staying there. Still, it was unlikely—her husband had just been killed, and I assumed she was in Boston taking care of business. But I couldn’t be sure. Running into her would not be the worst thing. There was no reason for her to suspect I had anything to do with her husband. There was zero connection between us. Still, it might put her on her guard, and for my plan to work, I needed her to be relaxed.
I decided to stay. The truth was, I wanted to get a look at where Miranda had been living for most of the past year. People would know her here. There might be gossip. All of which might give me an advantage.
Walking from the car to the reception area, the raw air smelled of woodsmoke. A workman in paint-splattered overalls was coming out of the inn’s side door as I reached it, and he held the door for me as I passed through with my bag. I walked across the uneven, wide-planked floors to the unmanned reception desk. I waited for a minute, then rang the bell. A gray-haired man with a handlebar mustache appeared from a side office. His name tag identified him as John Corning, concierge.
“Checking out?”
“Checking in, actually. If there’s a room. I don’t have a reservation.”
It took about fifteen minutes, as John described several of the available rooms. I settled on one in the old section of the inn. I was warned that the ceilings were low, but that there was a good view of the ocean.
“Just visiting?” John asked.
“I had a couple days off and I’ve never been up here, so I thought I’d treat myself.”
“Well, yah picked the perfect place. There are spa services here, but they’re not walk-in. You need to call ahead. Dining room’s closed tonight, but the Livery’s open down in the cellar, and the food’s just as good, if you ask me. Try the lobster BLT. And I’d be happy to recommend nearby restaurants. Do you need someone to show you to your room?”
I told him I didn’t, and climbed the narrow stairwell to the second floor. The view from my room was a narrow slice of ocean past a cluster of huddled trees on the bluff across the road, but the room was nice, with dark blue walls, Shaker-style furniture, and a four-poster bed with an actual red-white-and-blue quilt on it. I wondered, of course, if this were a room that Ted and Miranda had stayed in. Had they slept together in this bed?
I unpacked my bag. I had told John at the front desk that I would be staying for two nights, but I had packed clothes for more than that. I would play it by ear. The room was too warm, the radiator clicking and hissing, and I opened the window, standing there while the cold air spilled over me. The low clouds were thinning as the afternoon wore on, and I could make out the lengthening shadow of the inn as it stretched across the road. It would be dark in less than an hour. I had planned on walking the cliff walk but decided that I could do that the following day. I left the window cracked and lay down on the soft bed. The ceiling was crossed with dark beams, and I imagined Miranda in this room staring at the same view. I pictured her alone, naked under the sheets, thinking about the two men in her life—her husband and her lover—and plotting murder. I tried to think of Ted, but my mind kept slipping toward Miranda. Was it possible that I was wrong about her, and that Ted had really been killed by a surprised burglar? I didn’t think so but knew it was a possibility. It was the first thing I needed to find out, and the reason why I needed to meet Brad as soon as possible.
Miranda flooded my thoughts. I remembered her from years ago, staring into my eyes that drunken night at St. Dunstan’s. She had wanted to study them, she said, and I’d let her. I could smell the sweet trace of vodka on her breath, and one of her hands was touching my wrist. She told me all the colors she could see in my eyes. I wondered at the time what she was up to. I thought that it had to do with Eric, that she was trying to spook me, since I was now going out with her