Fall Guy

about. And one more. Had John told O'Fallon that I was a private investigator? If I'd been named executor because of that, it wasn't just curiosity I was feeling. I wasn't just acting out of habit. I was on the job. I was getting paid to discover something, to do something. The only trouble was, I didn't know what it was.
    I opened the back windows halfway for
    Dashiell. As I pulled out of the lot, I heard him sneezing, clearing the way for new scents, ready to pull the world in as fast as it was passing, trying not to miss a thing. It was a lesson that wasn't lost on me.

CHAPTER 13
    The house, along the Sparkill Creek, was one of the little saltboxes that faced a winding two-lane road, their long, narrow backyards sloping down toward the water. The O'Fallon house was painted gray with white trim. I parked along the road so that I wouldn't block Mary Margaret's car. She was at the open door as soon as I got out. She waited as we walked toward the house, asked if the dog was housebroken, then invited us in.
    She had the kind of strong, trim body you often see on nurses and she was dressed in a trim, no-nonsense way as well, a pretty woman who did nothing to augment the gifts nature had given her. Her red hair was pulled back in a knot at the nape of her neck. She was in a pantsuit in shades of tan, no makeup, no nail polish, no jewelry. A little brown bird trying very hard not to be noticed.
    Dashiell and I followed her inside. If I'd expected to be hit by the lingering odors of her mother's long-term illness, vaguely concealed by Lysol, Fantastic and Soft Scrub, I was pleasantly surprised. The windows were open, sunlight pouring in, the living room bright and airy, everything in its place. The house had so much sparkle I would have bet Maggie made the beds with hospital corners, even here at home.
    We walked through the living room to the kitchen. In New York City, it would be called an eat-in kitchen. But this was a house. Houses almost always had kitchens you could eat in. The table was set for lunch. She pointed to the place farther from the sink and refrigerator and asked me to sit. Then, surprising me, she took an old saucepan from under the sink, ran the water cold and filled the pot for Dashiell. She stood watching him drink noisily from the pan before really looking at me.
    „Does he need something to eat? I could give him some turkey if he's hungry.“
    „No, he's fine, thank you.“ Again, a surprise. And then another. She had a full-time job and, until recently, another one at home, caring for her sick mother. I expected a tuna sandwich, perhaps a tossed salad with bottled dressing, but Maggie was taking eggs out of the refrigerator, then butter and cheese. That's when I noticed the omelet pan on the stove, the little pile of fresh herbs on the counter.
    „I don't buy this nonsense about eggs being bad for you, do you, Rachel?“ She was melting butter, whipping the eggs. „It sometimes seems there's nothing left to eat, if you read what's in the papers and take it seriously.“ She grated just a touch of cheese into the whipped eggs, poured the mixture into the pan and began to chop the herbs, her hand moving quickly, the rhythmic sound of the knife on the cutting board filling the kitchen.
    „This is so kind of you,“ I told her. „I didn't want you to trouble yourself like this.“
    „It's no bother at all,“ she said. „I haven't had time for company in a while. It's lovely to have someone here for lunch.“ As if I were a neighbor or old school chum dropping by for a chat. As if I weren't here to talk to her about her dead brother.
    During lunch, she talked about the gentrification of Piermont, all the new construction, the rising prices of the houses, even the small ones, like hers, along the creek. The old Victorian houses facing the Hudson River, once considered white elephants, were never on the market more than a week, she told me, and sometimes strangers would ring the bell, even along the creek, but most definitely along the river, and ask if this house or that might be going on the market anytime soon.
    „Are you planning to sell?“ I asked.
    „Where would I go?“
    I finished the last of my omelet, wiping the plate with a piece of toast, thanking her again for the delicious lunch. When I got up to put my plate in the sink, she flapped her hand at me.
    „Just leave it, Rachel. We can have our iced tea out on the back patio. The dog might enjoy that better than sitting in the