She spun, spraying my feet with her hose. Her hand jerked, and the water was redirected onto the grass.
“Oh, dear. Oh, my. I'm so sorry.”
“It's no problem at all.” I stepped back from the water puddling the flagstone. “Are you Mrs. Veckhoff?”
“Yes, dear. You're Carla's niece?”
“No, ma'am. I'm Dr. Brennan.”
Her eyes went slightly out of focus, as if consulting a calendar somewhere over my shoulder.
“Did I forget an appointment?”
“No, Mrs. Veckhoff. I wondered if I might ask you a few questions about your husband.”
She recentered on me.
“Pat was a state senator for sixteen years. Are you a reporter?”
“No, I'm not. Four terms is quite an achievement.”
“Being in public office took him away from home too much, but he loved it.”
“Where did he travel?”
“Raleigh, mostly.”
“Did he ever visit Bryson City?”
“Where's that, dear?”
“It's in the mountains.”
“Oh, Pat loved the mountains, went there whenever he could.”
“Did you travel with your husband?”
“Oh no, no. I have the arthritis, and . . .” Her voice trailed off, as though uncertain where to go with the thought.
“Arthritis can be very painful.”
“Yes, it surely is. And those trips were really Pat's time with the boys. Do you mind if I finish my watering?”
“Please.”
I walked beside her as she moved along the pansy beds.
“Mr. Veckhoff went to the mountains with your sons?”
“Oh, no. Pat and I have a daughter. She's married now. He went with his chums.” She laughed, a sound halfway between a choke and a hiccup. “He said it was to get away from his women, to put the fire back into his belly.”
“He went to the mountains with other men?”
“Those boys were very close, been friends since their school days. They miss Pat terribly. Kendall, too. Yes, we're getting old. . . .” Again her voice tapered into silence.
“Kendall?”
“Kendall Rollins. He was the first to go. Kendall was a poet. Do you know his work?”
I shook my head, outwardly calm. Inside my heart was thumping. The name “Rollins” was on the H&F list.
“Kendall died of leukemia when he was fifty-five.”
“That's very young. When was that, ma'am?”
“Nineteen eighty-six.”
“Where did your husband and his friends stay in the mountains?”
Her face tensed, and the comma of skin under her left eye jumped.
“They had some kind of lodge. Why are you asking about all this?”
“A plane crashed recently near Bryson City, and I'm trying to learn what I can about a nearby property. Your husband might have been one of the owners.”
“That terrible affair with all those students?”
“Yes.”
“Why do young people have to die? A young man was killed flying to my husband's funeral. Forty-three years old.” Her head wagged.
“Who was that, ma'am?”
She looked away.
“He was the son of one of Pat's friends, lived in Alabama, so I'd never met him. Still, it broke my heart.”
“Do you know his name?”
