LITMIR.BIZ

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the ground.

      Beside her, Ethel croaked happily. “A girl can dream, can’t she?”

      “Sheesh.” Maurice had set up next to Evangeline. He was the only one who had any paint on his canvas. Despite the heat, he still had on his uniform of black blazer and black beret.

      Jane placed her easel next to Evangeline on the other side.

      “That’s Karl Flagler,” Evangeline explained. “He’s the head groundskeeper. He poses for our life drawing classes sometimes in the winter.”

      * * *

      By an hour later the grounds crew had moved on, and several foursomes had played the hole. Jane had been impressed by Karl and his crew. They were meticulous in their work, and though they joked and called out to one another, Karl let them know exactly what he wanted, and he got it from them.

      By the time the crew left, most of the artists had managed to do some painting. Evangeline decreed that they’d stay another half an hour and then head back for lunch.

      Jane pointed toward the bungalow across the way. “What’s that?”

      “Groundskeeper’s cottage. Karl lives there.”

      “It looks old.” The bungalow had weathered, silver-gray shingles and lots of white gingerbread woodwork spidering along the roofline.

      “It is. Walden Spring is built on the grounds of the old Wallingford estate. This golf course was private, part of the estate grounds. The groundskeeper’s cottage is original.”

      “Where’s the estate house?”

      “Burned down in the 1970s. I lived less than a mile from here with my second husband then. Spectacular blaze. The old cellar hole has been filled in.” Evangeline cocked her head toward a hill behind them, beyond the long-term care facility. “But there’s still the remains of an enormous marble swimming pool, though most of the marble’s been stolen over the years for local landscaping projects. I’ll bet there are more marble walks and patios around here than any other town in Massachusetts.”

      Jane pointed in the other direction. “What’s beyond the groundskeeper’s cottage?”

      “A line of trees. An older housing development. Then the town. If you look carefully you can see the steeple of the Trinitarian Congregational Church. Sometimes we cut through the trees to get to town. There are paths, but they’re really only usable in the spring and fall when it’s not icy or overgrown. Peavey doesn’t like us doing it for safety reasons.”

      At that moment an older woman, accompanied by a caretaker, came walking along the path from the long-term care facility. The woman was well dressed in a summer skirt and top, and her long gray hair was carefully arranged in a bun. She was attractive, with large, wide-set eyes and a distinctive upturned nose. A Kevin Bacon nose. She walked over to Evangeline’s canvas and admired it.

      “Good morning, Mrs. Finnerty,” Evangeline said.

      The woman stared like she didn’t have a clue who Evangeline was. She didn’t even seem to respond to her own name, but some innate politeness asserted itself. “Have we met before?” she asked.

      “Indeed,” Evangeline said. “I live over in the condos. The same floor as Bill.”

      Mrs. Finnerty smiled broadly. “Oh, do you know my Billy?”

      “I do.”

      “He’s such a good boy.”

      “Yes,” Evangeline answered. “He is.”

      Evangeline turned to Jane when they’d moved on. “Bill Finnerty’s wife. Such a terrible disease.”

      “Terrible,” Jane agreed. “She looks so much older than Bill.”

      “Yes, she does. Maybe it’s the illness,” Evangeline responded.

      * * *

      Eventually everyone did paint something. The route back to the clubhouse was long and hot. Jane again carried Ethel’s things and fell behind the rest of the group as she slowed to keep pace with her. As they walked, Ethel blared in her foghorn voice about a beef with a long-dead sister-in-law. Jane made sympathetic noises.

      By the time they got to the clubhouse, their fellow artists had put their kits away and gone off to lunch. The sounds of clattering cutlery and the smell of underseasoned food wafted into the art room from the dining hall below. Jane told Ethel to go directly to the dining room; she’d put their things away.

      As Jane exited the art room, she saw Mike Witkowski leaving the game room next door. His leather jacket was off in a concession to the heat, and instead he wore a black T-shirt over black jeans. Although Jane guessed his age at late sixties or early seventies, his arms were sinewy, muscles visible. A strong old man. He held a wooden box—larger than a cigar box, smaller than a breadbox—under his left arm. He carefully closed the door to the game room, pulled on a fob hanging from his belt that held a bunch of keys, selected one, and locked the door. Locked it? Why was the game room locked with a key and not a keycard, like everything else in Walden Spring? And why did Mike Witkowski possess a key? It seemed more appropriate for a member of the staff.

      Mike caught Jane watching him and gave a wag of his eyebrows, then hurried down the stairs to the cafeteria. She followed.

      Chapter Five

      Lunch passed without incident. The residents of Walden Spring were clumped into their respective cliques. Jane ate with the artists and dancers, keeping her ears tuned to their conversation, but her eyes glanced around the dining room observing the other groups.

      The popular kids sat together, as before—the men in their golf clothes, the women in their bright summer shifts. One of those women stuck out from the crowd. Free of makeup and mousy haired, she wore a navy-blue tracksuit. Its dark color and total coverage made her look like a signet floating in a pond among a bunch of downy, yellow ducklings. What was her story?

      Jane picked out some groups she hadn’t noticed in the chaos of the day before. An obvious “couples” table. What happened when a spouse was lost? Did the survivor have to go sit elsewhere? Perhaps to one of the many tables that consisted only of women, or the much smaller number that had only men. One group at a table by a window was composed of the very old. Had they been at Walden Spring the longest—the senior seniors?

      As lunch ended, Evangeline invited Jane for drinks on her balcony before dinner. “Apartment 325. Use your keycard to enter the foyer, then take the elevator up and knock on the door.” Then she announced she was headed back to her apartment for a lie down. Maurice trailed her, though what role he might have in the lie down, if any, was still unclear to Jane.

      Jane passed a pleasant afternoon on her balcony, observing the comings and goings of her fellow inmates. Groups headed to the tennis courts, rackets under their arms or over their shoulders, and returned later, walking more slowly, hair glistening with sweat. Golfers pulled their carts up to the tee closest to the condos and whacked at their balls. People walked, or rode their golf carts, toward the parking lot and returned later with grocery bags and packages. It was lovely and relaxing. If Jane hadn’t witnessed the food fight, she would have wondered why Paul Peavey had hired her.

      Her eyelids grew heavy. She was tempted to go for a lie down herself, but given the money Peavey was paying her, it didn’t seem fair to do so.

      At exactly four p.m., her cell phone rang, a Cambridge exchange.

      “Jane? Harry Welch. How are you?”

      “How nice to hear from you.” Though he’d asked for her number at the end of their coffee date, Jane hadn’t allowed herself to get her hopes up.

      “How about a movie tomorrow night? I can pick you up at your house.”

      It was do-or-die time. Jane could turn him down and recommend her lovely friend Phyllis, or she could accept.

      She hesitated so long, Harry

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