Face Time by Hank Phillippi Ryan Read Free Book Online Page A

knows anything? Remembers anything?”
    I check my watch, back-timing, frustrated that we have to hurry. Franklin insisted we have lunch, and I wasn’t going to argue with that. But it’s now two o’clock. I’ve got to meet Josh and Penny at six, a kid-friendly dinnertime. Before that I’ve got to change clothes. And before that I’ve got to stop by the Center for Cosmetic Surgery and check on Mom. This workday feels over before it’s even started. “I wish Will or Rankin would call,” I complain, staring at the house. “And I figure we still have three hours or so. Well, two, since we have to drive back to Boston. We could—” I stop mid-sentence.
    The Sweeneys’ front door is opening.

CHAPTER 5
     
    Poppy Morency, oversize black-rimmed sunglasses holding back her snowy-white pageboy, pulls a jangling ring of keys from a navy-strapped canvas boat bag. Where there’s usually an embroidered monogram or a sailboat name, Poppy’s bag says Morency Real Estate.
    “House has been on the market for two years?” She tilts her head, calculating. “Three? We sold it once, after the—well, of course you know.” She focuses on the keys, choosing. “Anyway, the buyers never moved in, and asked us to sell again. So it’s still furnished, pretty much the same as it was when—well, of course, you know that, too.”
    “Thank you so much,” I say. Franklin and I did some fast talking after we found out who she was, and convinced her to take us inside. Maybe our luck is changing. But it stinks that we don’t have a camera. “We won’t be long,” I assure her.
    Poppy finds the key she’s looking for, inserts it into the front door lock. “You do have a point,” she says, turning the key. “If you were in the market for a house, I’d let you in to look around. So, as you say, there’s no harm. And I’ve always admired your work, Charlie.” She stops and looks back at me. “And I do remember Dorinda Sweeney, of course. Little snip of a thing. Ray. It was all very sad. You know…”
    She pushes the door open, and gestures Franklin and me inside without finishing her sentence. “We have a service that keeps it tidy, in case we have to show it,” she explains, all real estate business now. “Personal items, someone took most of them away. They had a thorough cleaning done of certain, um, areas, of course, after the, um, incident.”
    “We know,” Franklin says, crossing the threshold.
    I follow him, stepping into Dorinda’s life. Poppy leads us through a tiled entryway, empty coat hooks establishing more emptiness to come, and into the living room. Square, white-walled, silent. Dorinda’s house is— was —standard issue, unimaginative, matching. Seems like the Sweeneys’ money wasn’t spent on style or comfort. Straight-armed, dully plaid couch that matches stolid side chairs. Walnut coffee table that matches unhappy end tables. Ashtrays. It’s stripped of all personality, no photographs, no art, no mirrors. A curtain rod, empty, stretches across the wide rear windows, a strip of ocean visible just at the top. A home—now just a house. Waiting to see what will happen next.
    Poppy looks at her watch, an oversize clock face tied to her wrist with a preppy green ribbon bow, and begins flipping through what looks like an appointment book. I get the message. Hurry.
    “May we take a quick look upstairs?” I ask. Then I casually ask the clincher as if it’s no big deal. “And the basement?”
    Poppy perches on the couch and pulls out a cell phone. “I have a couple of calls to make,” she says. She’s already focused on dialing. “Look around, and then—Hello, this is Priscilla Morency, can you hold a moment?” She interrupts herself, looking at me apologetically, and waves us along. Go ahead, she mouths the words. She holds up her hand, fingers spread, pantomiming. Five minutes.
    “Want to split up?” I turn to Franklin, keeping my voice low. “You take the kitchen, I’ll go upstairs, then