Widow’s Walk

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

It was still raining when I drove up Route 95 to Boxford. It was early evening, after the commuter traffic had dissipated. It was maybe twenty-five miles north of Boston, where the city seemed a safe distance and there were cows. I turned off at Route 97 and plunged into the wet green exurban landscape.

Plumtree Road was the way into a big two-acre zoned development of expensive white houses with two-car garages and a lot of lawn. Hawk had been right. It was just the kind of place that affluent Anglo-Saxons seemed unable to resist.

Number 11 was just like number 9 far to its left, and number 13 far to its right, except that the shutters at number 11 were dark green. The front lawn that sloped to the street was undulant and wide. There were expensive shrubs along the foundation, which would someday grow and be beautiful. But now, like the rest of the development, they were too new. I pulled into the wide, gently curving driveway and parked in front of the big green doors of the two-car garage.

The lights were on in the house. I walked up the blue slate stepping-stones to the front door and rang. I was wearing my black Kenneth Cole microfiber waterproof spring jacket and my navy Boston Braves hat with a red bill. Anyone would be thrilled to find me standing on their front step at 7:15 on a rainy evening. The door opened and a good-looking blond woman in white shorts and a jade-green tank top looked at me. She did not seem thrilled. And I thought I knew why. It was Ann Kiley.

“Yes?”

“Ann Kiley,” I said.

“Yes?”

I was completely out of context. She had no idea who I was. I tipped my Braves cap back from my forehead. I smiled warmly.

“It’s me,” I said.

She stared at me.

“So it is,” she said finally. “What do you want?”

“I want to come in out of the rain,” I said. “And talk about Marvin Conroy.”

She didn’t blink, just looked at me for another ten seconds, then stepped away from the door. “Come in,” she said.

I went in and took off my hat, as my father and my uncles had always insisted I do when I went indoors. I was in a big entry foyer that opened into what looked like a very large living room.

“I was about to have a cocktail,” Ann Kiley said. “Would you care for something?”

“I would enjoy a big scotch and soda if you have it.”

“Certainly,” she said. “Hang your coat in the front hall closet.”

I did as instructed and followed her into the living room. She pointed me toward a big tan leather armchair with a matching hassock, and crossed to the bar. She made me a scotch and soda and herself a martini, brought me my drink, and sat down on the couch across the room and tucked her bare feet up.

“First one of the day,” she said and took a sip and smiled. “Always the best one.”

I sipped my scotch, and nodded.

“You’re right,” I said. “Tell me about Marvin Conroy.”

She didn’t flinch. She sat perfectly still with her martini and met my look. She had great eyes, not as great as Susan’s, but just as well made up, and there are degrees of greatness.

“What do you wish to know?” she said.

That was good. No who’s-martin-conroy? She had already understood that if I didn’t know something I wouldn’t be asking about him. Evasion would make it look worse. So she did the best she could in a difficult circumstance.

“A pleasure to observe a good legal mind,” I said. “You’ve remained noncommittal and your question puts it back on me. The more I say, the more you’ll know what I know.”

She smiled to acknowledge the compliment and sipped her martini. Neither of us said anything for a moment.

“My problem,” I said finally, “is that I don’t know what I wish to know.”

She nodded and was quiet.

“So I’ll tell you what I do know,” I said.

I took another pull on my drink. She’d made it well. A lot of ice, the proper balance of scotch with soda. Be nice to drink several of them with her. I leaned back a little and put my feet up on the hassock.

“Here’s what I know. Marvin Conroy is an executive at Pequod Savings and Loan, which was Nathan Smith’s bank and had been in the family since before Pocahontas. When I went to ask about Smith’s death, I talked to a PR woman named Amy Peters, who is now dead. Conroy refused to talk about it. After I talked with him, some people tried, unsuccessfully I might add, to kill me.”

Ann Kiley cocked her head a little as if she were glad to hear I hadn’t died.

“You represent Jack DeRosa, who says Mary Smith asked him to kill Nathan Smith. So both you and Conroy are connected to Nathan Smith in some way.”

“Six degrees of separation,” Ann murmured.

Her drink was gone. So was mine. She got up, collected my glass, went to the bar, and mixed us each another drink.

“Last night,” I said, “Marvin Conroy came here and spent the night.”

Ann Kiley smiled again without meaning anything by it. I waited. She waited. I waited longer.

“And your question?” she said.

“Was it good for you, too?” I said.

“Don’t be offensive.”

“Part of my skill set,” I said. “What can you tell me that will help me with my work?”

“And your work is?”

“To find out who killed Nathan Smith.”

“Even if it’s his wife?”

“Even,” I said.

“I was under the impression you were hired to clear her,” Ann said.

“What’s the connection between you and Conroy and Smith and DeRosa?”

“The connection between me and Marvin Conroy must be obvious if you know he spent the night,” Ann said.

“Un-huh.”

“Jack DeRosa is my client.”

“Un-huh.”

“That they are both connected in some way to Nathan Smith is a coincidence.”

“Un-huh.”

“You don’t believe in coincidence?”

“It doesn’t get me anywhere,” I said.

She nodded. I noticed her second drink was not going down nearly as quick as her first.

“And where are you trying to get?” she said.

“How come you represent Jack DeRosa?” I said.

“He needed a lawyer.”

“And you were hanging around the public defender’s office smiling hopefully?” I said.

“Every lawyer has a responsibility to the law,” she said.

“So how’d DeRosa happen to hire you?” I said. “You bill more per hour than DeRosa’s life is worth.”

“Arrangements with clients are confidential.”

“How about Conroy? What can you tell me about him?”

She smiled. “Relationships with friends are confidential.”

“If there’s something, Ms. Kiley, I’m going to find it.”

“You don’t frighten me, Mr. Spenser.”

“Why not?”

“Mr. Spenser,” she said, “you are a little man in a big arena. You simply don’t matter.”

“What about my nice personality?” I said.

“It doesn’t interest me,” Ann Kiley said. “Neither do you. Go away.”

That seemed to sort of cover it. I put my drink down carefully on its coaster, got my hat and coat from the front hall closet, and left. Ann Kiley didn’t see me to the door.