. There were forms for class trips, child vaccinations, a soccer league.
And, of course, there were family snapshots.
Loren had been an only child and no matter how often she saw them—this magnetized swirl of smiles—it always seemed slightly unreal to her, like she was watching a bad TV show or reading a corny greeting card.
Loren stepped toward the photograph that had caught her eye. More pieces started to pour into place now.
How could she have missed this?
She should have put it together right away. Hunter. The name wasn’t rare but it wasn’t overly common either. Her eyes scanned the other pictures, but they kept coming back to the first one, the one on the left taken at what looked like a baseball game. Loren was still staring at the picture when Marsha returned.
“Is everything okay, Inspector Muse?”
Loren startled up at the voice. She tried to conjure up the details, but only a sketch came to mind. “Did you find your calendar?”
“There’s nothing there. I really don’t remember where I was that day.”
Loren nodded and turned back to the refrigerator. “This man”—she pointed and looked back at Marsha—“this is Matt Hunter, right?”
Marsha’s face closed like a metal gate.
“Mrs. Hunter?”
“What do you want?”
There had been hints of warmth before. There were none now.
“I knew him,” Loren said. “A long time ago.”
Nothing.
“In elementary school. We both went to Burnet Hill.”
Marsha crossed her arms. She was having none of it.
“How are you two related?”
“He’s my brother-in-law,” Marsha said. “And a good man.”
Right, sure, Loren thought. A real prince. She’d read about the manslaughter conviction. Matt Hunter had served time at a max-security facility. Serious hard time, as she recalled. She remembered the folded blanket and sheets on the couch.
“Does Matt visit here a lot? I mean, he’s the boys’ uncle and all.”
“Inspector Muse?”
“Yes?”
“I’d like you to leave now.”
“Why’s that?”
“Matt Hunter is not a criminal. What happened was an accident. He has more than paid for it.”
Loren kept quiet, hoping she’d go on. She didn’t. After a few moments she realized that this line of questioning would probably not take her anywhere. Better to try a less defensive route.
“I liked him,” Loren said.
“Excuse me?”
“When we were kids. He was nice.”
That was true enough. Matt Hunter had been a pretty good guy, another Livingston wanna-fit-in who probably shouldn’t have tried so hard.
“I’ll leave now,” Loren said.
“Thank you.”
“If you learn anything about that phone call on June second—”
“I’ll let you know.”
“Do you mind if I speak to your sitter on the way out?”
Marsha sighed, shrugged.
“Thank you.” Loren reached for the door.
Marsha called out, “Can I ask you something?”
Loren faced her.
“Was this nun murdered?”
“Why would you ask that?”
Marsha shrugged again. “It’s a natural question, I guess. Why else would you be here?”
“I can’t discuss details with you. I’m sorry.”
Marsha said nothing. Loren opened the door and headed into the yard. The sun was still high, the long days of June. The boys ran and played with such wonderful abandonment. Adults could never play like that. Never in a million years. Loren remembered her tomboy youth, the days when you could play Running Bases for hours and never, not for a second, be bored. She wondered if Marsha Hunter ever did that, ever came out and played Running Bases with her sons, and thinking about that Loren felt another pang.
No time for that now.
Marsha would be watching from the kitchen window. Loren needed to do this fast. She approached the girl—what was her name? Kylie, Kyra? Kelsey?—and waved.