that he recalled his meeting with Penrose the year before. Maybe he’d had his suspicions at the time. But what could he do? Challenge the word of a respectable member of the community, of larger society?
The wealthy had closed ranks. Penrose had been called on to serve up an alibi. But just how far had his sense of duty, loyalty and friendship carried him? Was he also privy to the conspiracy to silence Lillian Wallace? For that would explain away the remaining anomalies in the story: Lillian’s split from Penrose, her uncharacteristic move to East Hampton for the winter months.
Her guilt had gotten the better of her, destroying her relationship with Penrose, driving her back to the scene of the crime, jeopardizing the fragile edifice of the shared lie.
Hollis checked himself; he was speculating now. And all based on one name uttered by a fisherman whose motives remained far from clear.
The phone rang, shrill and loud in the confined space of the hallway, startling him.
‘Hello.’
‘Tom?’
Oh Christ, thought Hollis.
‘Mary.’
‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘Your hostess for this evening.’
Supper with Mary. How could he have forgotten?
‘I’m sorry, I’m working.’
‘At home?’
‘It’s true,’ he said pathetically, and was rightly rewarded with a silence on the other end of the line. ‘I should have called.’
‘Why didn’t you?’
What could he tell her? Not the truth—that the invitation had completely slipped his mind.
‘I was about to. I was literally just walking to the phone when you called.’
‘Having literally just walked away from it a minute ago, I suppose.’
‘Huh?’
‘I called. Your line was engaged.’
The phone call to Olive at the telephone exchange.
‘Look, Mary—’
‘It’s okay, I think I understand.’
‘No, you don’t.’
‘Just tell me, are you going to come over or not?’
‘I can’t.’
‘Okay,’ she said, then hung up.
Hollis made to call her back then realized he didn’t know her number. The directory wasn’t in the drawer of the table in the hallway. When he finally located it on the floor of the larder and dialed her number, there was no reply.
He fought the urge to jump in the car and head on over. There was a lot more to be done on the case files before he could satisfy himself he hadn’t missed anything.
Five minutes later, the doorbell rang.
He leapt into action. The first thing he concealed was the bottle of gin. He was gathering together the files for removal to the larder when Mary’s face appeared at the back door.
He froze, caught in the act. Dumping the files back on the table, he went to the door and threw the latch.
‘I didn’t mean to surprise you,’ she said, ‘but I thought we should talk. Face to face.’
He stepped aside, allowing her to enter, resigning himself to her reaction. It wasn’t just the mess, it was the grime—the thin film of grease thrown up by his inexpert cracks at cooking, and to which the dust had then adhered.
‘I’ve let things go a bit.’
‘I’ll say you have.’
She picked her way around the clutter on the floor. He cursed himself as she reached for the glass on the table and took a sip.
‘Neat?’ she asked.
‘It helps me think.’
‘My husband used to say it helped him sleep.’
His shame gave way to indignation. She had no right to come snooping on him.
Mary glanced at the files on the table. ‘I’m relieved,’ she said. ‘I thought maybe you were lying.’
‘I wouldn’t do that.’
