Jack Beale 00 - Killer Run

He couldn’t believe that some developer hadn’t yet latched on to this area, but he was glad that no one had.
    Rounding a turn in the road, he saw her house. It was as he remembered. The dark-red cape was small and neat. It sat behind a very old stone wall that ran alongside the road. Between the house and the wall there appeared to be flower gardens, though now they were dead and covered in leaves. A small green car was parked in the narrow drive, and there was just room for him to pull in behind it without sticking out into the road. He wondered if it was hers.

CHAPTER 76
    THE EAST WIND THAT HAD so chilled him at Whitson’s was even more penetrating as he walked to the door on the side of the house. Even though a path led to the front door, he knew that the side door was the entrance that would be used.
    Only the smell of wood smoke and its promise of warmth eased the overwhelming gloom of the overcast day. There was no bell, so he knocked and waited. After a second knocking, he heard footsteps. Then the door opened a crack and he faced a young girl, probably of high school age. “Hello, may I help you?” she asked.
    “Yes. I’m Lieutenant Malloy of the Ipswich Police Department.” He held out his identification and waited patiently while she studied it. She took her time and he appreciated that. When finished, as she handed it back, and the look she gave him posed a silent question.
    “I’m looking for Agnes Phillips. Is she in?”
    “That’s my great-grandmother. Yes, she’s here. She’s not in any kind of trouble is she?”
    “No, not at all.” Before he could say anything else, he heard a voice from within shout, “Mary, shut the door. Who’s there? You’re letting all the heat out.”
    “I’m sorry. Please, won’t you come in,” she said. She pushed the door open against the cold wind. The wind caught the door and pulled it from her hand. He grabbed it and pulled it closed behind him as he stepped into the mud room. It was filled with coats, boots, stacked firewood, and other stuff―lots of stuff. She led him into the kitchen.
    It was tight but neat and functional, and it was obvious that too many years had passed since the last update. The floor was made of wide pine boards. They had once been painted red, he guessed, but years of living had worn most of the paint away save for those corners and edges where a foot wouldn’t fit.
    The cabinets, which might have been a bright white years ago, now had chipped and dented corners, along with edges that spoke of decades of openings and closings. The countertops were a dark crimson–colored laminate, except in a few spots where age and use had worn through, revealing a lighter-colored center. Bowls, canisters, and crocks filled with utensils seemed to cover all but a ribbon of space nearest the front edge.
    The appliances were white, and old enough that replacement would be forgivable, even for an old Yankee. A teakettle sat steaming on the stove, and next to it, on the counter, a teacup sat waiting to be filled. A large soapstone sink was set in front of the only window in the room, and the drain board next to it was filled with recently washed dishes. A large table took up the entire center of the room and, like the counters, it too was cluttered, but with papers, magazines, and some open school books.
    “My name is Mary, but I guess you already figured that out,” she said, extending her hand to him.
    “Mary,” the voice called out again. It was strong and clear, and he could easily hear the old Yankee accent.
    Looking at Malloy, Mary said, “Lieutenant Malloy, I’m sorry. You’ll have to excuse her; her hearing isn’t very good. Won’t you follow me.”
    Malloy was struck by Mary’s confidence and good manners. As she walked toward the room where the voice came from, he began to rethink his first impression of her age. She seemed way too poised for someone just in high school.
    “Thank you,” he said, following her into the room.
    Once inside, he paused and looked around. The next room felt just like the kitchen: tight, dated and well lived in. The wall on his left contained one small window, which looked out to the road. It was next to the unused front door, which he guessed hadn’t been opened in years, if ever. Straight ahead, between two rocking chairs, with a small low table in front sat an old woodstove with wood piled next to it. The wall opposite the front door was dominated by an old upright piano, bookshelves