DETECTIVE McPHEE

McPhee considered the patrolman’s news. Iris being spotted at the burial ground could be the break they needed, and McPhee was grateful, even if it came from Facebook rather than police work. She had radioed the canine team with the news that Mrs. Blum was sighted at the memorial bench overlooking the burial ground. The dog was still sniffing his way along the Mill River, but they’d head over to the bench. A couple of foot patrolmen were already dispatched to the spot. She called the station requesting the drone flight right away, before the rain started. A quick look now with the infrared camera when they’d had a sighting might just do the trick.

She turned to her partner. “Probably a good time to talk to the guy we missed in Number One, the caretaker. What’s his name?”

Walsh checked his notebook. “Eric Golden. Wife is Bea Kaufman. Two kids.”

Ten minutes later, McPhee and Walsh sat in the living room at Number One Azalea Court.

“Can I get you tea?” Eric asked. “It’s raw out there.”

“No. Thank you, Mr. Golden,” McPhee said. “Before we start, are your children at home?”

He looked surprised. “Call me Eric,” he said. “They are, but the kids wouldn’t know anything.”

McPhee shrugged. “Probably not, but it’s worth asking. If that’s okay with you.”

It was always worth talking to children and old people. They tended to be more observant than busy adults, plus people often barely noticed kids, and talked in front of them as if they weren’t there.

The children must have been listening in the hallway. When Eric called, they entered the room quickly, stood in front of the television, and stared at McPhee.

“I’m Detective McPhee,” she said. “What are your names?”

“I’m Marc.”

“I’m Morgan.”

“Thanks for helping us out,” McPhee said. “Have either one of you seen your neighbor Mrs. Blum today?”

Both children shook their heads. “Our mom drove us home from school,” Marc offered. “Dad was worried the school bus wouldn’t get through or something. I came right in and went to my room. Unlike her!” He pointed to his sister.

“Yeah, you went right to your computer and started killing people,” Morgan said, then slapped her hand over her mouth as if she realized what she said. “You don’t think Iris has been killed, do you?” she asked McPhee.

“We have no reason to believe anyone hurt Mrs. Blum,” McPhee said. “Where did you go after school, Morgan?”

Morgan glanced at her father before answering. “I visited Aggie. I like to play with her dolls. I know I’m too old, but her dolls are wicked cute. I didn’t see anyone except Aggie.” She stopped to catch her breath. “I want to be a detective when I grow up.”

McPhee smiled. “Have either one of you noticed anything unusual lately, with Mrs. Blum?”

Morgan and Marc shook their heads, their faces serious and eyes wide.

“Thank you. If you think of anything else, please ask your father to let me know.” She nodded to Eric, who sent the kids off to do homework.

She turned to Eric. “You know the Blums pretty well, don’t you?”

“I guess so. Asher more than Iris.”

“Tell me about Asher Blum,” she said.

He rubbed his upper lip. Then he pulled his hand from his lip, looked at it, and grimaced. McPhee stared at him and he laughed.

“Did you know that indented place under your nose has a name? Philtrum. When we first met, my wife thought it was cute, the way I rub it, but now she says it’s unsanitary and I’m trying to stop.” He paused and looked from one detective to the other. “Sorry. Guess I’m upset about Iris. What kind of things do you want to know?”

Hmmm, McPhee thought. He’s nervous about something. More likely something about that wife of his, rather than the case. But you never know.

“Whatever you can think of,” she said. “What kind of man is he? How did he treat his wife? Did you ever notice problems between Mr. and Mrs. Blum?”

“It took Asher and me a long time to become friends. Different generations, you know. He could be my grandfather. We don’t really share personal details.”

She nodded. “What about recently? Have you noticed him acting differently?”

“Asher hasn’t been himself the past month or so,” Eric said. “His wife has Alzheimer’s, so it’s not surprising he’s been upset. He takes really good care of her.”

“Anything else you can think of?”

Eric hesitated again. McPhee recognized his silent inner debate about whether to share something with the authorities. Something that could possibly reflect badly on a friend. She wondered how this man would resolve the dilemma.

“No,” he said. “Nothing else.”