“Stanley, you will be here as a guest as always. We have added a single white rose to the floral arrangements in memory of Henry. I trust that you will not rush writing a story about this. Itrust you will let me read the draft. I will not change a word, but I will read it before publication.”
“Of course,” Cabot said.
“You’re a fine young man, Stanley, and you trust Mr. Fletcher with your life. That is the only reference for his character that I require.”
He exhaled. “Thank you, Eleanor.”
“You will both meet me at two o’clock in my kitchen.”
She drank the rest of the cup in one steady swallow and set it down.
“Now, I will go upstairs and change. I’ve been in this dress since six o'clock. I’d like to be in something else when she comes through the door at one forty-five with the afternoon coffee.”
She stood. We stood.
***
We took our seats in the kitchen at one fifty-five. Eleanor was in her chair in a dark navy dress, wearing a strand of pearls. A small leather household book lay open in front of her, with grocery lists and menu notes written by hand.
The kitchen smelled of fresh-baked bread. It sat on the counter under a linen cloth.
At one fifty-nine, Maria came through the service door from the dining room with a French press in one hand and a small porcelain pitcher of cream in the other.
She saw me and didn’t stop walking. Maria set the tray on a table and took her seat. Eleanor rose to pour coffee for each of us.
Maria lifted her cup. “Eleanor.”
“Maria.”
“It’s a cold day.”
“It is.”
“The bread I baked is from the new flour.”
“Is it good?” Eleanor asked.
“It’s very good. Try it later.”
Eleanor lifted her cup. She lifted it the way she had lifted three thousand cups in this kitchen, and she lifted it a half-count slower than usual.
Maria saw it.
Her expression did not change, but she set her own cup down.
The service door opened.
Two federal agents appeared; the lead was a woman in her forties in a charcoal coat with her badge on a lanyard at her throat. She crossed the kitchen at a walking pace and stopped three feet from Maria’s stool.
I read the letters FBI on her coat.
“Maria Aguirre?”
“Yes.”
“I am Special Agent Jane Weber. I have a federal warrant for your arrest on charges including conspiracy to commit a terrorist act and conspiracy to commit murder. I’m going to ask you to stand and place your hands on the counter where I can see them. Do you understand?”
“I understand.”