“I had the impression from your parents that you and your husband no longer lived together.”

“Not for…” She spread the fingers of her right hand and touched the tips with her left forefinger as her lips moved. Her fingers were long and slender, and she wore no rings. “Well, more than a year now.”

Kincaid watched as she ground out her cigarette in the ashtray. “It’s a rather odd arrangement, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“Do you think so, Mr. Kincaid? It suited us.”

“No plans to divorce?”

Julia shrugged again and crossed her knees, one slender leg swinging jerkily. “No.”

He studied her, wondering just how hard he might push her. If she were grieving for her husband, she was certainly adept at hiding it. She shifted under his scrutiny and patted her shirt pocket, as if reassuring herself that her cigarettes hadn’t vanished, and he thought that perhaps her armor wasn’t quite impenetrable. “Do you always smoke so much?” he said, as if he had every right to ask.

She smiled and pulled the packet out, shaking loose another cigarette.

He noticed that her white shirt wasn’t as immaculate as he’d thought-it had a smudge of violet paint across the breast. “Were you on friendly terms with Connor? See him often?”

“We spoke, yes, if that’s what you mean, but we weren’t exactly what you’d call best mates.”

“Did you see him yesterday, when he came here for lunch?”

“No. I don’t usually break for lunch when I’m working. Ruins my concentration.” Julia stubbed out her newly lit cigarette and slid off the stool. “As you’ve done now. I might as well quit for the day.” She gathered a handful of paintbrushes and crossed the room to an old-fashioned washstand with basin and ewer. “That’s the one drawback up here,” she said, over her shoulder, “no running water.”