how you do."
"I didn't know what else to say. Your mother is a force of nature sometimes, isn't she?"
"You don't have to tell me," I said as I put my phone back in my purse.
I looked back at the house, but the curtain had returned to its closed position. "Someone's been watching us from inside."
Of course Grace looked at the house. "I don't see anyone there."
"That's because you spooked her. Let's go have a chat with Ms. Jenkins and see what she has to say."
Deb Jenkins opened the door before I even had a chance to knock. She wasn't anything like I'd expected the "other woman" to look like. Deb had mousy brown hair and wore no makeup that I could detect. I couldn't really see her body, since it was hidden by a bulky sweater, but I had to admit, I was beginning to wonder what Patrick Blaine had seen in her that he liked enough to leave his wife. Maybeshe was a sweetheart, or had a bubbly personality that belied her appearance.
"What do you two want?" she snapped.
So much for that theory.
"We're from the Observer ," I said, "and we'd like to include you in an upcoming article we're working on."
"Is it about my moth collection? I wrote your editors several times, but I've been amazed by their lack of interest."
"Absolutely," Grace said. "That's why we're here. Could we possibly see it?"
"Come in," she said, the change in her personality striking. "Where's the photographer? I told them in my letters that the article won't be anything without photographic evidence. My collection would be rather difficult to describe in print."
"He's coming," I said, "but he was held up at a wreck."
"So that's who you were talking to out on the walk."
I said, "We're sorry for the delay, but perhaps you could show us your work while we wait. That way we can finish the interview before he arrives."
"That would be fine," she said. We followed her through an ordinary enough home, filled with frilly pillows and framed needlepoint works hanging from the walls.
"It's in here," she said, as she led us into what had to be a spare bedroom at the top of the stairs.
Grace and I followed her in, and I immediately started wishing we had an exit strategy, despite why we'd come. In place of needlepoint, the walls werecovered with framed display boxes featuring the wildest array of dead moths I'd ever seen in my life. Each specimen was carefully labeled, and there were tables filled with displays, as well. I've never been that big a fan of moths in the past, but my heart went out to them when I saw this torture chamber dedicated to their demise.
"It's really something," I said, searching for anything that would hide my disgust.
Grace seemed fascinated by the displays. "What drew you to moths? There has to be a flame somewhere in your life."
The reference zipped right over her head. "I began my collection when I was nine, and it just seemed to grow and grow. Moths are lovely, and they need to be protected from man's devastation and development. Their lives are too fragile."
Especially with her on the loose. The main thing they needed to be protected from appeared to be Deb Jenkins.
"I'm curious," Grace said. "Does your husband share your love of moths with you?"
"I'm not married," she said curtly.
"Your boyfriend, then," Grace pushed.
"What does my love life have to do with your article? It should be about my moths, not my life."
"It's part of the human-interest angle," I said.
Grace nodded. "Our editor won't even look at the story if we don't have human interest."
Deb seemed to mull that over, then said, "Fine. If you must know, my boyfriend wasn't a big fan of my hobby. He didn't get it."
"Is that why he's not your boyfriend anymore?" I asked.
"He died," she said curtly. "I really don't want to discuss it any further, if you don't mind."
Grace closed the notebook she'd been scribbling in. "I'm sorry you feel that way. We're sorry to have
"I didn't know what else to say. Your mother is a force of nature sometimes, isn't she?"
"You don't have to tell me," I said as I put my phone back in my purse.
I looked back at the house, but the curtain had returned to its closed position. "Someone's been watching us from inside."
Of course Grace looked at the house. "I don't see anyone there."
"That's because you spooked her. Let's go have a chat with Ms. Jenkins and see what she has to say."
Deb Jenkins opened the door before I even had a chance to knock. She wasn't anything like I'd expected the "other woman" to look like. Deb had mousy brown hair and wore no makeup that I could detect. I couldn't really see her body, since it was hidden by a bulky sweater, but I had to admit, I was beginning to wonder what Patrick Blaine had seen in her that he liked enough to leave his wife. Maybeshe was a sweetheart, or had a bubbly personality that belied her appearance.
"What do you two want?" she snapped.
So much for that theory.
"We're from the Observer ," I said, "and we'd like to include you in an upcoming article we're working on."
"Is it about my moth collection? I wrote your editors several times, but I've been amazed by their lack of interest."
"Absolutely," Grace said. "That's why we're here. Could we possibly see it?"
"Come in," she said, the change in her personality striking. "Where's the photographer? I told them in my letters that the article won't be anything without photographic evidence. My collection would be rather difficult to describe in print."
"He's coming," I said, "but he was held up at a wreck."
"So that's who you were talking to out on the walk."
I said, "We're sorry for the delay, but perhaps you could show us your work while we wait. That way we can finish the interview before he arrives."
"That would be fine," she said. We followed her through an ordinary enough home, filled with frilly pillows and framed needlepoint works hanging from the walls.
"It's in here," she said, as she led us into what had to be a spare bedroom at the top of the stairs.
Grace and I followed her in, and I immediately started wishing we had an exit strategy, despite why we'd come. In place of needlepoint, the walls werecovered with framed display boxes featuring the wildest array of dead moths I'd ever seen in my life. Each specimen was carefully labeled, and there were tables filled with displays, as well. I've never been that big a fan of moths in the past, but my heart went out to them when I saw this torture chamber dedicated to their demise.
"It's really something," I said, searching for anything that would hide my disgust.
Grace seemed fascinated by the displays. "What drew you to moths? There has to be a flame somewhere in your life."
The reference zipped right over her head. "I began my collection when I was nine, and it just seemed to grow and grow. Moths are lovely, and they need to be protected from man's devastation and development. Their lives are too fragile."
Especially with her on the loose. The main thing they needed to be protected from appeared to be Deb Jenkins.
"I'm curious," Grace said. "Does your husband share your love of moths with you?"
"I'm not married," she said curtly.
"Your boyfriend, then," Grace pushed.
"What does my love life have to do with your article? It should be about my moths, not my life."
"It's part of the human-interest angle," I said.
Grace nodded. "Our editor won't even look at the story if we don't have human interest."
Deb seemed to mull that over, then said, "Fine. If you must know, my boyfriend wasn't a big fan of my hobby. He didn't get it."
"Is that why he's not your boyfriend anymore?" I asked.
"He died," she said curtly. "I really don't want to discuss it any further, if you don't mind."
Grace closed the notebook she'd been scribbling in. "I'm sorry you feel that way. We're sorry to have
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