Page 36 of Safe Enough

She said, “Would you like a wee cup of tea?”

“That would be lovely.”

So we trooped inside, first Carter, then me, feeling a kind of preliminary satisfaction, as if our leadoff hitter had gotten on base. Nothing guaranteed, but so far so good. The air inside smelled of daily life and closed windows. A skilled analyst could have listed the ingredients from their last eight meals. All of which had been either boiled or fried, I guessed.

It wasn’t the kind of household where guests get deposited in the parlor to wait. We followed the woman to the kitchen, which had drying laundry suspended on a rack. She filled a kettle and lit the stove. She said, “Tell me what’s interesting about my house.”

Carter said, “There’s a writer we admire very much, name of Edmund Wall.”

“Here?”

“In America.”

“A writer?”

“A novelist. A very fine one.”

“I never heard of him. But then, I don’t read much.”

“Here,” Carter said, and he took the copies from his pocket and smoothed them on the counter. They were faked to look like Wikipedia pages. Which is trickier than people think. (Wikipedia prints different than it looks on the computer screen.)

Mrs. Healy asked, “Is he famous?”

“Not exactly,” I said. “Writers don’t really get famous. But he’s very well respected. Among people who like his sort of thing. There’s an appreciation society. That’s why we’re here. I’m the chairman and Mr. Carter is the general secretary.”

Mrs. Healy stiffened a little, as if she thought we were trying to sell her something. “I’m sorry, but I don’t want to join. I don’t know him.”

I said, “That’s not the proposition we have for you.”

“Then what is?”

“Before you, the Robinsons lived here, am I right?”

“Yes,” she said.

“And before them, the Donnellys, and before them, the McLaughlins.”

The woman nodded. “They all got cancer. One after the other. People started to say this was an unlucky house.”

I looked concerned. “That didn’t bother you? When you bought it?”

“My faith has no room for superstition.”

Which was a circularity fit to make a person’s head explode. It struck me mute. Carter said, “And before the McLaughlins were the McCanns, and way back at the beginning were the McKennas.”

“Before my time,” the woman said, uninterested, and I felt the runner on first steal second. Scoring position.

I said, “Edmund Wall was born in this house.”

“Who?”

“Edmund Wall. The novelist. In America.”

“No one named Wall ever lived here.”

“His mother was a good friend of Mrs. McKenna. Right back at the beginning. She came to visit from America. She thought she had another month, but the baby came early.”

“When?”

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