actress. The typecast world-worn woman, wizened by time and beautiful to behold. A real star, in the vein of Meryl Streep. Claire was riveted by the performance—so riveted, she’d abandoned the parfait in front of her.
What was yogurt to murder?
And not just any murder. One that had taken place in the house she’d inherited.
Claire couldn’t think of eating.
Nor, it seemed, could the other customers of Ramsey’s Diner. They were listening too. When Cathy had delivered the girls their food, she’d sat right down at their booth to tell the story she’d promised earlier.
“Amelia!” she’d called into the kitchen. “Could you take over?” She’d turned to the sisters and added, “I’m using a smoke break on you, so listen up.”
Since Cathy’s big announcement, Murphy had gone statuesque, her jaw dropped comically low. Eileen, on the other hand, hadn’t reacted a smidge. She was cutting her pancakes languidly, eyes heavy-lidded with dispassion. As though murder was no big deal. How? Claire wondered. Had Mr. Knutsen already told her about this? If so, how many other secrets was Eileen keeping from Claire?
Claire had lied through her teeth about it, sure, but she honest-to-God felt like a journalist. She wanted the scoop. Every last detail.
As Cathy spoke, her voice booming for all to hear, Claire scanned the diner. Everyone was watching Cathy, drawn in, same as Claire. The place had grown quiet. Even the Christmas music was reverent, a pensive piano version of “O Holy Night.”
They must know the story, Claire thought. I wonder how many times they’ve heard it, in how many ways.
This was murder, after all, in a small town. Claire remembered when Marcie Hoffman, a senior at Emmet High, had been shot in the arm by her stepfather. Marcie had lived, and the stepfather had gone to jail. No murders, no death, and even then, that was the only thing people could talk about for weeks. It still came up five years later, in hushed cafeteria conversations.
That memory brought on an ugly thought: Marcie got shot and still went to college. What’s your excuse, Claire?
She shook out the question and refocused on Cathy.
“The father was a bigwig in Silicon Valley back in the day. Made bank down there. What was the company, Orson? Intel?”
“Hell if I know,” said Orson.
“Well,” said Cathy, “coming north was the mother’s idea. Wanted to find a nice plot of land for cheap. God knows why they chose Rockport.”
“Wasn’t Intel,” piped a bearded man sitting three booths down. “Boeing, that’s what it was. In the plane business.”
“That so, Wyatt?” Cathy scrunched her nose. “Boeing.”
Wyatt nodded politely and sipped his orange juice.
“That’d be Seattle, then,” said Orson. “Not California.”
Cathy waved her hand. “One of the two. Point is, these Enrights were rich. They rolled into town around, oh, late eighties. People could tell from the first they were standoffish. City blood, you know. Doesn’t mix well in Rockport. The wife was a pretty thing, though.” Cathy frowned. “What was the maiden name? VanderVeer?”
“Eschenburg,” supplied the talkative old lady. “German stock, I remember. Sophia Eschenburg, that was the name.”
Orson chuckled from the counter and said, “Really, folks. This diner could turn into a genealogical society. Put a new sign out front!”
“It’s important to get these details right, Orson,” Cathy said, chidingly. She pointed at Claire. “These girls are journalists. They need the facts.”
Claire smiled weakly, trying to think of something to say, like, “That’s right! Just the facts, ma’am.” The truth was, she wasn’t sure how many of these details were facts. Seattle was a long drive from Silicon Valley. VanderVeer had a different ring—and origin—than Eschenburg. Claire considered the possibility that though Cathy was a good storyteller, maybe she wasn’t the most trustworthy one.
Cathy carried on: “Rich as Croesus, these Enrights. Determined to buy that old house on the bluff, do it up nice. He was always away on business, but he hung around Sophia long enough to get three sons out of her. Wyatt, you grew up with ’em, didn’t you?”
Wyatt shook his head. “Little after my time. John, he was three years behind me. The rest were younger, of course.”
“Patrick was in my class,” came a new voice, from a woman sitting at the counter.
The sheriff.
Instantly, Claire grew stiff.
If you act like there’s nothing to hide, she told herself, then she’s got nothing to suspect.
“We were on some group projects together, growing up,” the sheriff continued. “He dated my friend Faith for a few weeks.”
“Did he, now?” Cathy said. “Way he turned out, I couldn’t picture