"Yeah." She looked up at Sweeney, suddenly accusing. "You were supposed to find out about Mary."

"Yes. Did you know about Mary? Did your grandmother talk about her?"

Charley wandered over to the window and looked out. "I used to go down and look at her gravestone. I liked the poem. All about the man taking her on a trip."

G.o.d, Sweeney thought, children really are masters of euphemism.

"Charley?" A tall big-hipped woman with lank hair was coming down the stairs in a nightgown and thick wool socks and when she saw Sweeney she narrowed her eyes suspiciously. She couldn't have been more than thirty, but her face was pulled down in grief.

"I'm so sorry to barge in on you," Sweeney said from the bottom of the stairs. "I'm Sweeney St. George and I, I think I talked to you last week. About Mary Denholm's gravestone and then I think I talked to you the day after ... I just wanted to say how sorry I am. I had no idea ..." She was babbling.

"No, that's okay," Sherry said finally. She came down the stairs and curled up on one of the couches in the living room, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of the crack between a cushion and the side of the couch. On a table by the wall were ca.s.serole dishes filled with food, plates of brownies and a couple of pies wrapped in cellophane. One of the pies-cherry from the look of it-had a hole in the middle, as though someone had scooped out the center with a spoon.

"People keep bringing food," she said, shaking a cigarette out of the pack and following Sweeney's gaze. "I don't know what to do with it." She lit up and took a long grateful drag.

Sweeney studied Sherry's ravaged face, her pockmarked skin red and angry, and she thought about how grieving turned people's faces inside out, how you could see on their mouths and eyes the machinations of grief as it pa.s.sed over and through their minds.

Upstairs, bedsprings creaked.

"Sherry?" called a male voice. All three of them watched as a man in boxer shorts and a white T-shirt came down the stairs. He was a good-looking guy, with dark hair cut short and muscular arms.

"That's Sweeney St. George, Carl," Sherry said. "Remember? She's the one that ..." She looked nervously at her boyfriend.

"What does she want?" Carl asked. Sweeney watched him.

"I talked to Mrs. Kimball a few days before she died. She was going to help me with a research project."

He looked her up and down, his eyes predatory and chilly.

"You go back to bed, Carl," Sherry said, getting up and putting a hand on his arm. "I'll be right up." He gave Sweeney another hard look, then turned and disappeared up the stairs.

"We've had all kinds of people here," Sherry said apologetically, pushing her limp reddish hair away from her face. "Police and insurance people and reporters from the paper. Asking bulls.h.i.t questions. He's just tired of talking is all." She took another drag on her cigarette and studied Sweeney. "So you're the professor who was going to find out who killed Mary, huh? I'm sorry I hung up on you. Just didn't feel like talking about it."

"Of course. Did your mother tell you about our conversation?"

"Yeah, she said you might be able to figure out the truth about Mary being murdered and that she was going to tell you what she knew."

Charley was sitting on the floor staring up at them with her huge brown eyes.

"Could we talk somewhere alone?" Sweeney asked Sherry, who looked down at her daughter.

"Baby, go watch TV in the kitchen, okay? Just for a minute."

Charley nodded and did as she was told.

"I've uncovered some stuff about Mary Denholm's death that makes me think she probably was killed. What did your mother say about it? I guess she told quite a few people in town about her suspicions."

"Yeah, although I think a lot of that was to p.i.s.s off the Wentworths. She thought it was really c.r.a.ppy the way they wanted to stop her making money from the condos."

"But where had she gotten the idea that Mary was killed?"

"Oh, from her grandmother. She always said there was something weird about it."

"Do you know if she talked to anyone shortly before her death? Did she tell anyone specific that I was going to be looking into it and that it might come out that one of the artists was a murderer."

"I don't know. She was kind of weird the last few months."

"What do you mean?"

Sherry thought for a moment, a few strands of slick hair falling haltingly over her face. "I don't know," she said after a moment, and Sweeney had the feeling she had been about to say something and decided against it. What she decided to say was, "She was happy ... it was like she was planning something, you know?"

"Was it the thing with the condominiums? Could that be what was making her happy?"

"Maybe. But that wasn't a sure thing yet. I mean, we weren't going to get any money until the state gave the okay. And the Wentworths and all them kept fighting it." She looked quickly up at Sweeney. "To be honest, I don't hold anything against them. You know, you can disagree about stuff and all, but we've been neighbors for a long time."

