Small entryway, a sense of near-shabbiness. Worn carpeting, scarred and rickety piece of furniture under a flaking mirror.
"I thought hellip; when you told me who you were hellip; I thought you'd found Jimmy," she said.
"Not yet, Mrs. Sebastiani," Hawes said. "In fact, the reason we came out here hellip;"
"Come in," she said, "we don't have to stand here in the hall."
She backed off several paces, reached beyond the door jamb for a light switch. A floor lamp came on in the living room. Musty drapes, a faded rug, a thrift-shop sofa and two upholstered armchairs, an old upright piano on the far wall. Same sense of down-at-the-heels existence.
"Would you like some coffee or anything?" she asked.
"I could use a cup," Brown said.
"I'll put some up," she said, and walked back through the hall and through a doorway into the kitchen.
The detectives looked around the living room.
Framed photographs on the piano, Sebastian the Great doing his act hither and yon. Soiled antimacassars on the upholstered pieces. Brown ran his finger over the surface of an end table. Dust. Hawes poked his forefinger into the soil of a potted plant. Dry. The continuing sense of a house too run down to care about mdash;or a house in neglect because it would soon be abandoned.
She was back.
"Take a few minutes to boil," she said.
"Who plays piano?" Hawes asked.
"Frank did. A little."
She'd grown used to the past tense.
Mrs. Sebastiani," Brown said, "we were wondering if we could take a look at Brayne's room."
"Jimmy's room?" she said. She seemed a bit flustered by their presence, but that could have been normal, two cops showing on her doorstep at midnight.
"See if there's anything up there might give us a lead," Brown said, watching her.
"I'll have to find a spare key someplace," she said. "Jimmy had his own key, he came and went as he pleased."
She stood stock still in the entrance door to the living room, a thoughtful look on her face. Hawes wondered what she was thinking, face all screwed up like that. Was she wondering whether it was safe to show them that room? Or was she merely trying to remember where the spare key was?
"I'm trying to think where Frank might have put it," she said.
A grandfather clock on the far side of the room began tolling the hour, eight minutes late.
One hellip; two hellip;
They listened to the heavy bonging.
Nine hellip; ten hellip; eleven hellip; twelve.
"Midnight already," she said, and sighed.
"Your clock's slow," Brown said.
"Let me check the drawer in the kitchen," she said. "Frank used to put a lot of junk in that drawer."
Past tense again.
They followed her into the kitchen. Dirty dishes, pots, and pans stacked in the sink. The door of the refrigerator smudged with handprints. Telephone on the wall near it. Small enamel-topped table, two chairs. Worn linoleum. Only a shade on the single window over the sink. On the stove, the kettle began whistling.
"Help yourselves," she said. "There's cups there, and a jar of instant."
She went to a drawer in the counter, opened it. Hawes spooned instant coffee into each of the cups, poured hot water into them. She was busy at the drawer now, searching for the spare key. "There should be some milk in the fridge," she said. "And there's sugar on the counter there." Hawes opened the refrigerator. Not much in it. Carton of low-fat milk, slab of margarine or butter, several containers of yogurt. He closed the door.
"You want some of this?" he asked Brown, extending the carton to him.
Brown shook his head. He was watching Marie going through the drawer full of junk.
"Sugar?" Hawes asked, pouring milk into his own cup.
Brown shook his head again.
"This may be it, I really don't know," Marie said.
She turned from the drawer, handed Brown a brass key that looked like a house key.
The telephone rang.
She was visibly startled by its sound.
Brown picked up his coffee cup, began sipping at it.
The telephone kept ringing.
She went to the wall near the refrigerator, lifted the receiver from its hook.
"Hello?" she said.
The two detectives watched her.
"Oh, hello, Dolores," she said at once. "No, not yet, I'm down in the kitchen," she said, and listened. "There are two detectives with me," she said. "No, that's all right, Dolores." She listened again. "They want to look at the garage room." Listening again. "I don't know yet," she said. "Well, they hellip; they have to do an autopsy first." More listening. "Yes, I'll let you know. Thanks for calling, Dolores."
She put the receiver back on its hook.