Cathy gone from the table, Eileen hadn’t planned on any further contact with strangers. She blinked uncomprehendingly at the two old ladies sitting across from them. They were watching the sisters as though they were six o’clock news.
“Nope.” Murphy answered the white-haired lady who’d asked the question. “We’re from Emmet. Ow.”
Eileen had actually heard Claire kick Murphy under the table, glitter shoe smacking bone.
“Emmet.” The woman looked thoughtful. “Can’t say I’ve heard of it.”
“It’s small,” said Murphy, who’d pulled out a length of knotted rope from her coat pocket and begun messing with it.
She was such a weird kid.
“Well! We know how small towns go,” laughed a man at the counter. He’d spun his barstool to join the conversation.
What is this? Eileen thought. A town hall meeting?
“What brings you ladies to Rockport?” asked the man. “Visiting relatives? More likely than not, I know who they are.”
“That’s true enough, Orson,” said the inquisitive old lady. She smiled at the sisters, motioning to the man. “Orson’s our mayor.”
It is a town hall meeting, Eileen confirmed. Sheriff, mayor … who would appear next? The president of the goddamn garden club?
For a politician, Orson was underdressed. He wore a bulky suede jacket with a plaid-patterned collar and a U of O baseball cap. But as someone often dismissed for her own choice of clothes, Eileen was willing to withhold judgment. As to his question—Eileen decided it was better not to tell an outright lie. Orson probably did know everyone in town, and she wasn’t going to risk a bogus story about made-up grandparents. She was still thinking up the best approach, when Claire beat her to it.
“We’re doing research,” she said, pointing to Eileen. “My friend and I, we’re in the same freshman course at OSU. It’s a journalism prereq, and we’re supposed to report on an aspect of small-town America. So we thought it’d be a good idea to do a podcast, you know? And our angle is old homes. See, my mom used to take us on home tours of Victorians. They have so much history. Anyway, I got mono in October—don’t worry, I’m better—but it really put me behind. So our professor was super understanding and gave us a grace period to finish the project. She said as long as we had something turned in by Christmas, she’d hold off on our final grade. Well, we’ve been reporting on a few local houses, but they just don’t have that … pizazz, you know? Then we saw your house on Laramie written up in an article in Victorian Times, and we decided we had to see it for ourselves. So we’ve come to report on it. And this is my little sister.” She pointed to Murphy. “My parents are letting her travel with us, for fun. We figure, we’ll get home Christmas Day in plenty of time to open presents and everything. But when you’re a journalism major, you’re never off the clock.”
Eileen stared, speechless, at Claire. Never in her eighteen years had she heard someone tell a lie that butter-smooth. Podcast? Mono? Victorian Times? She’d hadn’t thought Claire had it in her: the imagination, the eloquence, the balls.
“Smooth,” Murphy said under her breath.
Claire was smiling cheerily, post verbal vomit. She hadn’t even broken a sweat.
“A … what, now?” asked the lady at the booth. “Pod-what?”
“Podcast,” Claire said, patiently. “It’s like a prerecorded radio show.”
“Whoo,” said Orson, chuckling. “I can’t keep up with this technology. You millennials go too fast.”
“Actually,” said Claire, “we’re not millennials. That’s a common misconception. We’re younger than that. Not that generation matters, of course. You’re never too old for podcasts. Plenty of older folks enjoy them too.”
Orson kept chuckling. “It’s enough effort for me to maintain the Rockport website.”
Cathy appeared at the counter, filling Orson’s mug with coffee. “What’s this I hear about Patrick’s house?”
Orson pointed at Claire and Eileen. “These two, they’re doing a news report. A real Woodward and Bernstein in our midst.”
Cathy looked sharply at the sisters. She wore an expression Eileen couldn’t read.
“Reporters, huh?” she said. “Then you know about the murders, I expect.”
Claire cleared her throat. “The, uh … murders?”
Eileen dug her fingers into the booth.
No, she thought. Not the secret.
There was no stopping it, though.
“Sure,” Cathy said. “The ones at 2270 Laramie.”
FOURTEEN Claire
We knew the Enrights were odd folks. But no one knew how odd till too late.”
Cathy sat beside Claire, crow’s-feet enshrining her drama-bulged eyes. She was a natural storyteller, Claire thought. In another life, she could’ve been a Hollywood