I thought with a shot of defiance back at him. He should feel guilty. It was his turn to feel guilty.
But there were at least ten other people around, all of whom I knew. This was not the time for a confrontation. That said, I couldn’t quite get myself to joke and say, We have to stop meeting this way, in part because a smile was beyond me. Having a beer at my favorite pub was bad enough. Now my post office?
He stared for several more seconds this time than last. We both moved right, then left before working it out, at which point he nodded and passed.
“Have you not met him yet?” Cornelia asked, having seen our little dance.
“Oh, I have,” I replied without saying where. “What was he picking up?”
“Bedding”
“Bedding.”
“From Wayfair.”
“Why does he need bedding?”
“He has to sleep on something.”
“But he’s with the Inn. Isn’t he staying there?”
“Not now that he has sheets. He bought the Barnstead place. Lord knows why. It’s been empty for three years and is falling apart.”
Bought. Bought?
“It needs major rehab,” Cornelia said, “and I do mean major. Bill Barnstead did nothing but mourn after his wife died, so the house is in a state of disrepair. Oh, the place has good bones, and it’s set on a good piece of land, prime waterfront property overlooking the Blue, but it’s overgrown. If he wants any sunlight, he’ll have to take down trees, and you know what the town thinks of that.”
I probably did, but the buzzing in my head muddled any thought of trees. He bought the Barnstead house? Okay, he might buy it for someone else. But setting it up? With bedding?
He was moving here. But without letting me know? Without calling? Texting?
It didn’t make sense. A venture capitalist might visit Devon; he wouldn’t move here unless he was retiring, and Edward was too young for that. Besides, I was here. No way would he want to live anywhere near the woman who had killed his only child.
“Maggie?” Cornelia tested softly. “Hello?”
I blinked and refocused. “Sorry. What?”
“Everything okay?”
“Yes. Uh, yes.” I had to think quickly. Cornelia wasn’t easily fooled. “I’m just worried.” I tipped my head toward the group gathered at the bank of steel PO boxes. “What are they saying?”
“Pretty much what you’d expect. Did the boy do it? Did Grace know? Will the Spa keep her on?”
“Then the talk is positive?”
“So far. They like her. They say she’s a good mother. They’re not pointing fingers.”
Yet, I thought.
Yet, her cocked brow confirmed.
I assumed Cornelia’s excuse for cynicism was age. Not wanting to get into my own, I asked, “Do we know anything more about the case against Chris?” I had been out of contact for several hours, and the post office was a hub for news. If anything had happened, Cornelia would know it.
“Officially, no,” she said for my ears alone. “Those who are involved with the prosecution are being careful not to jeopardize it.”
“They have Ben Zwick to say what they won’t. He’s a force.”
“He’s only describing what he perceives as his personal injury. That’s his right.”
Had it come from anyone else, I might have taken offense on Grace’s behalf. But Cornelia had been a professor before retiring here—a Radcliffe degree from way back, was the word, and on the Harvard faculty for years. I wouldn’t have taken that as proof of anything, if she wasn’t always right.
“Isn’t it libel?” I asked.
“Maybe, if Grace can prove that her life or livelihood has been damaged. Naturally, there’s only libel if Chris is found not guilty.”
“Then you do think it’ll go to trial?”
Cornelia never frowned. What wrinkles she had were light, which was proof either of a dearth of emotional display or good genes. To my knowledge, she had never worn makeup, never even used moisturizer. And she didn’t frown now, but still managed to look concerned.
“You mean, will he plead out? That depends on what kind of case the government has and the penalty for it.”
“What’s the range?”
“Up to five years for someone without a record, likely less for a juvenile.”
“Grace will die if he spends a single day locked up,” I said with dread.
“Have you talked with her?”
“Yes.” The call had come at seven, while I was making myself up.
“I’m sorry,” she had said. “I wasn’t polite last night.”
“Screw politeness, Gracie. I don’t care. This is a horrible time for you. Just tell me how you are.”
“How do you think? I’m lousy. My life is in danger.”