and home phone numbers, knowing Boldt would want to talk with him. She was right.
The sergeant asked, “Did she own the house?”
“A rental,” the sister replied. The mother looked lost. Claudia said, “You were thinking insurance, weren’t you? She burned it for the insurance and got caught in the fire? No chance.”
“We consider every possibility,” Boldt said.
The mother said, “Someone murder Dorothy? Why?”
“That’s why the sergeant’s here,” Claudia said perfunctorily.
“Don’t patronize me, dear. I’m your mother. I know perfectly well what we’re trying to do: to give someone a reason to kill Dorothy. It’s absurd, don’t you see?” she directed the question to Boldt.
“The child had last visited the mother-”
“The day before,” Harriet answered.
“Two days,” Claudia said in disagreement.
That also was to be expected, Boldt thought. Take down five eyewitness reports of the same crime and be prepared for five different stories-occasionally, completely different stories.
Claudia said firmly, “It was two days before. Remember dinner, Mother?”
The mother squinted, considered this, displayed an expression of self-disappointment. “Two, you’re right.”
“The father picked up the child?” Boldt asked.
“Not typically. I would doubt it.”
The mother said, “No. Dorothy dropped him off.”
Claudia explained, “Doro was the more flexible of the two.”
If given half a chance, if at all average, they would lie to get custody of the child; they would be eager to conspire against the former husband. Boldt had come prepared to see through this. When they failed to make any such attempt, Boldt felt somewhat disappointed. Could Dorothy Enwright have committed suicide? he wondered. Watching out for the sister, he said, “Dorothy was a gardener. Obviously a good one. One would assume she stored fertilizer, used various fertilizers in her work.”
“In the shed, not the basement.” Claudia added, “She wasn’t in the habit of making bombs, if that’s what you’re driving at. Whatever happened to ‘innocent until proven guilty’?”
“Making bombs?” the mother inquired.
The daughter answered, “You can make a bomb out of fertilizer and gasoline, Mother. The detective is implying-”
“Nothing,” Boldt interrupted, cutting her off. “I’m not implying anything. Asking questions is all. It might be easier for everyone if we could just deal with the questions rather than jump to conclusions.”
“I see where you’re headed with this,” the victim’s sister cautioned, ignoring his suggestion.
“I don’t,” the mother interjected.
“He thinks maybe Doro was plotting something sinister. He’s a policeman, Mother. They’re all suspicious by nature.”
“Not by nature, by occupation,” Boldt corrected, meeting the daughter’s eye. “I think we’re off to a bad start,” he said. He directed the next question to the mother, hoping to avoid the sister for a moment. The mother glanced at her daughter disapprovingly. “Do you know of any work being done on the house? By the landlord, perhaps?” Boldt asked.
Harriet replied, “No. Not that I’m aware of. She was quite happy there.”
Wanting this over, Boldt asked Claudia, “Any boyfriends out of her past? Anybody you think I might want to speak with?”
“I know you’re only doing your job, Sergeant. I respect that. I apologize. I just don’t think there’s anything to tell you. Doro was a wonderful, loving person. She didn’t deserve this.”
“We don’t know, do we,” the mother asked, “that it was my Dorothy? In the fire, I mean. You people haven’t confirmed that, have you?”
This was the sticking point Boldt had hoped to avoid. The tea and scones were delivered, sparing him an answer. The pit in his stomach had deepened, changing to an ache. The room had lost its glitter; the waitresses had lost a step. The piano sounded a little out of tune on the low end. The glue that held his world together had softened. He felt tawdry, cheap, a gumshoe who lacked empathy and compassion. A woman was dead. No one wanted to talk about it-or even admit it, for that matter. She had had a sad life of late and a sad death and Lou Boldt understood damn well that all the investigating in the world wasn’t going to bring her back. The mother would go on living with her hope that it had been someone else in that fire. The sister would go on defending where no defense was necessary. Boldt would go on with his questions. The victim ruled all his investigations, but ultimately it was not about the victim, it was about the killer, about balance.
Boldt had seen a dead cat by the side of the road earlier in the day, and it had overwhelmed him with a sense of tragic loss. In his mind he transferred Dorothy Enwright, the woman in the photographs before him, to that same place on the side of the road-naked, face down, struck dead. He sat there with his notebook, his pencil, and a haunting determination to find the person responsible. Death made people give up; it made Lou Boldt
“You’re not eating,” the mother told him.
“No.”
“You don’t like it?”
Did she mean the scones or the investigation? he wondered, realizing quickly that it didn’t matter; he had the same answer on the tip of his tongue. “No,” said Boldt. With the victim’s finances, correspondence, and paperwork lost in the fire, Boldt requested permission to contact Dorothy’s banks and auditors and look over the accounts. The mother saw nothing wrong with that and agreed.
“I have an image of Doro out in her garden,” said the sister. “You know? The sunlight slanting across her face. She was quite beautiful. Hands working the soil. Weeding, planting. She laughed a lot, Doro did. Used to,” she added. “The last two years took a lot out of her. But I think of her as laughing nonetheless. You know, I have this image, and I don’t even know if it’s real or something I made up to remember her by. And the funny thing is, it doesn’t matter, does it? It’s the image I’m left with. The smile. The contentment at being outdoors and working with plants. The joy of being a mother. She loved little Kenny.”
“It broke her heart when the judge took Kenny away,” the mother said. “I don’t think she ever fully recovered.”
“Was she depressed, drinking, anything like that in the days before the fire?”
Claudia cautioned, “She did
“Is that a yes or no to the depression?” Boldt asked, irritated. He kept seeing the cat by the side of the road, then Dorothy Enwright. If there was one thing he had learned early as a homicide investigator, it was how fragile life was, how easily lost. Men stepping out into traffic. Kids playing on the rocks in the hills. Women going home at night to an empty house. One day here, the next day gone. And if the death came with questions attached, it was Lou Boldt’s job to answer them, or to help others to answer them for him. All he needed was a few answers. He couldn’t picture the woman setting fire to a rental house. People did not use fire as a method toward suicide. But he had other problems with Dorothy Enwright. Of chief concern to him was why she had not run from the house when it caught fire; it had not exploded. She had been seen walking inside the house, presumably of her own volition, moments before the blaze. He thought she must have had an opportunity to escape, given the way the fire had burned from a central core outward. It had not trapped her by sealing the doors. Why then had she not escaped?
Had there been someone else in the building with her?
“Dorothy was having problems,” her mother told him, “but she was surprisingly cheerful, wouldn’t you say, dear?”
“Absolutely,” Claudia agreed. “She was a remarkable woman, Detective. She had a great attitude.”
“Who would want to kill her?” the mother blurted out, too loudly for the soft buzz of conversation in the