"She wasn't ... having a relationship? With a man?"

Sherry opened her eyes wide. "My mother? No way. She didn't like my father much, and he was the only man she ever cared about. No, she wasn't seeing anybody. If she had been, she might have been more understanding about Carl." She cast her eyes toward the staircase, where he'd stood a few minutes ago, and lit another cigarette.

Sweeney picked up the Concentration cards on the coffee table, carefully turning over one that had cherries on the other side, then one with a turtle.

"I always liked this game," she said. "I think it's because I have a really good memory and I always win."

"My mother was like that, too. She only had to see something once and she'd remember it forever. She loved playing Concentration with Charley. Had to pretend she didn't know where they all were, though. Give the kid a chance. She was getting better though. Smart as a whip, Charley."

"I'll get going and leave you alone," Sweeney said finally, "but there's just one more thing I want to know. What do you you think about this whole thing? Is there a possibility that someone who didn't want her to tell what she knew about Mary is responsible?" think about this whole thing? Is there a possibility that someone who didn't want her to tell what she knew about Mary is responsible?"

Sherry looked up quickly and Sweeney could see tears welling up in her too-old eyes. "I don't know. I keep thinking that if I can remember what she looked like when I found her, it might tell me something. But then I think about it .... She went for a walk at lunchtime. She always did. We used to have a dog and she kind of just got in the habit, so even after the dog died, she always went for a walk then. And it started snowing that day and she didn't come back and she didn't come back and I got worried. So I went out and I was yelling for her. I could hear the Wentworth boys shooting in the woods." She stopped and looked at Sweeney. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm telling you this. I don't even know you."

"It's okay," Sweeney said. "I don't mind."

Then suddenly, as though the memory of finding her mother dead in the snow had just come back afresh to her, Sherry began to sob. "Oh G.o.d. Oh G.o.d. I just keep seeing her lying there, her hair. It's like a slide that's stuck and I can't get rid of it. The police keep coming back here, asking Carl if he did it, but they don't know what it was like, looking down at her. There's no way he could have ..." The cigarette she had balanced in the ashtray was out and she lit another one, holding it with shaky hands up to her mouth. One of the cartoon characters on the TV laughed loudly.

"She was holding the gun. She was ... Oh G.o.d!" Sherry started sobbing again and Sweeney leaned forward to touch her knee.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"It's okay." Sherry quieted down, the tears falling silently now. "It's like, I just feel so ... it's like everything's just wrong, that's all. My whole body is so fidgety. It's like I can't ever get comfortable. I can't get ever get comfortable with the idea that she's gone, you know."

Sweeney flashed back to the days after Colm's death, when every new minute that pa.s.sed was like the minute in which she awakened each morning to realize that he was really gone. "I know, I know," she said. "I'm so sorry."

Sherry stared out the window. "I'll never forget the way I felt walking down there. I didn't know anything then. It was the last time I ..."

"When did you see the hat?"

"The hat?"

"Didn't you find her hat on the porch? Before you found her?"

"No. What do you mean? Whose hat?"

"Forget it. I'm sorry."

"Oh s.h.i.t. You'd better go." Sherry was crying again now, deep, raspy sobs that made Sweeney feel empty and impotent.

"Can I do anything?"

"No. I just ... I ran out of cigarettes." Sherry laughed, then started sobbing again.

Sweeney put her coat on and got ready to go. "I'm so sorry," she said. "Listen, if there's anything that you think of, even something small, I think you should tell me or the police. I'll be staying up at the Wentworths' until after Christmas. Is it okay if I stop by tomorrow? There's something I want to get for Charley, a book that we were talking about."

But as it turned out, Sweeney didn't stop by the next day. Because the next day, after getting a firm identification on Carl Thompson as the man who had p.a.w.ned a number of the electronic items stolen from colony homes, Chief Cooper got a search warrant for the Kimb.a.l.l.s' home and found, hidden in the bas.e.m.e.nt beneath a tarp, other items that were identified as having been stolen from the Byzantium houses.

Carl Thompson was arrested and ordered held without bail on suspicion of burglary, a charge the town was sure would soon be changed to murder.

TWENTY-FOUR.

DECEMBER 20.

