coffee on a tray with two mugs, a carton of milk, and a bowl of sugar cubes, and brought it back into the living room. I was startled to see the detective standing, peering closely at the bindings in my living room’s built-in bookshelf.
“Sorry,” he said, sitting back down on the lip of the chair. “You have some interesting books. I hope you don’t mind my asking . . . you’re David Kintner’s daughter, right?”
I placed the tray on the coffee table and sat down on the couch. “Uh, yes. Do you know him? And please just help yourself to coffee.”
“I do know him. I’ve read several of his books, and I saw him read once. In Durham, New Hampshire.”
“Oh yeah?”
“He was quite the showman.”
“So I’ve heard. I’ve never seen him read before.”
“Really? I’m surprised.”
“Don’t be. He’s my father, and what he does for work is not exactly fascinating to me. At least it wasn’t when I was younger.”
I watched the detective assemble his coffee, adding milk but no sugar. He had beautiful hands with long slender fingers. I was suddenly struck with how similar he looked to Eric Washburn. Thin and masculine, but with almost girlish facial features. Rosebud mouth. Thick eyelashes. He took a sip of his coffee, put the mug back on the coffee table, and said, “You know, you weren’t easy to find out here. Are you still a Kintner or did you officially change your name to Lily Hayward?”
“No, I’m still Kintner, legally. People here know me as Lily Hayward. Hayward was my father’s mother’s maiden name. Don’t read too much into it. It’s just that—working at a college—people are familiar with my father and all his baggage, and when I got the job here, I decided to go by another name.”
“Understandable.”
“So you know what’s happening with my father?”
“The accident in England.”
“Right.”
“Yes, I heard about it. I’m sorry. I really am a big fan of your father’s. I’ve read all his books, actually. I think I remember that he dedicated his last one to you.”
“He did. Too bad it wasn’t a better book.”
The detective smiled. “It wasn’t so bad. I think the reviews were a little harsh.” He took another sip of his coffee, was quiet for a moment.
“So,” I said. “Back to Ted Severson. I’m still confused why you’re here.”
“Well, it could all be a coincidence, of course, but Ted Severson came here to Winslow on the day he was killed. We know that because he got a parking ticket. He wasn’t coming to see you, by any chance?”
A flash of anger at Ted’s stupidity went through me, followed by a touch of sadness. He had come looking for me. He had come to my town. I shook my head. “Like I said, I don’t know him, and he doesn’t know me. We might have met once or twice . . .”
“You were in England in September, right?”
“I was. I went over to see my father after he got out of prison. In fact, he’s going to be moving back to America, and I was there to help him with some of the logistics.”
“Do you remember the flight you took back?”
“I can look it up for you if you’d like.”
“That’s okay. I know the flight. It was the same one that Ted Severson was on after a business trip he took to the U.K. Do you remember seeing him on that flight?”
I was prepared for this. So they knew that Ted and I were on a flight together. It was still highly doubtful they knew that Ted and I met later at the Concord River Inn. Did they know I traveled to Kennewick the day before? Probably not, but it wouldn’t be hard to find out.
“Do you have a picture of him?” I asked
“I don’t with me, but if you have Internet . . .”
“Right. I’ll double-check it, but I did talk with a man on that flight, and now that I think of it, it was probably Ted Severson. We met, actually, in the airport bar at Heathrow. I remember thinking when we met that he seemed to know me. The way he said hello. But then we introduced ourselves and talked for a while. He didn’t really look familiar to me.”
“You didn’t exchange names?”
“We did, but I didn’t really catch his. Or if I did, I didn’t remember it.”
“But you gave him your name?”
“I did. And I told him that I worked here in Winslow.”