The Witness

you about it. Yet.”
    She shot out another smile, bright as her name. “I don’t have one, or anything else dangerous on me. Except the pie. It’s got a hell of a lot of calories in it, but you’re slim as a willow stem, you can handle some calories.”
    “I don’t want to be rude, but—”
    “Oh, I imagine you do,” Sunny interrupted, with considerable cheer. “Who could blame you? I’ll make you a deal. You ask me in, have a piece of pie. Then you can be rude, and I won’t take offense.”
    Trapped and annoyed, Abigail removed her hand from the gun fixed to the underside of the table by the door.
    She didn’t doubt the woman was Brooks Gleason’s mother. She had the same pushy nature disguised as friendliness, the same bone structure.
    Saying nothing, Abigail opened the door wider, stepped back.
    “There, now, that wasn’t so—oh, what a
gorgeous
dog.” Without a hint of fear, Sunny pushed the pie dish into Abigail’s hands and crouched down. “Oh, hello, big boy.” She looked up. “Can I pet him? We lost ourThor about six weeks ago. Seventeen when we had to let him go, and blind as a bat.”
    “I’m very sorry.”
    “Oh, me, too. I cried my heart out. We still have old Chuck. That’s our cat, but it’s not the same. We’re going to get another dog, but I’m just not ready to love like that again. It hurts so when you have to say good-bye.”
    Helpless, Abigail clutched the pie.
“Ami,”
she said to the dog. “
Ami,
Bert. You can pet him now.”
    Bert submitted to the strokes, even hummed a little at the pleasure. “
Ami?
That’s French. Are you French?”
    “No. I speak French.”
    “How about that. Bert, you speak French, too? You’re so handsome. He has hazel eyes, a little like Brooks’s. What a good dog you are.”
    Her eyes filled, and she sniffled back the tears as she straightened. “Sorry. I’m just not over the loss.”
    “Death is difficult.”
    “It certainly is.” Sunny flipped back her braid, let out a breath as she glanced around. “You’re very tidy, aren’t you?”
    “I … I suppose, yes. I prefer things in order.”
    “I guess I like chaos, mostly. Anyway, I can never keep anything tidy for long. I have a painting that would work very well in your living room. It’s what I do. I’m an artist.”
    “I see.”
    “I paint mainly mythical and mythological studies. Fairies, mermaids, gods and goddesses, dragons, centaurs—that sort of thing.”
    “Mythology is fertile ground for artists and storytellers. Ah … did you paint the murals on the house off Shop Street?”
    “Yes. That’s our house.”
    “It’s very interesting. The work is very good.”
    “Thanks. I enjoy it. How about some coffee to go with that pie?”
    Abigail stared down at the pie. “Ms. O’Hara.”
    “Sunny.”
    “Sunny. I’m not good company.”
    “Oh, honey, that’s okay. I am.”
    However awkward and unsettling it might be, it had to be easier—and more efficient—to simply let the woman have her few minutes. And that would be that.
    “I’ll make the coffee.”
    She started back toward the kitchen, thinking for the second time in two days she had someone in her house. Still, the woman meant no harm. Unless …
    “Did your son ask you to come here?”
    “No. In fact, he’s not going to be pleased with me for intruding on you when he finds out. But I—oh! Oh! I love your kitchen. Look at all your counter space. I have this same cooktop—an older model. And you grow your own herbs. So do I. Look at that, we’ve already found something in common. I love to cook. It’s like painting, only you’re mixing herbs and spices and mixing up sauces instead of paints.”
    “I think of it as a science. There’s a formula. If you diverge from the formula, you may create something new or slightly different.”
    Sunny only smiled. “However you look at it, you wouldn’t have a kitchen like this unless you liked to cook, and were good at it.”
    She walked over to look out the window. “I’m envious of your greenhouse. I have a tiny one Loren and I built. We don’t have room for a larger one. Got your lettuce in, I see. Looks like a nice-sized vegetable garden.”
    “I grow most of my own vegetables and herbs.”
    “So do we. I came here in the seventies with a group of other free spirits. We formed a kind of commune, an artist community, you could say—and grew our own food, wove our own cloths—sold our wares. A lot of us are still here. Old