“Shad lav em,” he replied in Armenian to say he was fine. “I’m impressed. You’re the first person in two weeks who hasn’t take me for a space alien.”
The woman smiled. “My roommate in college was Armenian—Sue Ekezian. Lovely people and wonderful food. I still on occasion go to Watertown for the rolled grape leaves, the lamejuns and pastries.”
“Eastern Bakery has wonderful paklevah.”
“Yes, and my son just loves that,” she said, smiling. And she glanced toward the little boy.
“Handsome boy. What’s his name?”
“Dylan.”
“Am I hearing things, or is he really singing ‘There is Nothing Like a Dame’?”
Rachel laughed. “Yes. His father has a collection of Broadway shows. I’m afraid the lyrics aren’t very liberated.”
“Gee, why would you think that?”
She laughed as the boy reached the finale, which he belted out with amazing gusto and dramatics:
There ain’t a thing that’s wrong with any man here
That can’t be cured by puttin’ him near
A girly, womanly, female, feminine dame!
Greg quietly applauded. “Bravo, bravo,” he called out to the boy.
Dylan, who was wearing huge sunglasses and a crooked Red Sox cap, looked toward the porch, then, grinning widely, he rose to his feet and took a dramatic bow, still standing in the sandbox. Then he went back to his digging.
“A spirited little guy.”
“Thanks … and a born ham,” said Mrs. Whitman, beaming.
His instinct was to look away, to get to business, but he couldn’t help staring at her. The feathery black eyebrows, the jagged spikes of hair on her brow, the warm spark of light in her eyes, the high cheekbones, the fullness of her mouth. She was very attractive.
“How old is he?”
“He just turned six. Do you have children, Officer?”
“No. My wife died before we could have kids.” As soon as his words hit air, Greg wished he could have edited them out. A simple no would have done it. In fact, he did not know why he had said that. Widowerhood was not how he identified himself to others. He almost never mentioned losing Lindsay if for nothing else than to avoid the mood slump and obligatory condolences. But for some reason, he wanted this woman to know.
“I’m very sorry to hear that.”
“Thank you.”
The mood lightened when outside, Dylan had switched to The Sound of Music and his rendition of “My Favorite Things.” As he listened, it struck Greg just how good a singer the little boy was. Not only did he have a beautiful voice, but he also had a fine ear. With remarkable accuracy he had captured Julie Andrews’s delivery, right down to the British dialect and inflection. In fact, Greg couldn’t help but comment on the boy’s talent.
Mrs. Whitman got up to refill her coffee and Greg agreed to a cup of black. When she returned they chatted some more about Dylan and his interest in Little League. His first game of the season was this coming Saturday.
While Mrs. Whitman described how excited the boy was in anticipation, Greg listened with admiration. She was engaging, her manner was open and warm. And regarding her son, she was manifestly devoted and adoring. When the boy passed through the porch for a cookie she could not help but pull him to her and plant kisses on his sandy red cheeks.
As he watched her, he wondered what it would be like to kiss her. He quickly snapped off the thought.
“My name is Greg,” he said to Dylan and put out his hand.
Dylan slapped him five. “Do you like ca-ter-pil-lars?”
The boy’s enunciation was measured, and he flashed a glance at his mother who smiled and nodded approval. Maybe he had just learned the word. “Caterpillars?” Greg said. “I love caterpillars.”
The boy smiled and handed Greg a jar with some leaves and a bright orange caterpillar inside. “That’s good. You can have her and watch her grow wings.”
“Thanks. That’s very nice of you. But what do I feed her?”
“Leaves and butter.” With that, Dylan went into the house for his cookies.
Mrs. Whitman looked at the jar in Greg’s hand. “Lucky you.”
“Don’t be silly,” he said, staring at the length of orange fuzz. “We’re going to be fast friends. Leaves and butter. That makes sense.”
Mrs. Whitman made a puzzled smile. “Yeah, I guess it does. In fact, I never quite noticed the butter in butterflies before.” And she laughed to herself.
“There may be a lesson here about how kids see the world.”
She made a curious expression and nodded. “I guess.”
Greg could have gone on chatting with Mrs. Whitman. She was easy to talk to, and he also liked looking at her as they conversed. She was beautiful, and her large expressive eyes were flecked with gold, making them appear as if in kaleidoscopic motion, drawing him dangerously in as she spoke. He opened his notebook. “I hate to downshift, but I do have some questions,” he said, trying to feel cop-professional again.
“Of course.” She glanced through the porch screen. Dylan was back outside eating a cookie.
“How well did you know Vanessa Watts?”
“Really, not well at all.” She explained that they were members of the same country club, having seen each other only on occasion. But, yes, she had attended the party on that tragic night.
“Did you know her son?”
“I had met him once.”
“Can you tell me a little about him—what he was like?”
She hesitated at first, measuring her response. “Well, as I said, I really didn’t know him. But he was very smart and a talented artist.” And she went on to describe his ability to create images of photographic exactness and how he had taught himself Italian and Spanish by listening to speeded-up language tapes.
“Did you know anything about his medical condition?”
Instantly her expression clouded. “Medical condition?”
“That he had epilepsy.”
“No. I didn’t know he was epileptic.”
“Then you weren’t aware that he had seizures.”
“No.”
“Or that he had had medical operations as a child to alleviate the condition?”
“Operations? No.” Her face was full of concern. “Officer, may I ask what this is all about?”
Greg pulled out the schematic and briefly explained the circumstances of the two sets of skeletal remains. “One was six when he was kidnapped, the other about the same plus or minus a year.”
“And you think they all had epilepsy?”
“That’s what I’m trying to determine.”
“I didn’t know epilepsy was treated with surgery.”
“Neither did I, but I guess a small percentage of cases necessitate the removal of lesions.”
“Then how are they connected to Julian?”
“I’m not sure they are,” Greg said. “I was just curious about the configurations on the skull. And why the remains of two missing children with similar drill holes showed up in Massachusetts coastal waters.”
“I wish I could help you.” She glanced at her watch.
“Would you know any other friends or acquaintances of the Watts family that I might speak to?”
She hesitated for a moment. “Not really.”
“How about your husband?”
She made a flap of her hand. “He wouldn’t know.”
There was something dismissive in her gesture. “I was just wondering if he was a friend of Mr. Watts and might have some useful insights.”
“No. He’s very busy with work and not around much. I know he doesn’t know Brad Watts and only met Julian once.”