He was middle-aged and bulky, and soft-looking all over, and his dark eyes were vaguely nervous behind rimless glasses. He took off his Red Sox cap and his brown hair was messy and thinning underneath. He wiped his brow on the sleeve of his corduroy shirt, and cursed when he dropped his screwdriver into the snow. He stooped to retrieve it and the storm door swung against his hip. I caught him by the elbow before he tipped.
“Thanks,” he said softly. He steadied himself on my arm as he rose. His face was small and bland and fleshy around the jaw. A web of shattered veins darkened the pinched end of his nose, and embarrassment colored his unshaven cheeks.
“Mr. Cade?” I asked.
His mouth puckered in annoyance. “My name is Deering, Herbert Deering. Who are you looking for?”
“Nicole Cade,” I said. Nicole Cade was the name the public records search had returned- the owner of this house, its purchaser six years back from a Fredrick Cade.
The man’s annoyance heightened for a moment, and then was gone. “Nicole’s my wife, but she didn’t say anyone was stopping by. You arewho?”
“John March. Is your wife at home?”
Deering slid the screwdriver into the back pocket of his jeans and wiped his hands on his thighs. “What is it you want to see her about?”
I looked past him through the open door, into the entrance foyer and down the wide center hall. I saw a brass chandelier, cream-colored walls, glossy wood floors, and dark Persian rugs, and I heard sharp footsteps, like blows from a tack hammer. A shadow crossed the hallway near the back, beyond the staircase.
“Holly,” I said. “I’m here about Holly.”
Deering nearly dropped his hat. His voice grew softer and more anxious. “What about Holly?”
A woman’s voice interrupted. It was deep and impatient and something like a wood rasp. It seemed to scare Herbert Deering. “Who is it, Herbert, and what do they want? I’m trying to get some work done, for chrissakes.”
The hard footsteps grew closer and a woman came down the hall. I looked at her and looked for some resemblance to the Wren David had described. The height maybe, and maybe the hair. I didn’t speculate on the tattoo or the birthmark.
She was north of forty, tall and gaunt, with angular shoulders beneath her green turtleneck and thin, hard-looking legs in snug jeans. Her face was bony and weathered, any prettiness there worn down by wind and sun, and carved into a wedge of suspicion. Her arctic eyes peered out from a thicket of lines, and her mouth was a bloodless seam beneath the blade of her nose. She pushed faded red hair behind her ears and folded sinewy arms across her chest. Nicole Cade looked several years older than her husband, and many times more formidable. She tapped a loafered foot on the floorboards and turned her gaze on Deering, who wilted beneath it.
“This is Mr. March, Nikki,” he said, and he took his screwdriver from his pocket and retreated to the front steps. “He’s here to talk to you. About Holly.” With that, Deering scuttled off the steps and down the flagstone path toward the garage.
Nicole looked me up and down and took in the paddock boots, the black cords, the gray sweater, and the leather jacket. She nodded minutely and glanced at the big runner’s watch on her bony wrist. Her mouth grew smaller. “What’s this about my sister?” she said.
“Would you mind if we spoke inside?”
“In fact, I would. Now what’s this about my sister?”
I took a deep breath and told my little story again, about the accident and the witness. Nicole didn’t consider it long enough for belief or disbelief. “And what is it you want from me?” she asked.
“I was hoping you could help me get in touch with Holly.”
She looked at me for what seemed a long time, tapping her foot all the while. Her face was motionless and set in well-worn lines of distrust. “That assumes I know something about my sister’s life, Mr. March, and that I have some interest in helping you. But neither assumption is true, I’m afraid.” Nicole Cade looked at her big watch again and back at me.
I almost smiled at her rudeness, and at how much it reminded me of David’s. “I suppose I should have called first.”
“Of course you should have- that’s just polite- but it wouldn’t have changed my answer. I haven’t spoken to Holly in some time.”
“Do you have an address for her, or a telephone number?”
“I thought I’d made myself clear: I don’t know about my sister’s life, and I don’t care to. Now if you’ll excuse me…”
“Sure,” I said. “Do you think your husband might know something more?”
“Certainly not,” she said, and looked as if I’d asked about flying pigs.
“How about any friends in town?”
Nicole Cade pursed her thin lips and a hard light came up in her eyes. “Holly’s not in touch with anyone from Wilton,” she said evenly.
“You’re probably right,” I said, “but it never hurts to ask. Maybe I could start with the neighbors.”
The hard light turned speculative, and she tapped her foot for several beats. “Is that a threat, Mr. March,” she said quietly, “that you’ll make a nuisance of yourself, or embarrass me, if I don’t talk to you? Is that the kind of sleazy thing they teach at private detective school?” The anger in her voice was tamped down, and covered with a layer of satisfaction: I’d lived down to her expectations.
I gave her my most innocent smile. “I’m just trying to do my job, Ms. Cade.”
She checked her watch again, more elaborately this time. “You’re lucky I’ve got work to do, and no time for this nonsense,” she said. She walked down the hallway and took a left at the end, and she was back in under a minute, with a black notebook.
“This is the last address I have for her. I have no idea whether it’s still good.” It was an address in Brooklyn and I copied it down.
“Is she still acting?” I asked.
She sighed impatiently. “Acting, writing, video- Holly’s dabbled in a thousand things, and as far as I know not one has taken. I have no idea what she’s doing now.”
“She can support herself doing that- dabbling?”
Impatience morphed into suspicion, and Nicole Cade squinted at me. “Ask Holly, if you can find her- though how it’s relevant to your accident case escapes me. And now goodbye, Mr. March.” The storm door swung shut and the front door closed behind it, and I was left standing in the cold.
I made my way down the path toward my car. I rounded the corner and found all three garage doors open. There was an immaculate Volvo sedan in one bay, a filthy VW wagon in another, and Herbert Deering in the third, standing by a green metal tool cart and fumbling with a socket wrench. He looked up and dropped the wrench on the concrete floor. The clang made him wince.
“Catching up on some chores?” I asked.
He ducked his head nervously and made a small, rueful smile. “Plenty of time for that now- the wonders of outsourcing.” I nodded sympathetically. Deering opened a drawer in the tool cart and picked through whatever was inside. “You through with Nikki?” he asked.
“More like she’s through with me.”
Deering smiled again. “I didn’t think it would take long, not when you said you’d come to talk about Holly.”
“I guess they don’t get on too well.”
Deering shook his head. “They have nothing to do with each other,” he said, and looked up at me. “Is Holly all right?”
“As far as I know,” I said, and I trotted out my accident story yet again. I was getting to like it, and Deering seemed to have no complaints either. “Your wife gave me an address,” I concluded, “but she didn’t know if it was still good.”