She checked the walls, looking for a cross or Madonna or some hint of Catholicism, something that might easily explain the phone call from the faux Sister Mary Rose. There was nothing hinting at any religion. Loren noticed a folded sheet and blanket on the edge of the couch, as if someone had recently slept there.
There was a young woman in the room, maybe twenty years old, and two boys no more than eight or nine. "Paul, Ethan," their mother said, "this is Investigator Muse." The well-trained boys dutifully shook Loren's hands, both going so far as to make eye contact.
The smaller one- Ethan, she thought- said, "Are you a policeman?"
"Woman," Loren replied automatically. "And the answer is, sorta. I'm an investigator in the county prosecutor's office. That's like being a police officer."
"You got a gun?"
"Ethan," Marsha said.
Loren would have responded, would have shown it to him, but she knew that some mothers freaked about things like that. Loren understood it- anything to prevent Precious from understanding violence- but the gun-denial step was a woefully inadequate long-term tactic.
"And this is Kyra Sloan," Marsha Hunter said. "She helps me look after the kids."
The young woman named Kyra waved from across the room, picking up some kind of toy. Loren waved back.
"Kyra, do you mind taking the boys outside for a little while?"
"Sure." Kyra turned to the boys. "How about a game of Wiffle ball, guys?"
"I'm up first!"
"No, you were up first last time! It's my turn!"
They headed outside, still debating the batting order. Marsha turned toward Loren. "Is something wrong?"
"No, not at all."
"So why are you here?"
"This is just a routine follow-up to an ongoing investigation." It was a lot of vague malarkey, but Loren had found this particular brand fairly efficient.
"What investigation?"
"Mrs. Hunter-"
"Please. Call me Marsha."
"Fine, sorry. Marsha, are you Catholic?"
"Excuse me?"
"I don't mean to pry. This isn't really a religious question. I'm just trying to see if you're in any way associated with St. Margaret's parish in East Orange."
"St. Margaret's?"
"Yes. Are you a member?"
"No. We're with St. Philomena's in Livingston. Why would you ask that?"
"Are you associated in any way with St. Margaret's?"
"No." Then: "What do you mean associated?"
Loren kept going, not wanting to lose the rhythm. "Do you know anybody attending the school?"
"St. Margaret's? No, I don't think so."
"Do you know any of the teachers there?"
"I don't think so."
"How about Sister Mary Rose?"
"Who?"
"Do you know any of the nuns at St. Margaret's?"
"No. I know several at St. Phil's, but no Sister Mary Rose."
"So the name Sister Mary Rose means nothing to you?"
"Nothing at all. What is this about?"
Loren kept her eyes on the woman's face, searching for a mythical "tell." Nothing was showing up, but that didn't mean much.
"Do you and your children live here alone?"
"Yes. Well, Kyra has a room above the garage, but she's from out of state."
"But she lives here?"
"She rents a room and helps out. She's taking classes at William Paterson University."
"Are you divorced?"
"A widow."
Something in the way Marsha Hunter said it made a piece or two tumble into place. Not all of them by any means. Not even enough yet. Loren almost kicked herself. She should have done some background work.
Marsha crossed her arms. "What is this about anyway?"
"A Sister Mary Rose recently passed away."
"And she worked at this school?"
"Yes, she was a teacher. At St. Margaret's."
"I still don't see how-"
"When we were going through the phone logs, we found a call she'd made that we couldn't quite explain."
"She called here?"
"Yes."
Marsha Hunter looked perplexed. "When?"
"Three weeks ago. June second to be exact."
Marsha shook her head. "It could have been a wrong number."
"For six minutes?"
That made Marsha pause. "What day again?"
"June second. Eight P.M."
"I can check my calendar, if you'd like."
"I'd like that very much, thank you."
"It's upstairs. I'll be right back. But I'm sure none of us talked to this sister."
"None of us?"
"Excuse me?"
"You said, 'us.' Who did you mean?"
"I don't know. Anyone in the house, I guess."
Loren didn't comment on that. "Do you mind if I ask your babysitter a few questions?"
Marsha Hunter hesitated. "I guess that wouldn't be a problem." She forced up a smile. "But the boys will throw a fit if you use the word 'baby' in front of them."
"Understood."
"I'll be right back."
Loren headed through the kitchen toward the back door. She glanced out the window. Kyra was pitching underhand to Ethan. He swung wildly and missed. Kyra took a step in closer and bent lower and pitched again. This time, Ethan made contact.
Loren turned away. She was almost at the back door when something made her pull up.
The refrigerator.
Loren wasn't married, didn't have kids, didn't grow up in one of those sweet happy homes, but if there was anything more Americana- more family- than the front of a refrigerator she did not know what it was. Her friends had refrigerators like this. She didn't, and she realized how pitiful that was. Loren had two cats and no real family, unless you wanted to count her melodramatic and self-involved mother.
But in most American homes, if you wanted to find the personal, this- your refrigerator front- was where you looked. There was kid artwork. There were essays from school, all adorned with stars for mediocrity that passed for excellence. There were preprinted birthday invitations, one to a party at something called the Little Gym, the other to the East Hanover bowling alley. There were forms for class trips, child vaccinations, a soccer league.
And, of course, there were family snapshots.
Loren had been an only child and no matter how often she saw them- this magnetized swirl of smiles- it always seemed slightly unreal to her, like she was watching a bad TV show or reading a corny greeting card.
Loren stepped toward the photograph that had caught her eye. More pieces started to pour into place now.
How could she have missed this?
She should have put it together right away. Hunter. The name wasn't rare but it wasn't overly common either. Her eyes scanned the other pictures, but they kept coming back to the first one, the one on the left taken at what looked like a baseball game. Loren was still staring at the picture when Marsha returned.
"Is everything okay, Inspector Muse?"
Loren startled up at the voice. She tried to conjure up the details, but only a sketch came to mind. "Did you find your calendar?"
"There's nothing there. I really don't remember where I was that day."
Loren nodded and turned back to the refrigerator. "This man"- she pointed and looked back at Marsha-"this is Matt Hunter, right?"
Marsha's face closed like a metal gate.
"Mrs. Hunter?"
"What do you want?"
There had been hints of warmth before. There were none now.
"I knew him," Loren said. "A long time ago."
Nothing.
"In elementary school. We both went to Burnet Hill."