My immediate impulse was to pay a visit to Delbert Rose, who turned bits of colored glass into stage jewelry and was possibly shifty. Sticking with a plan I’d hatched earlier might yield more useful information, though.
I drove to the address I’d found in the phone book for the woman Nick Perry claimed was his great-aunt, or rather for her late husband. It was a big place, three stories of gray stone and more than twice the size of its neighbors. Stone gateposts anchored a black iron fence whose double gate stood open. Size, style and a mounting block to one side of the gate suggested it had been here long before its neighbors.
After leaving the theater shop, I’d used a pay phone to check on the recital the occupant of the house was supposed to be attending with Nick and Lena. It would last, I’d been told, at least another forty-five minutes, “followed by refreshments”.
I hoped Great-aunt Clara had a sweet tooth, or at least a hankering for tea, but I couldn’t count on it. Not after the way Lena had sulked at the whole outing. It seemed unlikely Nick or Lena would recognize my car, or even that they knew I had one. Still, no point taking chances. I parked the DeSoto on a side street, out of view of the Drake house, and walked to a house directly across from it.
A woman in a linen dress opened the door.
“Hello, I’m from Sterling Underwriters.” I gestured with the clipboard, which held the form I’d gotten from Rachel, flashing it just enough for the woman to catch a peek at how official it looked. “I’m verifying information one of your neighbors supplied on his application for coverage. All quite standard, and of course confidential. Could you spare me a few minutes?”
“Insurance?” she frowned, trying to follow.
“Very similar, only for businesses when they start.” I smiled.
“A neighbor, did you say?”
If anyone exists who isn’t curious about the neighbors, I’ve never met them.
“Nicholas Perry. We understand he travels a great deal, but he’s the nephew of Mrs. Clara Drake. He lists her address as his permanent residence.”
“Oh, yes. The handsome young man who visits her every year or so.”
It suggested she didn’t really know their connection. That was fine.
“So he visits approximately every twelve months.” I scribbled on a line that asked something about square footage. “And you’ve lived here how long?”
“Ten years—”
“Who else resides with Mrs. Drake? I see she’s a widow.”
“I don’t believe anyone lives with her except her housekeeper. There’s a girl who comes every day to clean.”
“No children? Grandchildren?”
“I don’t believe so. I don’t really know Mrs. Drake, to tell you the truth. She doesn’t mingle. Looks down her nose at the rest of us around here.”
“So as far as you know, Mr. Perry is her only relative?”
I scribbled industriously.
“Yes. Well...”
I looked up.
“I’m not sure. She had a niece – grand-niece, more likely, now that I think of it. Sarah, I think it was. Very pleasant, always said hello. Then suddenly she wasn’t around. I thought maybe she’d moved, or even died, but the girl who cleans for me talks to Mrs. Drake’s girl, and she said Mrs. Drake had disowned her niece.”
I asked if her household helper had gone home for the day, and if not, did she possibly know Sarah’s last name or where she lived. The girl was still around, but she had no more to add.
“As I mentioned in the beginning, our interviews are confidential,” I reminded the woman I’d spoken with. “We hope you’ll keep that in mind and not mention my visit to Mrs. Drake or Mr. Perry.”
I made a beeline to the house next door. It would shore up my story if she knew I’d talked to other neighbors besides her. It also might squeeze out more information about the cousin named Sarah. I glanced at my watch, aware of it ticking off minutes until Perry and his girlfriend returned with great-auntie.
The woman at the next house had a sprinkling of freckles that gave her a girlish look despite gray hair and glasses. She accepted my explanation of why I was there without question. She’d lived across from Mrs. Drake for going on thirty years, but only to say good-morning.
The only relatives she was aware of were Nick and Sarah. The little girl had grown up in Dayton. Nick’s family had lived here at one time, but moved when he was fourteen or so. Sarah was a lovely young woman; used to accompany her great-aunt to a matinee or an afternoon of shopping.
“Married a man named O’Neill, I believe. Sam O’Neill. I read it in the paper. Last year I ran into her on the street. She was in a family way and absolutely glowing. I meant to knit a cap for the baby, but you know how it is. I asked where they were living, though, and she said on McClure.”
When I asked why Sarah had stopped visiting Clara Duke, the knitter of baby caps merely shrugged.
“All I know is they had some sort of falling out.”