client, an up-and-coming microbrewery from just outside of Boston that was about to expand nationally.
“Wanna eat out?” Lloyd said after finishing his beer.
“We have leftovers, too.”
“Remind me again?”
“Chili and cornbread.”
“Oh, right. It’s up to you. I’m happy either way.”
It was a warm night and they ended up walking into what amounted to West Dartford’s center. There was a Congregational church, a convenience store, a café that was open for breakfast and lunch, and a tavern called the Owl’s Head that served food and had occasional live music. There were seats available at the bar of the Owl’s Head, and Hen and Lloyd each got a beer. He ordered a veggie burger and Hen got a bowl of clam chowder. The bartender, a tall, stoop-shouldered man with a handlebar mustache, remembered their names from the last time they’d been there. He even remembered the name of the microbrewery that Lloyd represented and said he’d checked out their website. The food came, and the baseball game began—the Red Sox were playing the Orioles, with whom they were currently tied in the standings, five games left in the season. Hen looked around the small bar, made to look older than it was, she thought, but cozy nonetheless, with brick walls, tap pulls made from polished wood, and even two taxidermied owls, one on either end of the bar. She wondered how many times she’d come here in the future, and the thought filled her with sudden gratitude. Her life was good. She’d come through foul weather and torrential rain to stand in the sun. Something about the feeling made her say to Lloyd, “I have a confession.”
“Uh-oh,” he said, but kept his eye on the game.
“Remember you said I was acting strange at our neighbors’ house, at Matthew and Mira’s?”
“When were you acting strange?”
“At the end when we were looking at Matthew’s study.”
Lloyd turned and looked at Hen. “I remember. You looked faint.”
“It’s because I saw something . . . Remember I asked about the fencing trophy on the mantelpiece?”
“Kind of.”
“Do you remember Dustin Miller?”
Lloyd took a sip of his beer. “Of course.”
“It wasn’t reported immediately, but the police did reveal that one of the things missing from Dustin Miller’s house on the night he was killed was a fencing trophy.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And do you remember where Dustin Miller went to high school?”
“Did he go to Sussex Hall?”
“He did.”
“I don’t know, Hen. That’s a stretch.”
“You don’t even know—”
“You think that Matthew, our neighbor, killed Dustin Miller and he took the fencing trophy and put it on his mantelpiece in his study?”
“It was a Junior Olympics fencing trophy—it said that right on it, and that was where Dustin Miller got the trophy from. And one more thing—let me finish. There was an accusation of sexual assault against Dustin Miller while he was at Sussex Hall. What if Matthew somehow knew or suspected Dustin was guilty? That would give him a motive for killing his ex-student.”
“Not really,” Lloyd said, swiveling his stool so that he was now completely facing Hen. He lowered his voice. “Even if he thought he got away with sexual assault, that wouldn’t mean he would murder him. And take a trophy as what, a souvenir?”
“All I’m saying is it’s a possibility.”
“It would be a huge coincidence.”
“Why would it be a huge coincidence? Someone killed Dustin Miller.”
“No, it would be a huge coincidence that we lived on the same street as the victim, then moved to the same street as the murderer.”
“Okay, yes, that is a coincidence.”
They were both quiet for a moment. The Red Sox game had just been called for a rain delay, and groundskeepers were pulling a tarp onto the diamond. Hen instinctively looked toward the large front windows of the tavern to see if it was raining yet in West Dartford.
“To be honest,” Lloyd said, “I’m more concerned right now with you than with whether our neighbor killed Dustin Miller.”
“I’m fine. I promise.”
“You weren’t fine last time you became obsessed with Dustin Miller.”
“No, I wasn’t, but this is different. Also, when I was looking at the trophy, I could sense Matthew’s eyes on me. It was like he knew I knew.”
“Great.”
“There’s one other thing,” Hen said.
“Okay.”
“I went to their house today, and Mira was there. I asked her if I could look around again, try and get some decorating ideas.”
“Seriously?”
“It wasn’t entirely a lie. I did want to see their house again, even though I really wanted to see the trophy.”