Sadie refused all help with the washing up, saying she found it relaxing and that she had a kitchen girl coming the next morning to do the pots and pans. Dru retired for a nap, so David and I took ourselves off for a tour of the town, such as it was.
“How did Dru seem to thee, David?” I asked as we strolled arm in arm in the fall sunshine. “Did she seem to be losing her senses a little?”
“A bit, yes. Or perhaps she was evading the detective’s questions on purpose.”
I glanced up at him. “On purpose? But why?”
“I don’t know, Rosie. A girl the aunts raised was murdered. Drusilla doesn’t seem particularly broken up about it. Please don’t take offense, because I know she’s your beloved aunt, but I wonder why she isn’t grieving at least partly as much as Tilly is.”
“It is perplexing, and I wondered the same. It could be senility setting in, rather than guilt about something.”
“It certainly could be. She is, what, seventy-five? Although many old people remain clear of mind until they die.”
“Like Orpha,” I said, referencing my dear midwifery mentor who, blessedly, was still very much alive, albeit increasingly frail. “And John Whittier, of course.”
“Precisely. Still, as you well know, senile dementia is common among those with seventy or more years behind them.”
We passed a large mansard-roofed house and then a more modest home.
“Last night Dru refused to tell me how Tilly came to take in Frannie,” I said. “I think thee was out of the room when I asked her. She said it was Tilly’s story to tell, which makes me wonder if there’s something unsettling or revealing about the history. I’ve never known the facts about it, and it didn’t matter when I was younger. Now I’m thinking the story might hold a clue of some kind.”
“Will you ask Tilly?”
“I’m reluctant to. I don’t want to upset her. Remind me in the morning to send a telegram to Daddy. I’m sure he knows.”
“Consider me your personal secretary, my dear.”
I laughed at the notion, but squeezed my arm more tightly through his. “Oh! Before we left, Sadie said she would insist on my aunts staying with her and Huldah during our sojourn here. That way she can look after both of them and they won’t feel they need to take care of us even as they mourn. So if we want, we can forgo the costly hotel room and stay right here in West Falmouth.”
He pulled me to a stop and turned to face me with a tender smile. “My thrifty Quaker. Don’t you want the luxury of a fine room, breakfast prepared for us, the bed made up every morning and turned down every night? I can easily afford the price.”
“That all sounds delicious, of course.” I bit my lip. He clearly wanted to treat me to a fine experience.
“But you want to be close at hand in West Falmouth, to your aunts and to the investigation. I see that, dear wife.”
I nodded slowly.
“Then we shall avail ourselves of Tilly and Dru’s hospitality and Sadie’s generosity to allow us privacy.” He took my face in both hands and bestowed a kiss.
“You are the best, dear husband. And this afternoon . . .” I looked up at him with roses blooming on my cheeks.
“We can enjoy our hearts’ desires?” His husky tone matched the desire in his eyes.
“Something like that.” I leaned my head against his arm as we came to a well-appointed house with a wide wraparound covered porch. The pink blooms of Rosa rugosa smelled sweet even from the walkway.
“It’s all I can do not to sweep you into those bushes right now, darling wife,” David murmured.
“Thee knows I can’t wait for our next mutual sweeping. But those bushes?” I snorted. “They feature an immensity of prickles, my darling. I daresay we both would rue the experience.”
“So true.” He laughed. “Then let’s make all due haste back to our temporary marital bed, shall we?”
“Mmm,” was my only response, because I spied a girl in her teens sitting in a porch swing to the side of the wraparound veranda. She was reading, and I waved in greeting when she looked up from her book.
A woman approaching called a greeting to the girl. “Good afternoon, Miss Bowman.”
Miss Bowman? Perhaps this was Hazel, Frannie’s friend. I tugged on David’s sleeve and whispered, “I think this might be the girl Frannie worked with. Do you mind if I speak with her?”
He paused for a beat, then said, “Of course not.”
I could have kissed him again. Instead, I reversed course and started up the walkway to the porch, with David close behind.
“Hazel Bowman?” I inquired, smiling.
She set down the book. “Yes. May I help you?”
I ascended the stairs. “I’m Rose Car— I mean, Rose Dodge, niece to Tilly and Drusilla Carroll.”
Her mouth tightened for a flash of a second. She replaced the look with a welcoming smile. “Please come and sit with me.”
“This is my husband, David Dodge.” We sat on the wicker chairs to which she gestured. “I’d like to offer my condolences on the death of thy friend, Frannie.”
Hazel, about sixteen, like Frannie had been, had large gray eyes and flaxen hair worn in a knot with stylish frizzed bangs. She studied me as if trying to discern my motives.
I studied her back, curious about her pupils, which seemed overly constricted even for the sunny day.
“Thank you,” Hazel said at last. “It’s awful that she was killed. Frannie was my good friend throughout our school days and more recently at the tag shop. I still can’t believe she’s gone. In a poof, just like that.” She touched the neck of her summer dress, made from a lawn sprigged with tiny red blooms.
Interesting. She didn’t seem broken up by Frannie’s death. “It’s a hard thing to take in, isn’t it?” I asked. “My aunt said Frannie sometimes spent the night with thee.”
Hazel laughed lightly. She gestured at the house behind her. “Look at this place. I’m the only offspring, more to Father’s chagrin, and we have bedrooms to spare. Of course, when Frannie and I had our girl parties, we shared my bed. It was cozier.”
As many girls did. “But she didn’t sleep here the night before last?” I tried to keep my tone as light as her laughter had been. My tactic didn’t work.
She narrowed those gray eyes. “The detective asked me the same question. Are you working with him? Frannie used to tell me about your investigations up north.”
Interesting. Daddy must have written to Tilly and Dru about the several homicides I’d tangled with of late, and they’d told Frannie.
“I’m merely trying to set my Aunt Tilly’s mind at ease about her dear ward’s sudden demise.”
“You could ask Brigid McChesney what she knows.” Her lip curled. “She hated Frannie. I’m not sure why. If anyone murdered my friend, it would have been that Irish trash.”