SWEENEY HAD RETURNED to Birch Lane and found she could no longer look at the house with the same eyes, knowing as she now did that the man who had created it had played a role in Mary's death. She had examined a Gilmartin hanging over the reception table, a portrait in whites and grays of a young woman. It was a thing of beauty, the woman's small, delicate face turned slightly upward in flirtatious supplication, her fair hair silvery in the strange light coming in through a small window over her shoulder. A large gray cat lolled on her lap, his visage ecstatic beneath the woman's hand. How could a man capable of such monstrosity make something so beautiful? Sweeney had stared at the creation, at the swirls and daubs of oil paint that were the painter's words and that had always seemed to her like the fingerprints of divinity. to Birch Lane and found she could no longer look at the house with the same eyes, knowing as she now did that the man who had created it had played a role in Mary's death. She had examined a Gilmartin hanging over the reception table, a portrait in whites and grays of a young woman. It was a thing of beauty, the woman's small, delicate face turned slightly upward in flirtatious supplication, her fair hair silvery in the strange light coming in through a small window over her shoulder. A large gray cat lolled on her lap, his visage ecstatic beneath the woman's hand. How could a man capable of such monstrosity make something so beautiful? Sweeney had stared at the creation, at the swirls and daubs of oil paint that were the painter's words and that had always seemed to her like the fingerprints of divinity.

They spent the next day getting ready for the Christmas party.

Sweeney found herself in a strange position all that day. From the perspective of everyone else in the house, Ruth Kimball's murder had been solved, and everything was back to normal. When they had heard-from Willow and Rosemary who had come breathless and excited at lunchtime with the news-Britta had visibly relaxed, her whole face undergoing a transformation, softening and becoming prettier. Toby, who had shot Sweeney a satisfied look as if to say "See?" was positively cheerful, grinning and humming Christmas carols.

As they decorated the house, hanging evergreen boughs from the staircases and mantels, stringing cranberries on thread for garlands, and tr.i.m.m.i.n.g the giant tree that Patch and the boys had brought from the woods, Sweeney agonized about what to do.

She knew that Gilmartin had had a hand in Mary's death. But there didn't seem to be an imperative anymore to reveal her knowledge. If that murder had nothing to do with this one, what good did it do anyone to make the truth known? And there was Toby to think about. Revealing the truth about his great-grandfather would hurt him as much as it would hurt the rest of them.

But she was a scholar. She had made an academic discovery as well as a human one.

She wondered, too, what to do about Ian. He had been careful with her since she'd been back, hardly looking at her, leaving the room when she entered. He was embarra.s.sed, she decided, but there was something else there, too, something that smacked of self preservation, as though he were afraid to be alone with her.

She went up to her room right after dinner that night, pleading exhaustion, and after reading for an hour, put on her nightgown and got up to use the bathroom. But when she stepped out into the hallway, Ian was on his way in, wearing a bathrobe and carrying a leather toiletries case.

"I'm sorry. Did you want to ..." He looked so completely un-sinister that she had trouble connecting him with the person she'd followed to her house only yesterday.

"No, that's fine. You go first." She ducked back into her room, her heart beating fast. The bathroom shared a wall with her room and she listened to the steady rush of the shower for a few minutes, then the sounds of him getting out, shutting the door of the shower stall and flushing the toilet. A few minutes later, she heard the door to the bathroom open, his footfall in the hall, and his own door shutting behind him.

She counted to one hundred, then went out into the hall and knocked on his door. When he answered, he was still in his robe.

"Can I talk to you?"

"Yes. Certainly." He drew the robe more tightly around himself, gestured her into his room and shut the door.

"Sit down," he told her politely, clearing some papers off the chair at the little desk. She sat and looked around the bedroom, which was an almost identical, though more masculine version of her own, its walls a clean white, the trim painted a dark blue that matched the bedding and curtains. The room was neat, the bed made, not a single piece of clothing on the floor. A black suit was draped over the blue and red patchwork quilt.

"What um ... what did you want?" he asked. He sat down on the bed, clutching his robe around him. With his wet hair slicked down close to his head, he looked very young.

Suddenly, she was so embarra.s.sed, she could barely speak. But she'd already started it and there wasn't any turning back. "I saw you in Boston yesterday," she announced. "And I know that you lied to us about when you arrived in Vermont. What I want to know is why."

Ian stood up and went over to the window. For a couple of minutes he didn't say anything. Then he turned back to her.

