The House on Kirby Lane

Corva arrived at three. I had asked Mr. and Mrs. Lindeman, through Anita, to be out of the house from two-thirty until six, and they were — at Patricia's sister's in Swansboro, per Corva, which meant Corva had been more in the loop than I had quite realized, which was, on balance, fine. The dining room was set. I had pulled the tasteful runner. I had put out four of the Lindemans' good china cups, which were Noritake, thin-rimmed, white with a faint band of navy. I had put out a teapot. I had boiled water. I had, at my right, a yellow legal pad and a pen, and a manila folder containing one document with three names on it, which Dee had typed up that morning. "Marce," Corva said, coming in. She had downshifted, visibly, from the Saturday linen jumpsuit. She was in a soft grey turtleneck and jeans, and her bracelets were gone, and her hair was tied back. "Tell me the plan." "I sit at the head, which is where the realtor keeps her staging candlesticks, which I moved. You sit at my right. Emmett comes down and sits at my left. The passenger sits at the foot, opposite me. I pour for everybody, including the dead. We talk. I have a document." "You have a document." "Three clauses." "Marce." "Yes." "You know I love you." "Thank you." "I mean it in a respectful way." "I know you do." We sat down. I poured four cups of tea. Three of them would not be drunk, but tea, as I have