The Lake of Dreams - Kim Edwards [85]
Before we left, Oliver gave me the contact information for the executrix of the estate—her name, Joan Lowry, as well as her address; he even gave me directions to the house nearby where the estate auction had been—probably because he was so sure I’d turn up nothing more than he had. He wrote the information on an index card, holding the pen oddly with the tips of his fingers, copying the address carefully from a Rolodex on the credenza—no BlackBerry for Oliver—and handed it to me, asking in an offhand way what day we planned to view the chapel.
“Wednesday at nine o’clock,” I replied, regretting the words even as I spoke them, feeling I’d somehow walked into a trap. Maybe this was why I’d been invited.
“Oh, good,” he said. “Keegan mentioned it would be happening soon, but your Reverend Suzi hasn’t let me know when. Maybe she didn’t get my messages. That’s fine, though, that date. I’ll put it in the calendar right now. And I suppose I’ll see you then.”
He held out his hand and I shook it.
My mother’s hand he kissed, saying that he’d been enchanted, which made her laugh in a flustered way.
“He’s slippery,” I said as we opened our umbrellas—it was raining hard again—and made our way down the wide stone steps. “He probably arranged this whole meeting just to get that information about the viewing.”
My mother slipped into the passenger seat. “Sweetheart,” she said. “I don’t think so. You’re starting to sound a little paranoid. I thought he was charming.”
She shut the door and I started the car, letting it warm up for a moment, wiping away the condensation that had begun to gather on the windshield.
“He was certainly charming to you. He likes you, I think.”
My mother smiled, but didn’t reply.
“Anyway, I’m not paranoid. I’m suspicious. Wary. There’s a difference.”
“Suspicious of what, though?” My mother looked up from the damp pamphlet in her hands. “I mean, really, Lucy, what difference does it make if Oliver Parrott ends up with these windows? Maybe they belong here. After all, it is a museum. It’s not like he’s selling them on the black market or grinding them up.”
“I don’t know,” I said slowly. I opened the map and searched for the address Oliver had given us. “I feel possessive about Rose, I guess. It’s personal for me, probably in the same way Frank Westrum is personal for Oliver. To find this woman, Rose, who was part of the family story, but never included—well, it matters to me, that’s all. She matters to me. Plus, I think Oliver knows more than he’s revealing. Did you notice how he reacted when you told him about Iris? I wish you hadn’t done that.”
“Why in the world not? I didn’t notice anything strange at all. It was fine.”
“I don’t want him to know everything we know,” I said. “I just don’t trust him, that’s all.”
“Oh, Lucy. That’s ridiculous. Well, I hope you can find out what happened,” my mother said. “And I hope you aren’t disappointed if you do.”
I gave her the map and the directions and she navigated us through the city. We drove by a tall brick town house just a few blocks away, where Oliver had found the windows. Then we headed out of town. Joan Lowry’s retirement community was just off the highway, in a modern three-story building with porches made of dense plastic formed to resemble wood and windows with plastic strips made to resemble panes. It was an assisted living unit, where you lived in your own apartment as long as your health was good, though the nursing home was right there, in another building, should the need arise. It made logical sense, but I didn’t like to think about it.
We found Joan in good spirits. She was in her own apartment, and when the desk clerk called upstairs and explained who we were, she said she’d be glad to see us right