"I wondered if anyone knew about that. I'm afraid my explanation won't make much sense to you, but I'll give it all the same. I had come all the way here and I wanted some time on my own before arriving at Patch and Britta's. I don't know, I think it was the idea of Christmas and the children and all the people. Christmas is a bit odd for me, because I'm not with Eloise. I just wanted a few days here to explore, by myself. It's one of my favorite things, getting to know a new place all on my own. So I stayed at a hotel in Suffolk, a few miles away. I'd heard from Patch and Britta that there were some great antiques in the area. I am, after all, here to buy antiques. So I looked around, went to an auction."

"What would you have done if you'd run into them downtown?"

"Don't know. I hadn't thought that far ahead, I guess. I would have told them the truth, I suppose, or said I'd arrived early and didn't want to trouble them."

She stood up and went over to him, her eyes almost level with his, so close that she could smell the particular scent of him, his sharp English smell, of lemons and spice. "But why did you go to my house yesterday? Why did you follow me to Boston?"

On the wall above the bed was a portrait of an eighteenth-century gentleman, dressed in military garb and staring imperiously down at them. She imagined that he disapproved. "Look at you," he seemed to say, "accusing a man when you've got no evidence to support your feeling that he's guilty." But she had evidence. He had followed her. She had seen him.

He stared at her for a minute, his face stricken, then turned away and slammed his open hand against the wall. "d.a.m.n, Sweeney." The violent movement surprised her. "b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l. I can't ... Close your eyes for a second. I can't talk to you like this." Not knowing what else to do, she turned away and shut her eyes.

The sounds of him getting dressed-the soft rustle of denim, his nervous breathing-seemed very loud to her and she held her breath until he said "all right," then opened her eyes to find him wearing jeans and a cashmere sweater, his feet still bare. They were pleasantly slender, the tops of his toes lightly furred, his arches p.r.o.nounced, the skin pale, like the underbelly of a fish.

He reached past her to hang the damp robe up on a hook next to the door and when his hand brushed her shoulder, she stepped back so quickly she almost fell into the bed.

"I didn't follow you. I swear it. I had some business in Boston and I was about to tell everyone that I was going down yesterday when you came out with your own announcement. I couldn't say then that I was going as well because you would have thought I was following you. I had to go to an auction house. Skinner's. You can call them and check it out if you want."

He went on. "b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, it's so hard to explain. I don't know what it is, but I feel like you're afraid of me, like you think I'm up to no good. And then I put my foot in it the other night and I just felt like you couldn't stand to have me around. So I decided it was easier to say I had things to do in Vermont than to explain why I was gone all day."

"That's a very neat explanation, Ian. But why did you go to my house? What business could you possibly have had on my street street, for G.o.dsakes?" She could feel perspiration running down her back despite the fact that it was cold in his room.

He turned away and went to sit down on the bed, pulling a hand roughly through his hair. For a matter of minutes, he seemed about to speak, as though he were wrestling with a p.r.o.nouncement or a speech, shaping the words in his head, trying them out to see how they worked. Finally, she could see that he had given it up.

"I don't know," he said quietly, meeting her eyes. "I wanted to see where you lived. I looked you up in the phone book."

"Come on, you can't expect me to believe that c.r.a.p. I saw you. You followed me to Boston."

She was furious with him, because she felt somewhere deep in her bones that he was lying, that he knew more about this whole thing than he was letting on, and because she realized in that moment that he had gotten to her, that she was very attracted to him and that if he were to stand up and walk over and kiss her, it might possibly be the most thrilling thing she could imagine. And then she did imagine it.

Suddenly, Ian was standing directly in front of her. She could feel a kind of vibrating warmth emanating from his body, a warmth that she wanted to step into, let wash over her like rainwater.

But he kept talking, smiling down at her. "You can't imagine how embarra.s.sing this is. When I was in primary school I used to walk by the home of a little girl named Harriet. She was lovely, Harriet. One day she caught me and I made up a story about how my dog had run away and I was looking for him and she spent a half hour helping me look for my nonexistent dog. She felt so sorry for me. Do you feel sorry for me?"

She looked up into his eyes and he leaned forward and pressed his mouth lightly to hers, just for a second, testing her response, then looking more urgently for her lips. She leaned into the kiss, thrilled and terrified.

"No," Sweeney whispered into his mouth, normal breath gone to her.

"Good." He lifted her hair away from her neck and held it lovingly, weighing it in his hands like something very precious, then laying it back down on her shoulders.