‘I mean the friend.’
Conrad hesitated. ‘A girl. A woman.’
‘Do I know her?’
‘No.’
‘What kind of friend?’
‘A good friend.’ He felt the pain welling in his gut, and he fought to keep it there. ‘They say she drowned swimming in the ocean, but she didn’t.’
‘I hear the currents is awful tricky right now.’
‘She knew that.’
Conrad drew a long breath to steady himself. Then he told Sam how he’d explained the dangers of the shift in the longshore set to Lillian Wallace just a few hours before she supposedly went for that final swim.
He didn’t say that she had been lying in his arms at the time, in his bed, his house, or that she had laughed then kissed him, touched by his concern, when he made her swear by all she held dear that she wouldn’t swim off the ocean beach again until he told her it was safe to do so.
Nine
The turning area was jammed with cars, and Hollis was obliged to park up along the driveway, the offside wheels on the verge. Amongst the vehicles jostling for space in front of the house was a florist’s van, its green-and-gold livery discreetly proclaiming a Park Avenue address. The rear doors were open, revealing an assortment of wreaths and other floral displays on wooden racks.
As he approached the entrance porch, the front door swung open and an elaborate arrangement of pink, yellow and white roses stepped from the house. A casket spray, thought Hollis, moving aside to allow the young man a clear passage through to the van. Hundreds of dollars’ worth of fresh-cut flowers shipped up from the city so the Wallaces could make their selection on site—a small fortune destined to go to waste, the funeral still five days off.
Hollis glanced at the bell-pull, but decided against it, crossing the threshold unannounced, making straight for the kitchen in the east wing.
She was busying herself at the counter, topping and tailing green beans, and didn’t see him enter.
‘Hello, Rosa.’
She turned suddenly, startled.
‘The door was open. Are the Wallaces in?’
Rosa laid the knife aside and began to untie her apron strings.
‘It’s okay, I’ll find my own way.’
He headed for the door on the far side of the room, pausing as he passed the oven. ‘Lamb?’
‘Beef.’
‘Never had much of a nose.’
He made to leave, hesitated, as if stopped in his tracks by an afterthought. ‘Oh, the gardener. What’s his name?’
‘Derek.’
‘Derek…?’
‘Watson.’
‘Is he in today?’
‘Yes.’
‘Every day?’
‘Not weekends.’
‘What time does he work till?’
‘Five o’clock.’
Hollis nodded, then left the kitchen.
Guided by the sound of voices, he found himself in the drawing room. He had passed through it on his last visit, but had failed to appreciate the enormity of the space, his mind on other matters then. Some forty feet in length, a run of French windows gave on to the back terrace, which was shaded by a vine-woven pergola, bunches of grapes dangling above a long table draped in a white tablecloth and set for lunch.
The room was effectively divided into three by a central seating area—an overstuffed sofa and armchairs, all upholstered in matching blue damask, which fronted the marble fireplace. To his left, a woman was seated at a writing desk, speaking on the phone in thoughtful, grave tones. There were more ticks than crosses beside the names and accompanying telephone numbers on the list lying before her.
‘I’m afraid he’s not available right now,’ she said. ‘Yes, of course I shall. Yes. Until then. Goodbye, Mrs Elridge.’ Another tick. Her finger tapped the phone cradle, and she asked the operator to put her through to a number in Boston.
The far side of the room had been given over to a library, the walls lined with tall bookshelves. George and Manfred Wallace were in discussion with a woman around a table laden with yet more flower arrangements, the
