Shadow in the Glass by M. E. Hilliard

Author:M. E. Hilliard [Hilliard, M. E.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: CROOKED LANE BOOKS

Chapter Thirteen

I had a pleasant and uneventful visit with the Petersons. There were only two items of note in our conversation. The first was an offhand comment from Mrs. Peterson while we were rehashing the visit from the police.

“I’m not surprised something woke you, Isabelle. This house does make some odd sounds. I could have sworn I heard footsteps last night,” Isabelle’s mother said.

“Probably the wood contracting. It got chilly. Or the plumbing. In our house, it’s always the plumbing. More knocks and raps than a Victorian séance,” Mr. Peterson replied, and then returned to the volume of Conan Doyle he had found in the library.

“Perhaps,” Mrs. Peterson replied, sounding unconvinced.

The other interesting tidbit came about when we were discussing Jack and Sarah’s post-honeymoon plans. The Petersons were aware of the opportunity in Europe, but not that it was decided. Isabelle gave me a look, suggesting she knew as well, but we both kept it to ourselves. Regardless, Isabelle’s parents thought it time that she move on, too.

“Now I know you enjoy Boston, and your brother values your help, but it’s time you finished your doctorate. Have you gotten back in touch with that woman in Albany? Dr. Arsenault, isn’t it?” Mr. Peterson said.

Isabelle sighed. “I don’t think I’m suited to academia, Dad. Or at least, not to the politics.”

“I know it’s tedious, muffin, but if you can master calculus at ten you can learn to navigate departmental infighting. You just need a mentor.”

“And you know people in the area now. You’d have friends nearby,” Mrs. Peterson added. She smiled at me, but I saw her glance in the direction of the boathouse. Isabelle’s budding relationship with Jeremy had not gone unnoticed.

“I’ll get in touch. Maybe I can drive down and see her before I come home.”

The conversation moved on to other things. Isabelle and I decided to forgo more exploration on the third floor. The cloudy day made it too dark in rooms with no electricity. Isabelle’s mother joined us in rooting around in the library. She commented on the dearth of poetry in the collection but eventually found a couple of shelves in a corner, one of which held a first edition Sylvia Plath. I was about to say goodbye and go meet Ian when my phone rang.

“Greer darling, it’s Caro. I got your number from Sarah, I hope you don’t mind. Listen, I’ve just got to get out of here for a while. Let’s have dinner. Soonish. We can go right over to that place on the water, the one near the inn.”

“Oh, well, I’d planned to have dinner with Ian—”

“Perfect! Nothing like having a handsome man to squire you around, is there? I’d love to treat you both. What time?”

I told her fifteen minutes. I buzzed Ian and explained. Within half an hour we were seated and studying our menus, drinks on the way. Caro sat back in her chair, dinner decision made.

“I’m so glad you two were willing to indulge an old lady. I couldn’t stay in that house another minute,” she said.

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