The Second Mouse - Archer Mayor [49]
Suffield, Connecticut, is a curious mix of a town, a spread-out collection of odds and ends that forms only fragments of a suburb, some farmland, a small shopping center, the tiniest of business districts, and a couple of rows of huge old mansions, all floating around a private school campus of pristine perfection. It’s picturesque, fashionable, and has several signs attesting to its antiquity. But for all the colonial and Victorian architecture, ancient trees, and several churches boasting graveyards filled with black-clad, austere people fond of wool and buckle shoes, the entire town has a scrubbed, fresh-out-of-the-box feel. Joe wasn’t sure whether it was his own background or the general condition of his home state, but he found he preferred a little grittiness in his surroundings. From what he could see of it, this place was so clean, he felt he might bounce off it.
The street address he’d been given was on the far end of town, past the school and the churches and the Playmobil downtown mall, just beyond what looked to be the place’s only gas station. He approached at a snail’s pace, searching for the right number, confused by every building’s looking exactly like its neighbors. In fact, if it hadn’t been for those numbers, he couldn’t have distinguished the address.
He pulled up at last opposite 346 and sat quietly for a moment, enjoying the warm breeze wafting through the open window. Joe, a Vermonter by birth, had a northerner’s innate sense of weather, and an appreciation for those few months every year when the ambient temperature wasn’t life threatening.
He got out and stretched, surveying the scene. The buildings all appeared to be narrow two-story apartments, their height supposedly compensating for what he imagined was tiny overall square footage. He walked up this one’s immaculate path and rang a doorbell labeled “Bedell.”
“Are you looking for me?” a voice asked him.
He stared at the still-closed door and turned to look at the empty street.
“Up here.”
He stepped back off the stoop and looked up. Directly above him was an open window framing the face and torso of a thin, white-haired woman with a pleasant expression.
“I am if you’re Susan Bedell,” he said, smiling. “I feel like I’m in a play.”
She laughed. “Right—Romeo, my Romeo, turn up your hearing aid.”
He told her his name, showing his badge.
“Come on in,” she said with no apparent surprise. “I’ll meet you downstairs. And don’t walk too fast or you’ll find yourself out back.”
He had been worried about the kind of person he’d be relying on for old memories. This, he thought hopefully, held some promise. He showed himself inside.
She hadn’t exaggerated by much. The place was minute. It was also tidy, wonderfully decorated, and smelled of the best that a summer day has to offer.
“Sorry about that,” said the woman, coming downstairs. “I was working on my computer and was too lazy to come down, in case you were a Bible thumper. I get a lot of them for some reason.”
She gave him a firm handshake and introduced herself. “I’m Susan Bedell.”
“Joe Gunther,” he repeated. “I really appreciate your seeing me.”
She slipped by him and headed into what was more a galley than a kitchen. “Believe me, I get so few guests that I’m even reconsidering the Bible folks. Coffee?”
He accepted and leaned against the doorjamb as she set about making two mugs’ worth.
“You said you were from Vermont,” she said, not looking up. “You hot on the trail of someone?”
He hadn’t been sure how to broach the subject. He’d gotten no idea from Hillstrom of the general mood of her old office, and had certainly never heard of Bedell before today. For all he knew, this woman and Hillstrom had hated each other.
“Something that dates way back,” he began carefully. “To when you worked with Medwed.”
She paused in midmotion to glance at him. “Wow, you’re not kidding. What are you working on?”
He hesitated, which was clearly all she needed. “Don’t worry about confidentialities. I have no one to tell.