“The crafts are rather expensive, in my opinion,” said Ruth, eager for the distraction of chatting, “but of course it all goes to a good cause. I asked Sue Finch to save me a nice mince pie. They’re not very popular these days. I guess they’re rather strong tasting for a lot of people, very spicy you know, but they’re my aunt’s favorite and I always try to have one for her.”
“My mother loved mince pie,” said Lucy, thinking that at this rate she’d never get any information from Ruth. “I made—well, actually it was my daughter who did the cooking. She made six dozen apple cider donuts.”
“My goodness! That must have been quite a job.”
“It was indeed, but she had help from a friend,” said Lucy, who was struggling to reconcile Link Peterson’s accusation against Matt with the agreeable guy who’d helped Zoe make the donuts. “I’m just curious. What made you look in Ed’s car? Did you see something suspicious? Did you hear anything? See anyone?”
“I’m afraid I was just being nosey,” admitted Ruth. In a hushed voice she defended herself. “I’m not usually like that, you know, but I’d seen that car around town and I wondered what it was. It’s not like the other cars, you know, the ones like this one. You see a lot of these and I suppose they’re very nice and all . . .”
“Do you mean SUVs?” asked Lucy, somewhat amused.
“If that’s what they’re called, I suppose so. Hondas and Toyotas and Nissans . . . they’re all Japanese, aren’t they?”
“Ford and Chevy make them. Jeep too. I think every car manufacturer makes SUVs. They’re very popular.”
“Well, my father always used to say to buy American, and I’ve found my Dodge to be very satisfactory.”
“They have a very good reputation,” said Lucy, turning into Ruth’s empty driveway. “But you were curious about Ed Franklin’s Range Rover?”
“I was,” said Ruth, picking up her handbag and squeezing the handles. “It’s taller than the other UVS cars and it’s the only one that looks like that. I wondered what it was, so I walked over and saw it’s called a Range Rover. I think those are English or something.”
“They are.”
“I suppose they’re very expensive, since he is so rich,” said Ruth, suddenly realizing the need to correct herself. “Since he was so rich and all.”
“I imagine so,” said Lucy.
“I noticed that the windows are all tinted, not that I would have looked into the car. That’s sort of a private place. But the driver’s side window was down . . .”
Actually, shattered by the bullet that killed Ed, thought Lucy.
“Well, anyway, I could see right in and I wish I hadn’t,” concluded Ruth, reaching for the door handle.
“Do you want me to come in? Just to make sure you’re all right.”
Ruth looked at her with her muddy brown eyes and grabbed her hand in a surprisingly strong grip. “I don’t want to be any trouble, but it would be so kind of you.”
“No problem,” said Lucy, hoping to get more information out of her.
“You see, I never lock my door,” said Ruth as they walked up the path together toward the door, eerily illuminated by a yellow bulb that was not supposed to attract moths. “It always seems such a bother, but I suppose it’s rather foolish. Anyone could walk in and steal me blind.” Reaching the stoop, she paused. “Or worse.”
Lucy knew that locked doors were a rarity in the little town where everybody knew everybody. “Well, I always think that if somebody wants to break in, a lock isn’t going to stop them.”
“I suppose you’re right,” said Ruth, who had stopped in front of the closed front door. “I mean, even if Ed Franklin had locked the doors of his car, it wouldn’t have made any difference.”
“No, it wouldn’t,” agreed Lucy, wondering why Ruth wasn’t opening the door to her house. “Shall we go in?” she prompted.
“I know there’s really nothing to fear but . . .”
“I’ll go first,” said Lucy, turning the knob and switching on the light.
The door opened into a small hall with a stairway; the floor had been painted gray and spattered with beige, yellow, and white in the old-fashioned style, and a braided rug served as a doormat. A prim and proper living room dominated by an upright piano was on one side of the hall, a dining room with a polished mahogany table holding a milk glass bowl of obviously fake fruit was on the other, with the kitchen behind.
“Nobody here,” reported Lucy, after taking a quick look. “I’ll just run upstairs.”
Upstairs she found two neat and tidy bedrooms, each with white ruffled curtains and a double bed covered with a white candlewick bedspread. She considered peeking in the closets and looking under the beds but decided that would be overkill. The house was definitely empty.
Going downstairs she found Ruth in the old-fashioned kitchen where a small table with two chairs painted red sat on a linoleum floor beneath a plastic wall clock shaped like a rooster.
Ruth was filling the kettle at the porcelain sink; an ancient red plastic dish drainer sat on the large drain board.
“I think a cup of tea is called for,” she said. “All things considered.”
“Absolutely,” said Lucy, suddenly drained of energy and sinking into one of the chairs. “And if you have any, I’d really love a cookie or two.”
Ruth produced some homemade oatmeal-raisin cookies and Lucy nibbled on one while they waited for the kettle to boil. Ruth couldn’t seem to sit still and kept popping up to check the kettle and adjust the burner.
“A watched pot never boils,” said Lucy with a smile.
“I know. It’s just, well, I can’t help worrying.” Ruth paused, twisting her hands nervously. “You know, I’m a real fan of mystery shows on TV, and I know from watching them that the person who
