Raveled by Anne McAneny Page B

worries. She turned to me as she sprinkled a bit of salt on the fish. “I mean the school in New York, of course. I certainly wouldn’t expect you to attend anything Lavitte-related.”
    After the trial, I’d gone to Brooklyn to live with my aunt. My mom had thought about selling the house and moving north to join me, but five realtors had told her the house wouldn’t sell for a good, long while. Not with the history of its only owner. She’d tried selling it herself, but teenagers had continually vandalized the sign. When she’d finally attracted an out-of-town couple, the neighbors had sought them out immediately and filled their heads with venom. The offer had been retracted like a forked tongue finding no fly and my mom had taken the house off the market. By the time she’d thought it reasonable, if not ideal, for me to come home, I’d been accepted into an elite program at the Brooklyn school and we’d all agreed I should stay put. Despite missing my mother, my old life felt foreign to me by then and I had no desire to return.
    “Uh, no,” I said. “Never even occurred to me.”
    “You did make friends up there, though.” It was a question disguised as hopeful sentiment.
    “Of course,” I lied. “I mean, I studied a lot, but the geeks and I commingled.”
    “Those were hard years. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you more.”
    “Mom, please. You had more to deal with than any human should have to.”
    I brought the conversation back to where I wanted, which was definitely away from the topic of me. “You ever hear anything over the years about Smitty knowing more than he admitted about that night?”
    That night was Fennimore code for, well, that night.
    “No !” my mom blurted. “Definitely not. Who would talk to me, anyway?” She whisked her marinade too hard and a few dark drops splattered on the white counter. She wiped them up immediately. “I can’t spend my time thinking about it. And you shouldn’t either. You have a good head on your shoulders and you need to put it to better use than worrying about that night. Now where’s the garlic powder?”
    She leaned towards a low pantry shelf in search of the yellow, metallic container, but I refused to be distracted by a condiment. “I talked to Smitty about it.”
    My mother shot up from her bent -over position. Hadn’t seen her move that fast since avoiding a strike from my dad. “Why? Oh, Allison, why would you do that?”
    “Things come up.”
    “I can’t imagine how awkward the coming up of that topic must have been. I certainly hope Elise wasn’t within earshot.”
    “You really care what she thinks? She doesn’t even speak to you.”
    She harrumphed as she sprinkled the garlic powder. “Every one in town was asked about their whereabouts that day. The police tried to figure out where Bobby had been all day, along with that poor Anderson girl. They even questioned Elise’s son about what time he’d finished painting the porch, who he’d been with, all that type of thing. She never forgave us for her family’s integrity getting dragged into the whole mess. And of course, Abel Smith was the one who testified about…”
    My mother turned back to the pot where the butter, brandy, and maple syrup simmered together. Although she could make any marinade with her eyes closed, she pretended that this one suddenly required her undivided attention.
    “Mom?” I said. “What did Mr. Smith testify about?” I had read most of the trial notes by now, but couldn’t remember anything about Abel Smith, Smitty’s dad.
    She turned around, brows crossed, mouth tight. She resented me for driving these memories to the forefront of her delicate mind. “Mr. Smith is the one—the only one—who placed your father anywhere but at the garage that day. Said he saw him walking back from the direction of the creek… where Shelby’s body was found.” Her voice cracked. “Out past the Hesters’ barn.”
    “Why would Dad —”
    “He must