Page 8 of Silent Ridge

It passes through my mind, but I want to get on with this. I say, “No. I don’t think that at all.”

She dabs at her eyes with the tip of a napkin. The teakettle screams like a train whistle. She gets up and takes down what I believe are her best china cups. The handles on the teacups are so small and fragile, I have to pinch them between my thumb and forefinger, and that puts my pinky finger in the air. My mother called that hoity-toity. Pretentious. Lifestyles of the rich and clueless. It is, however, the only way I can hold the damn cup.

I put several teaspoons of sugar in my tea and stir carefully, afraid I’ll break the china or spill it. Mrs. Perkins opens a cabinet above the stove and takes down a bottle of Johnnie Walker. She pours several capfuls in her tea and offers the bottle to me. I decline. I’m on duty. And I’ve spoiled it with sugar already.

She takes a seat. “I have to hide the bottle from Leona,” she says. “She has a drinking problem.”

I laugh. I can’t help it. She smiles and we’re friends. Just like that.

“So, Detective, where were we?”

Before I can open my mouth, a Jack Russell terrier is at my feet, staring at me. I like dogs. I reach down to pet him.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Mrs. Perkins says.

I straighten back up in the chair. The dog is still staring at me. Maybe deciding if I’m lunch, dinner, or just a snack.

“That’s Gonzo. He’s old. He can’t half see. He probably thinks you’re Leona. She always gives him a treat. Don’t pay him any mind. He’ll get tired and lay down.”

I ignore him and pull my feet and ankles under the chair. “You were going to tell me about Mrs. Delmont,” I remind her.

“Oh, yes. Monique. Such a pretty name. Not like Leona or Rowena. That’s my name. Rowena Perkins. Rowena Rafferty when I was unmarried. You can call me Weena. I think ‘Mrs. Perkins’ is just too much.”

I don’t need to hear all of this, so I move it along. “Tell me about Mrs. Delmont, Weena.”

“Oh, yes. Sorry for prattling on.” She stops and takes a sip of her tea and actually smacks her lips. “Ahhh,” she says.

I think I know why she really hides the bottle.

“Monique moved into what used to be the old Donaldson place two weeks ago Saturday,” she says. “I remember seeing that someone was in the house. It sat empty for more than a year. So I went up to introduce myself. She was so pleasant. And she seemed to be sad. We had tea. She sat right there where you are now. In fact, she helped me with this puzzle the first time.”

She stops and takes a bigger sip. Quiet. Looking at the puzzle. I believe she’s lost in thought until she picks up a puzzle piece and tries to fit it in part of the fireman’s groin.

“Weena…” I say.

“Oh. Yes. I was thinking.”

I know what she was thinking about.

“She never invited me over. I thought maybe she kept a dirty house. Yet she was always dressed so nice, I knew that couldn’t be. She was beautiful. She said she had two daughters and a grandson. We never talked much about them. She seemed to not want to. I think that’s why she was sad. My own son hardly ever calls and never visits. I understood her. I don’t know why these kids do any of the things they do. Maybe he's just tired of a needy old woman.”

She stops and finishes the tea in one impressively loud gulp.

I push a little. “Did you ever see anyone at her house? Did she have any other friends?”

“That’s the reason I told you that she wasn’t a friend. Not really. After the first few days she was here she seemed to withdraw and keep to herself. At times her car would be gone, so I knew she’d gone out. But she was usually home. I stopped by about four days ago—Thursday, I think. Yes, a Thursday. I was worried that she might be sick, and when she answered the door, I could tell she’d been crying. I didn’t ask. None of my business.”

“What kind of car did she have?” I ask.

“I don’t know cars. A blue one. My husband did all the driving. I don’t need to get out much. I have a gardener once a week and a boy to deliver my groceries. Even my medicine comes by mail. Amazon is a godsend. If I didn’t have Gonzo, I’d never get out of the house.”

“So you were never inside her house?”

“That’s what I told the sheriff,” she says.

Eight

After two more spiked teas and repeated questioning, I found out Mrs. Rowena Perkins had lied to Sheriff Gray. Her excuse for not telling him right away was that he hadn’t asked directly if she’d been in the house.

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