Deborah Crombie - Leave The Grave Green

Kincaid said, “No, thank you,” and seated himself, taking the chair at the table’s end. Gemma took her notebook from her bag and cradled it unobtrusively in her lap.

The drip coffeemaker worked as quickly as its expensive looks implied. It was only a few moments before the smell of fresh coffee began to fill the room. Vivian put together a tray with mugs, cream and sugar in silence, a woman enough at ease with herself not to make small talk. When the coffeemaker had finished its cycle, she filled the mugs and brought the tray to the table. “Do help yourself. And that’s real cream, I’m afraid, not dairy substitute. We have a neighbor who keeps a few Jerseys.”

“A treat not to be missed,” said Kincaid, pouring generously into his cup. Gemma smiled, knowing he usually drank it black. “Are you not the housekeeper, then?” he continued easily. “Have I put my foot in it?”

Vivian clinked her spoon around twice in her coffee cup and sighed. “Oh, I’ll tell you about myself, if you like, but it always sounds so dreadfully Victorian. I’m actually related to Caroline, second cousins once removed, to be exact. We’re as close to the same age as never-mind, and we were at school together.” She paused and sipped from her cup, then made a slight grimace of discomfort. “Too hot. We drifted apart, Caro and I, once we’d finished school. We both married, her career blossomed.” Vivian smiled.

“Then my husband died. An aneurysm.” The palms of her hands made a slapping sound as she brushed them together. “Just like that, he was gone. I was left childless, with no job skills and not quite enough money to get by. This was thirty years ago, mind you, when not every woman grew up with the expectation of working.” She looked directly at Gemma. “Quite different from your upbringing, I’m sure.”

Gemma thought of her mother, who had risen in the early hours of the morning to bake every day of her married life, then worked the counter in the shop from opening till closing. The possibility of not working never occurred to Gemma or her sister-it had been Gemma’s driving ambition for the work to be of her own choosing, not something done purely for the necessity of putting food on the table. “Yes, very different,” she said, in answer to Vivian Plumley’s statement. “What did you do?”

“Caro had two toddlers and a very demanding career.” She shrugged. “It seemed a sensible solution. They had room, I had enough money of my own not to be totally dependent on the family, and I loved the children as if…”

They were your own . Gemma finished the sentence for her, and felt a rush of empathy for this woman who seemed to have made the best of what life had dealt her. She ran her fingers along the tabletop, noticing faint streaks of color embedded in the wood’s grain.

Watching her, Vivian said fondly, “The children did everything at this table. They had most of their meals in the kitchen, of course. As much as their parents traveled, formal family dinners were a rare treat. School assignments, art projects-Julia did her first paintings here, when she was in grammar school.”

The children this… the children that … It seemed to Gemma as if time had simply stopped with the boy’s death. But Julia had been there afterward, alone. “This must all be very difficult for Julia,” she said, feeling her way into the subject delicately, “after what happened to her brother.”

Vivian looked away, grasping the table’s edge with one hand, as if she were physically restraining herself from getting up. After a moment, she said, “We don’t talk about that. But yes, I’m sure Con’s death has made life more difficult than usual for Julia. It’s made life difficult for all of us.”

Kincaid, who had been sitting quietly, chair pushed back a bit from the table, mug cradled in his hands, leaned forward and said, “Did you like Connor, Mrs. Plumley?”

“Like him?” she said blankly, then frowned. “It never occurred to me whether or not I should like Connor. He was just… Connor. A force of nature.” She smiled a little at her own analogy. “A very attractive man in many ways, and yet… I always felt a little sorry for him.”

Kincaid raised an eyebrow but didn’t speak, and Gemma followed his cue.

Shrugging, Vivian said, “I know it sounds a bit silly to say one felt sorry for someone as larger-than-life as Con, but Julia baffled him.” The gold buttons on her cardigan caught the light as she shifted in her chair. “He could never make her respond in the way he wanted, and he hadn’t any experience with that. So he sometimes behaved… inappropriately.” A door slammed in the front of the house and she cocked her head, listening. Half-rising from her chair, she said, “They’re back. Let me tell-”

“One more thing, please, Mrs. Plumley,” Kincaid said. “Did you see Connor on Thursday?”

She sank down again, but perched on the edge of her seat with the tentative posture of one who doesn’t intend staying long. “Of course I saw him. I prepared lunch-just cold salads and cheese-and we all ate together in the dining room.”

“All except Julia?”

“Yes, but she often works through luncheon. I took a plate up to her myself.”

“Did Connor seem his usual self?” Kincaid asked, his tone conversational, but Gemma knew from his still concentration that he was intent on her answer.

Vivian relaxed as she thought, leaning back in her chair again and absently tracing the raised flower pattern on her mug with her fingers. “Con was always teasing and joking, but perhaps it seemed a bit forced. I don’t know.” She looked up at Kincaid, frowning. “Quite possibly I’m distorting things after the fact. I’m not sure I trust my own judgment.”

Kincaid nodded. “I appreciate your candor. Did he mention any plans for later in the day? It’s important that we trace his movements.”

“I remember him glancing at his watch and saying something about a meeting, but he didn’t say where or with whom. That was toward the end of the meal, and as soon as everyone had finished I came in here to do the washing up, then went to my room for a lie-down. You might ask Caro or Gerald if he said something more to them.”

“Thank you. I’ll do that,” Kincaid said with such courtesy that Gemma felt sure it would never occur to Vivian Plumley that she’d just told him how to do his job. “It’s strictly a formality, of course, but I must ask you about your movements on Thursday night,” he added almost apologetically.

“An alibi? You’re asking me for an alibi for Connor’s death?” Vivian asked, sounding more surprised than offended.

“We don’t yet know exactly when Connor died. And it’s more a matter of building known factors-the more we know about the movements of everyone connected with Connor, the easier it becomes to see gaps. Logic holes.” He made a circular gesture with his hands.

“All right.” She smiled, appeased. “That’s easy enough. Caro and I had an early supper in front of the fire in the sitting room. We often do when Gerald’s away.”

“And after that?”

“We sat before the fire, reading, watching the telly, talking a little. I made some cocoa around ten o’clock, and when we’d finished it I went up to bed.” She added with a touch of irony, “I remember thinking it had been a particularly peaceful and pleasant evening.”

“Nothing else?” Kincaid asked, straightening up in his chair and pushing away his empty mug.

“No,” Vivian said, but then paused and stared into space for a moment. “I do remember something, but it’s quite silly.” When Kincaid nodded encouragement, she continued. “Just after I’d fallen asleep I thought I heard the doorbell, but when I sat up and listened, the house was perfectly quiet. I must have been dreaming. Gerald and Julia both have their own keys, of course, so there was no need to wait up for them.”