The next morning was the start to yet another damp and blustery day. When Concordia came down to breakfast, still yawning from her wakeful night, Judge Armstrong and Henry were already at the table, sharing pages from The Hartford Courant. Concordia had to restrain herself from glaring at the judge. After all, she wasn’t supposed to know they were concealing something from her. Fortunately, the judge paid her little attention, instead lowering his black brows over an article in the paper. She was relieved to be spared the difficulty of making polite conversation. They ate in silence, save for the occasional clink of a spoon against a china cup.
Concordia finally spoke, keeping her tone level. “Henry,” she said, “I need your help in identifying some of Mary’s personal items.”
Henry
