shock.”
“How well did you know Kay?”
“Obviously not as well as I thought I did. Something like this makes you wonder how well you know anyone.” After a pause, her expression morphed into a kind of shrewd curiosity. “What’s this all about? These questions—what’s going on here?”
Gurney gave her a long, hard look, as if he were assessing her trustworthiness. Then he took a deep breath and spoke in what he hoped would come across as a confessional tone. “There’s a funny thing about cops, Paulette. We expect people to tell us everything, but we don’t like to reveal anything ourselves. I understand the reasons for it, but there are times …” He paused, then took a deep breath and spoke slowly, looking her in the eye. “I have the impression that Kay was a much nicer person than Carl. Not the sort of person who’d be capable of murder. I’m trying to find out if I’m right or wrong. I can’t do that alone. I need the insight of other people. I have a strong feeling you may be able to help me.”
She stared at him for several seconds, then gave a little shiver and wrapped her arms around her body. “I think you should come back to the house with me. I’m sure it’s going to rain any minute now.”
Chapter 14
The Devil’s Brother
The cottage wasn’t nearly as kitschy as Gurney had expected. Despite its storybook facade, the interior was rather restrained. The front door opened onto a modest entry hall. On the left he saw a sitting room with a fireplace and several traditional landscape prints on the walls. Through a doorway on the right, he glimpsed what appeared to be an office with a mahogany desk and a large painting of Willow Rest behind it. It reminded him of one of those sprawling nineteenth-century macroviews of a working farm or village. Straight ahead on the left was a staircase to an upper floor and on the right a door that presumably led to another room or two at the back of the house. It was where Paulette Purley had gone to make coffee after taking Gurney into the sitting room and steering him to a wing chair by the fireplace. On the mantel was a framed photograph of a lanky man with his arm around a younger Paulette. Her hair was a bit longer then, fluffed up as though caught in a breeze, and honey blond.
She reappeared with a tray on which there were two cups of black coffee, a small pitcher of milk, a sugar bowl, and two spoons. She placed the tray on a low table in front of the hearth and sat in a matching chair facing Gurney’s. Neither spoke as they added milk and sugar, took a first sip, then sat back in their chairs.
Paulette, he noted, was holding her cup in both hands, perhaps to steady it, perhaps to take a chill out of her fingers. Her lips were pressed together but making tiny nervous movements. “Now it can rain all it wants,” she said with a sudden smile, as though trying to dispel the tension with the sound of her own voice.
“I’m curious about this place,” said Gurney. “Willow Rest musthave an interesting history.” It wasn’t a history he cared about. But he thought that getting her talking about something easy might provide a bridge to something more difficult.
For the next fifteen minutes she explained Emmerling Spalter’s philosophy, which struck Gurney as escapist nonsense, cannily packaged. Willow Rest was one’s final
home
, not a cemetery. Only the date of birth, not the date of death, was engraved on a marker, because once we are born we live forever. Willow Rest provided not gravesites but homesites, a piece of nature with grass and trees and flowers. Every property was scaled to accommodate a multigenerational family rather than an individual. The mailbox at each property was an encouragement to family members to leave cards and letters for their loved ones. (These were gathered once a week, burned in a little portable brazier at each site, and raked into the soil.) Paulette explained earnestly that Willow Rest was all about life,
“How well did you know Kay?”
“Obviously not as well as I thought I did. Something like this makes you wonder how well you know anyone.” After a pause, her expression morphed into a kind of shrewd curiosity. “What’s this all about? These questions—what’s going on here?”
Gurney gave her a long, hard look, as if he were assessing her trustworthiness. Then he took a deep breath and spoke in what he hoped would come across as a confessional tone. “There’s a funny thing about cops, Paulette. We expect people to tell us everything, but we don’t like to reveal anything ourselves. I understand the reasons for it, but there are times …” He paused, then took a deep breath and spoke slowly, looking her in the eye. “I have the impression that Kay was a much nicer person than Carl. Not the sort of person who’d be capable of murder. I’m trying to find out if I’m right or wrong. I can’t do that alone. I need the insight of other people. I have a strong feeling you may be able to help me.”
She stared at him for several seconds, then gave a little shiver and wrapped her arms around her body. “I think you should come back to the house with me. I’m sure it’s going to rain any minute now.”
Chapter 14
The Devil’s Brother
The cottage wasn’t nearly as kitschy as Gurney had expected. Despite its storybook facade, the interior was rather restrained. The front door opened onto a modest entry hall. On the left he saw a sitting room with a fireplace and several traditional landscape prints on the walls. Through a doorway on the right, he glimpsed what appeared to be an office with a mahogany desk and a large painting of Willow Rest behind it. It reminded him of one of those sprawling nineteenth-century macroviews of a working farm or village. Straight ahead on the left was a staircase to an upper floor and on the right a door that presumably led to another room or two at the back of the house. It was where Paulette Purley had gone to make coffee after taking Gurney into the sitting room and steering him to a wing chair by the fireplace. On the mantel was a framed photograph of a lanky man with his arm around a younger Paulette. Her hair was a bit longer then, fluffed up as though caught in a breeze, and honey blond.
She reappeared with a tray on which there were two cups of black coffee, a small pitcher of milk, a sugar bowl, and two spoons. She placed the tray on a low table in front of the hearth and sat in a matching chair facing Gurney’s. Neither spoke as they added milk and sugar, took a first sip, then sat back in their chairs.
Paulette, he noted, was holding her cup in both hands, perhaps to steady it, perhaps to take a chill out of her fingers. Her lips were pressed together but making tiny nervous movements. “Now it can rain all it wants,” she said with a sudden smile, as though trying to dispel the tension with the sound of her own voice.
“I’m curious about this place,” said Gurney. “Willow Rest musthave an interesting history.” It wasn’t a history he cared about. But he thought that getting her talking about something easy might provide a bridge to something more difficult.
For the next fifteen minutes she explained Emmerling Spalter’s philosophy, which struck Gurney as escapist nonsense, cannily packaged. Willow Rest was one’s final
home
, not a cemetery. Only the date of birth, not the date of death, was engraved on a marker, because once we are born we live forever. Willow Rest provided not gravesites but homesites, a piece of nature with grass and trees and flowers. Every property was scaled to accommodate a multigenerational family rather than an individual. The mailbox at each property was an encouragement to family members to leave cards and letters for their loved ones. (These were gathered once a week, burned in a little portable brazier at each site, and raked into the soil.) Paulette explained earnestly that Willow Rest was all about life,
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