and rusty appliances and bags of trash lay around the bottom of the porch. A barn to one side of the house had seen better days; the roof sagged in the middle like the back of an old horse.
The state of the property provoked a pang of sadness. Ruth Kimball had probably always meant to clean it up, but never gotten around to it. And now she never would.
Sweeney climbed the five steps up to the porch and knocked on the front door, her heart beating nervously. She’d been so intent on getting up, returning the library materials to Marlise, and getting back to Vermont that she hadn’t planned out exactly how she was going to do this. You couldn’t, after all, just blurt out, “Hello. I think someone killed your mother because of what she knew about Mary Denholm’s death.”
The door opened and Sweeney was about to launch into an explanation of who she was and how she’d gotten interested in Mary Denholm’s gravestone when she looked down to find a little girl staring up at her. She looked about ten but her tiny, skinny body made her head of tight brown curls and the giant eyeglasses that sat on her nose look disproportionately big. Her skin was a soft cocoa color and she wore overalls and a bright pink T-shirt. This must be Charley.
“Who are you?” the girl asked, staring up at Sweeney through her glasses.
“Is your mother here?” Sweeney asked.
The girl just stared and asked again, “Who are you?”
“My name is Sweeney St. George and I’m a researcher, a professor. I was wondering if I could speak with your mother.”
“I’m Charley.”
“Hi, Charley. Could I come in? It’s very cold.”
Charley stepped aside and allowed Sweeney to walk past her into the house. “Sherry’s still sleeping,” she said. “I’m supposed to wake her up at eleven, but I can wake her up now.”
Sweeney looked at her watch. It was 10:45. “No, no. I don’t want you to do that. She’ll be up soon. Is it okay if I wait?”
Charley nodded solemnly.
The living room was a Victorian interior left too long in the sun. Red-and-white wallpaper had faded to pink, and an old high-backed sofa was the color of tea-stained linen. The rest of the furniture was made up of original pieces mixed with new ones. Another sagging couch stood out from one wall at an angle, as though someone had started to move it and then changed her mind. A La-Z-Boy chair, upholstered in blue velveteen, reclined between the couches, and the television was on to a cartoon show that featured a talking wolf. On the low table, a game of Concentration was spread out, half the cards turned over as though someone had been playing and then been interrupted.
“Do you want a drink?” Charley asked politely.
“Okay. If it’s not too much trouble.” The girl disappeared silently and came back into the room a couple of minutes later, holding a blue tinted glass filled with cherry Kool-Aid. She handed it to Sweeney, who slipped out of her coat and sat down on the couch.
“Thank you.” After a few minutes she said, “I’m so sorry about your grandmother.”
Charley just stared at her. “Is that your real hair?”
“Yes.”
“Sherry has red hair like that, only she buys it in a box and puts it on in the bathroom like shampoo. That’s called dyeing. Not like being dead, but like making something a different color.”
“I always wished I had a more regular hair color. Blond or a nice brown, like yours.”
“Really?” Charley sat down on the couch next to Sweeney and stared at her hair some more. Sweeney checked her watch. It had only been five minutes.
“What grade in school are you in?” Sweeney had another sip of the sweet Kool-Aid.
“Fourth,” Charley said. “I’m younger than everybody else, though, because my birthday’s in December, but they let me in anyway because I started reading when I was three.”
“Three? Really?”
“Yeah. I don’t remember, but Sherry says I started reading newspapers.”
“This is a nice house.”
“Yuck.” Charley wrinkled up her nose and looked at Sweeney in disbelief. “No it’s not. Not like the Wentworths’ house. It’s old outside, but new inside. They have a white couch. And they have suits of armor, like the knights of the round table. Gwinny let me touch one once. She’s their daughter. She baby-sits for me sometimes, but next year she’s going to boring school. She’s going to be an actress. Have you ever read Morty Dee Arthur?”
“Yes,” Sweeney said,