Interstitial

Thanksgiving 1954 Washington, D.C.

Briarwood House is still fluttering its curtains and creaking its banister spokes at the prospect of becoming a showroom for McTurney & Sons living room sets, but the palpable frustration now spilling out of the sitting room where the detective has set up shop pulls its attention around. One by one, the waiting witnesses in the kitchen have been called in to answer questions, and the detective just looks more red-faced and irritated with each new set of testimony.

“Can’t women ever pull themselves together?” the house hears him complain to his partner. “They all just start crying the minute I ask what happened.”

“I still think it’s the mobster,” his partner says, but they’d sweated Xavier Byrne for near an hour with no results. The house can tell both cops have been hugging shiny images of extracting a nice weepy confession that would send the Warring-gang ex-con back to jail on a murder rap and result in juicy commendations for the men who put him there, but Xavier Byrne had declined, arms crossed and voice level, to confess to so much as a parking ticket. Therefore, the house knows as it watches the detectives shuffle papers and witnesses around, this budget Joe Friday and his even more budget sidekick are looking for a new theory to explain why two corpses—one red-haired with its throat slashed to the bone, and the even more mysterious one with the smashed-in skull—are now cooling in the morgue.

So far, nothing very commendation-worthy is presenting itself.

The detective sighs. “All right, bring the G-man in.”

“Shoulda started with him,” one of the beat cops ventures and gets a glare.

“You want a bureau boy coming in here, swaggering all over this case and trying to take over? He’s had time by now to cool his heels and know he’s not in charge, so bring him in.”

Harland Adams enters, sharp-faced in his equally sharp suit. Briarwood House likes Harland well enough—you have to like a fellow willing to fire up the grill on your front lawn and flip burgers all afternoon, making the house smell and feel like an endless Fourth of July day. But now the tension drawn all the way through the man is worrying.

Harland Custis Adams looks like he’s about to explode. And Briarwood House doesn’t like it one bit.

“The apartment on the attic floor,” the detective begins after the introductory details are noted. “With the green walls—I understand that belongs to Mrs.Grace March.”

A single nod. Under the table, the house sees Harland’s hands flex.

“How well would you say you knew the lady?”

A thin smile. Don’t do it , the house begs silently. Don’t do it! But Harland begins.

“Not very well, as things turned out.”