“You’ve lived here since the forties, haven’t you, Thelma?” David asked.
“Yes. I came here with my husband, Bobby Nettro, back in 1945. We already had grown kids, and we were rattling around in that big old house in Detroit. Came out here and decided this was the place for us.” She gave a lusty sigh that sent a whistling sound through her false teeth. “Poor Bobby, he passed on in 1956, right after Eisenhower was re-elected. He died of pneumonia, you know.
“But he left me well off, real well off. I got Martha to come live with me in the late sixties, and we did just fine. She was teaching school down in Portland, and she didn’t like it, all those hippies and drugs and that free love. Since I knew her mama before she passed on, I also knew Martha. We all kept in touch. But you know, Quinlan, I did fail her mama. I still can’t find Martha a husband, and I promised her I would. Lord knows, I’ve been looking for more years now than I’ve got teeth.”
“You don’t have any teeth, Thelma,” Martha said. “Why don’t you just chew on that nice pumpkin peach lipstick and think about that eggplant Parmesan?”
“Well, I used to have a healthy set of choppers. I’ll tell you, Quinlan, it don’t seem to matter how horny she gets and how much she sticks her bosom out there for the old codgers to ogle. Now, take poor Ed-”
Martha rolled her eyes and left the room.
“Well, actually, could you tell us about your kids, Thelma?” Quinlan asked.
“Two boys, one died in the war-the Big War, not Korea or Vietnam. The other one, well, he lives back in Massachusetts. He’s retired now, has grown-up grandkids, and they got kids, and that makes me so old I can’t bear to think about it.”
Sally smiled as she stood up and walked over to kiss Thelma’s soft, wrinkled cheek. “I’m going to see Amabel now, Thelma, but James and I will be staying here in the tower room.”
“You still taking advantage of him, huh, Sally? Poor little boy, he doesn’t have a chance. The first time I saw the two of you together I knew you’d have his pants off him in no time at all.”
“Thelma, have a piece of my New Jersey cheesecake.”
Thelma turned to frown at Martha, who had just come back into the room with another tray of her cheesecakes.
“You’re such a prude, Martha, such a prude. I’ll just bet you’re frigid and Ed has to beg you for every little favor.”
“I’ll see you later,” Sally said, grinning back at the two dumbstruck special agents from Portland, James, and David Mountebank.
“I’ll be along shortly, Sally,” Quinlan said. He was already asking Thelma more questions when Sally went out the front door of Thelma’s Bed and Breakfast.
The day was beautiful, warm, just a slight nip in the air, the salty tang swept in from the ocean soft as a bird’s wing on her face.
Sally breathed in deeply. Sherry Vorhees was standing in front of the World’s Greatest Ice Cream Shop. Sally waved, and Sherry waved back. Helen Keaton, whose grandmother had invented the ice cream recipe, came out of the shop behind her, looked over at Sally, and waved herself. Such nice women. Surely they couldn’t know anything about the murders or those missing people.
“Our flavor this week is banana walnut cream,” Helen called out. “Do come and try it with your Mr. Quinlan. My granny didn’t exactly make it, but I like to try new flavors. Ralph loves the banana walnut, says it’s so good it’s got to be real bad for you.”
Sally remembered that Ralph Keaton was the undertaker. She saw old Hunker Dawson, the World War II veteran, who always wore his two medals across the pocket of his flannel shirts. He hiked up his baggy pants and yelled, “You’re famous, Sally Brainerd. We didn’t find out until after you’d left that you were crazy. But now you’re not even crazy, are you? I think the news media were pissed about you not being crazy. They like crazy and evil better than innocence and victims.”