Page 74 of Dead Beat

Darlington held up a hand. “I don’t think your mother will want me dripping on her floor.”

“You can use the dryer, and my brother still has some of his clothes here.”

Alex nodded, pretending to take it all in stride, but as soon as Turner motioned for them to follow and marched up the steps, she was silently mouthing, What is happening? to Dawes and Darlington behind his back. Detective Abel—stony, silent, grudging; no, you cannot have my personal cell number; no, you don’t need to know my birthday; why are you so curious about my favorite color—Turner had let them bring Mercy to his mother’s house.

“Shoes off,” he said as they entered.

They shucked off their coats and unlaced their boots. Dawes set her Tevas neatly on the shoe rack. Her feet looked like paws in her nubbly wool socks, her toes anxiously kneading the floor. She wasn’t great with new people, no matter how welcoming the surroundings.

“You come this way,” Turner said to Darlington and herded him through the kitchen to what must be the laundry room.

Alex was pretty sure the house was Victorian, the rooms small, high-ceilinged, and cozy. The walls were lined with family photographs, the hall table set with a bowl of oranges studded with cloves.

When Turner came back, he barely looked at Alex and Dawes, just waved them into the living room. The television was on, set to the news, the volume turned down low. A woman in her late seventies wearing a matched maroon chenille sweater and pants was curled up on the couch, reading. A bearded Gray in a button-down shirt sat beside her. Alex did her best to ignore him.

Turner perched on the edge of an easy chair. His mother set aside her novel, but Turner said, “Don’t get up, Mom. This is Alex and Pamela. They’re students at Yale.”

That was true if not exactly forthcoming.

“Undergrads?” she asked.

Dawes burrowed her hands into her sweatshirt sleeves. “Divinity School.”

“Ah.”

“Mom worked at the School of Management for over thirty years.”

“I left when they moved into that new building. Ridiculous. So many windows it felt like I was being cooked at my desk every afternoon.”

“Thanks for letting us…” Alex began, then realized she had no idea how much Turner’s mother knew about Lethe or the societies or any of it. “Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. Turner.”

“Celeste, please. There’s coffee on, but it’s decaf. I can’t have the good stuff after five or I don’t sleep. You’re welcome to use the kettle for tea.”

“I can make tea,” Dawes said eagerly.

“If it’s okay, I’d like to sit with Mercy,” Alex said. She felt rude, but she also didn’t want Mercy to wake up alone in a strange place.

Celeste studied Alex. “Are you going to be the one to tell me what happened to her?”

“Mom—”

Celeste shrugged. “I said I wouldn’t pry, not that I wouldn’t ask.”

“What exactly is the difference?”

“Such a smart group of people should be able to suss it out.”

Turner threw up his hands. “I knew this was a mistake.”

But Celeste just smiled. She clearly knew how to get under her son’s skin and enjoyed doing it. “Abel doesn’t make mistakes. At least not ones he admits to.”

“We’ll be out of your hair as soon as possible,” Alex said, trying to sound like the kind of person who would be asked back. “We’re sorry for the inconvenience.”

“I like having visitors and I like a little mystery too.” She held up her book. “Abel and I used to read them together, but he always figures out the ending.”

Alex and Dawes exchanged a glance. “He has a real knack for that,” Alex said.

“Just like his grandmother and his great-uncle.”