landscaping. Autumn had been exceptionally warm, and only now, close to Halloween, were the trees turning. French windows lined the far wall, and through them blazed a velvety lawn studded with masses of chrysanthemums that seemed to reflect the trees’ lemony, orange, and flame leaves.
Obviously, nature was one of the things that money could buy.
Penelope Koepple was standing when I entered the room, as was a woman dressed entirely in black, with hair to match. She was petite, voluptuous, and furious. “You are not in a position to make decisions,” she told Penelope in a low and lethal voice. “Don’t pretend
she’s
in charge. I know this is your sort of meddling, your definition of propriety, but I will take my rightful place. I hope that’s understood. Whether or not it is, I will take it at the funeral, so don’t try to prevent me. I came here as a politeness, nothing else.”
Penelope glanced at the housekeeper. “Mrs. Severin will be needing her coat,” she said. “She was just leaving.” She didn’t push the petite widow out the door, not physically, but the effect was as rapid and efficient as if she had.
So that was Nina Severin, who, given her phone call rant to Sasha and this performance, might benefit from anger-management classes. And I thought I would benefit by putting her on my list of interviewees.
Meanwhile, Penelope retrieved me from the housekeeper and escorted me into the room as if I were a pet she’d just found. “And after that,” Penelope called to the retreating housekeeper, “that” referring to young widow Severin, “you may bring tea.”
She introduced me to the two people seated on one of the long chintz-covered sofas, though she needn’t have. Who else could the emaciated woman in the dark blond wig and black knit dress have been? Who else could be the man who could have been her grandson had she not had her hand on his thigh?
Miz K. was less sure of herself here than she had been in the office. There was the hint of obsequiousness in her voice as she introduced me to her employer, the hint of the desire to not provoke anger or resentment, to have me be a good entertainment for today’s teatime. “Miss Pepper is working with the police to investigate Tomas’s death,” she said by way of introduction.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said.
Ingrid Severin looked at me with the alert expectancy of a child at a puppet show. Maybe I’d be interesting, and maybe I wouldn’t.
Penelope poured us all tea. “No sugar for me, no, no.” Ingrid shook her head for emphasis.
“I know that,” Penelope whispered.
“A girl has to watch her figure.” Ingrid chuckled. I don’t know how she watched hers, as it was close to nonexistent. She was acutely thin without a soft turn on her anywhere, and her black knit dress and jacket appeared to cover a loose arrangement of bones. Her face was smooth, her eyes wide, and the few lines between her chin and ears skewed, rising on an angle toward her temples in a way that said a facelift too many had trumped the laws of gravity. Her head looked borrowed from someone younger. It didn’t match her hands, the crinkles in the flesh of her wrists, or any of the rest of her. It also didn’t look quite human.
“And oh, my—none of those cakes that look so good! Not for me or I’ll get fat!”
Her weight concerns, particularly given the circumstances, also didn’t seem fully human.
“I know.” Penelope let weariness into her voice. She didn’t seem to care who heard it.
The cakes did look incredibly good, light and moist, with ganache filling and chocolate glazes decorated with candied violets. It was all I could do to keep from salivating, but I waited to be offered one. My mother would have been proud of me.
“Ladies do not want to be fat!” Ingrid said. “No, no, no!”
She seemed on automatic pilot. This is what one said when faced with edible objects. We could slip her into Philly Prep with the bulimics and
Obviously, nature was one of the things that money could buy.
Penelope Koepple was standing when I entered the room, as was a woman dressed entirely in black, with hair to match. She was petite, voluptuous, and furious. “You are not in a position to make decisions,” she told Penelope in a low and lethal voice. “Don’t pretend
she’s
in charge. I know this is your sort of meddling, your definition of propriety, but I will take my rightful place. I hope that’s understood. Whether or not it is, I will take it at the funeral, so don’t try to prevent me. I came here as a politeness, nothing else.”
Penelope glanced at the housekeeper. “Mrs. Severin will be needing her coat,” she said. “She was just leaving.” She didn’t push the petite widow out the door, not physically, but the effect was as rapid and efficient as if she had.
So that was Nina Severin, who, given her phone call rant to Sasha and this performance, might benefit from anger-management classes. And I thought I would benefit by putting her on my list of interviewees.
Meanwhile, Penelope retrieved me from the housekeeper and escorted me into the room as if I were a pet she’d just found. “And after that,” Penelope called to the retreating housekeeper, “that” referring to young widow Severin, “you may bring tea.”
She introduced me to the two people seated on one of the long chintz-covered sofas, though she needn’t have. Who else could the emaciated woman in the dark blond wig and black knit dress have been? Who else could be the man who could have been her grandson had she not had her hand on his thigh?
Miz K. was less sure of herself here than she had been in the office. There was the hint of obsequiousness in her voice as she introduced me to her employer, the hint of the desire to not provoke anger or resentment, to have me be a good entertainment for today’s teatime. “Miss Pepper is working with the police to investigate Tomas’s death,” she said by way of introduction.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said.
Ingrid Severin looked at me with the alert expectancy of a child at a puppet show. Maybe I’d be interesting, and maybe I wouldn’t.
Penelope poured us all tea. “No sugar for me, no, no.” Ingrid shook her head for emphasis.
“I know that,” Penelope whispered.
“A girl has to watch her figure.” Ingrid chuckled. I don’t know how she watched hers, as it was close to nonexistent. She was acutely thin without a soft turn on her anywhere, and her black knit dress and jacket appeared to cover a loose arrangement of bones. Her face was smooth, her eyes wide, and the few lines between her chin and ears skewed, rising on an angle toward her temples in a way that said a facelift too many had trumped the laws of gravity. Her head looked borrowed from someone younger. It didn’t match her hands, the crinkles in the flesh of her wrists, or any of the rest of her. It also didn’t look quite human.
“And oh, my—none of those cakes that look so good! Not for me or I’ll get fat!”
Her weight concerns, particularly given the circumstances, also didn’t seem fully human.
“I know.” Penelope let weariness into her voice. She didn’t seem to care who heard it.
The cakes did look incredibly good, light and moist, with ganache filling and chocolate glazes decorated with candied violets. It was all I could do to keep from salivating, but I waited to be offered one. My mother would have been proud of me.
“Ladies do not want to be fat!” Ingrid said. “No, no, no!”
She seemed on automatic pilot. This is what one said when faced with edible objects. We could slip her into Philly Prep with the bulimics and
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