"Mr. Blair. Well, I can't tell you much. Try that green chair for size. What do you want to know?"
Jim studied the toe of his right shoe. His eyes were veiled. "I heard she was hurt, and hard up, and I was worried. My wife and I were friends of hers back east."
"Hurt, hard up? Humph! Not likely, spendin' all her time drivin' that English car around. Takin' trips. I'm not sayin' she didn't mind her manners, though."
"Did she have any close friends?"
"She was chummy with Edith Walton, the girl that works for Doc Mendel. He's county coroner in his spare time. No men. Didn't fool around at all. I'd a known."
Behind Jim's stony eyes the pattern took clearer form, as if a mosaic approached completion. A mosaic of carefully planned events that totalled horror. He shivered as the outlines of his hunch filled in. Helen—what creatures were these? Helen—not dead, not poor,—carefully planting ostensible proof of her death and going on to a new role, a new life, in London or Paris or Rome. A free, untrammelled life. And her child—if child was the word—in his home, repeating the pattern. Eliminating competition as her mother undoubtedly had done. The competition—his and Jean's children! Changeling, changeling— No, not that. Incubus! He shivered again.
"Rabbits on your grave, Mr. Blair?"
He looked up slowly. "Sorry. I was just wondering. Did Miss Simmons have a job while she was here?"