“Yes?” She raised an eyebrow and then brought her coffee cup to her lips.
“What did you do?”
She put the cup onto its saucer, placed it back on the table, and gave me a sweet smile. As she did when she preferred not to answer a question, Mother responded with a question of her own. “What makes you think I had anything to do with Ms. Dashwood moving to the coast?”
“I know how loyal you are to your friends.”
“And aren’t you as well?” There was a bowl of fruit in the center of the table, and Mother speared a slice of mango with her fork and nibbled on it, holding her napkin under it to catch the juice.
I imagined her phoning Francesca Dashwood and making a luncheon date, possibly at the Café Montpelier on the ground floor of the Madison Arms. And at some point during the meal, she would give Ms. Dashwood a steely-eyed gaze and tell her she had until sundown to get out of town.
I bit back a laugh. I knew it would be futile to press for details, so I decided to change the subject.