Detectives Shergold and Bellows are back, both in plain, neat clothes, like they’re here to convert me to the Jehovah’s Witnesses.
Jo left ten minutes ago. I didn’t expect the police this late, at ten past eight in the evening. I guess that’s why they’ve come now, to catch me unexpectedly.
“Detectives?” I say. There’s a fresh glass of wine in my hand. I’m standing in the doorway. When the bell rang, I thought it was Jo, that she forgot something. Did these two see her leave? But so what if they did? She was my friend long before she became my accomplice. We have daughters the same age. She came over for dinner, as friends do. Still, I’m scared to draw their attention in her direction.
“Can we come in?” This is said by the woman, Detective Shergold.
I hesitate. Good question. Is this the right time to decline and say, “No, I’m not speaking without counsel”? Or I might be better off playing the sick-with-guilt wife who had an affair in a sad attempt to regain her adored husband’s attention. While lawyering up might be smarter, it could also raise their suspicions.
“Okay.” I step back. The wine has left me reckless. “Please, this way.” I lead them into Stan’s study.
Shergold’s been here before, but Bellows peers around with interest. This room was decorated to resemble a swanky men’s club, all hunter green and red hardwood. His desk’s the size of a billiard table. Classic books Stan never read are arrayed on the shelves above photos in antique silver frames: the obligatory wife and kids. Stan holding a golf club, admiring his shot. Stan fishing. Stan with his best friends from college, heli-skiing.
I chose this room for three reasons. With the door shut, it’s practically soundproof. Zoe’s just gone to bed but could reemerge at any moment. Or the twins could come down for yet another snack. Second, I think choosing Stan’s space makes me look less guilty, like I want to feel close to him, which I wouldn’t if I’d killed him. Third, my studio is next down the hall. I didn’t want to pass it with the detectives’ eyes on me.
Rather than sit at Stan’s desk, I motion them toward the far corner, where three low armchairs nuzzle close to a teak coffee table. I take the chair facing the door. The detectives take the others. The room still smells faintly of cigar smoke, one of Stan’s affectations. He only smoked them with men he thought worthy of impressing.
Detective Shergold unbuttons her coat and smooths back her gray bob. Most middle-aged women around here who don’t dye their hair are hippy types and wear it long and scraggly. Her haircut’s as sharp as her eyes, studying Stan’s fridge-sized humidor.
Meanwhile, I appraise Detective Bellows. He has a long nose and close-set eyes beneath wide eyebrows. It’s not a pleasant face. He looks sneaky.
“We’ll make this quick,” says Detective Shergold. She smiles coldly. “Do you know Ryan Reeve?”
Despite expecting this question, I nod and feign ignorance. A double bluff. “Yes, he’s my neighbor.”
“What’s your relationship with Ryan?” This is from Detective Bellows.
“We’re friendly,” I say hesitantly. I will put out, but must first play hard to get. It’s more realistic.
“Friendly?” says Detective Bellows, this word as pointed as his schnoz. “You weren’t sexually involved with Mr. Reeve, then?”
I feel myself blush. “No!” I blurt. I start to shake my head, then lean forward to bury my face in my hands. “We were,” I admit. I’ve started crying.
It’s partly real shame, but not for cheating on Stanley. I don’t regret sleeping with Ryan. The sex was phenomenal. However, I do regret it coinciding with Stan’s killing, forcing me to discuss it with horrible strangers. And I regret confiding in Angie. We had too many cocktails at some boring Friends of the Library dinner. I didn’t tell her it was Ryan but did mention I’d caught the eye of someone super fit and younger. Fuck Angie for bringing it up when Jo was with me—trying, as usual, to drive a wedge between us.
“I see.” Detective Shergold’s tongue darts out, fleshy and pink between pale, thin lips. I look away. It was almost obscene, that glistening pink flash.
Now that I’ve admitted to cheating, the cops want details.
I’m suitably contrite. Jo would be proud of my performance. Yes, I’m a cheating wife, but I was doing it with good intentions, a desperate and admittedly misguided attempt to save my faltering marriage by trying to make my beloved husband jealous.
Detective Bellows looks serious and sympathetic, a young priest giving absolution. His hands are clasped. Sinner repent, and all shall be forgiven.
I’m feeling hopeful until I see Detective Shergold frowning beneath her steely gray haircut. It’s like an ancient Greek helmet. My contrition pings right off her.
“When did you last see Mr. Reeve?” asks Shergold. I see Ryan in my mind’s eye, tanned and naked.
I look away, despite knowing I shouldn’t. Shergold’s bayonet gaze scares me. She’s the leader of this crusade. Is it ambition that drives her? Or a true desire for justice? Probably the latter. Just my luck.
To buy time, I wipe my eyes. “The day before Stan d—” I pretend to cough, blinking in shock. “Disappeared,” I whisper. “Saturday.”
My heart surges. My palms, ground hard against my thighs, feel clammy. I almost said “died.” I almost blew it. To hide my shock, I talk: “Have you found anything yet?” I ask, shakily. “Besides Stan’s jacket?”
“We’re pursuing every avenue, Mrs. McFarlane,” says Bellows.
I nod, woozy. I shouldn’t have spoken to them, not after all that wine. That was close. I’m perspiring. “You . . . you don’t think Ryan had anything to do with it, d-do you?” I stutter. I’m not trying to throw my pretty lover under a bus. It’s just an obvious question.
Detective Bellows’s head straightens. He’s slightly cross-eyed, which makes his gaze unsettling. He’s never looking quite where he should be. “Do you suspect Ryan had some involvement?” he asks.
I shake my head, hard. “No. Most definitely not!” But I sound worried.
Bellows looks somber: “Was Ryan jealous?”
I shake my head again but with less strength. “No. Not at all! It was just a casual fling. He’s . . .” My cheeks flush and my eyes dip with self-deprecation. “He’s much younger.”
Detective Bellows looks unconvinced. How gallant, especially given my current appearance. Although I suppose they’ve looked up old photos where I look a lot better, pics from my website and the society pages.
“Ryan never said anything threatening?” asks Bellows. “He wasn’t possessive?”
“No,” I say firmly.
His frown deepens. “Was there anyone else with reason to harm your husband?”
They’ve asked me this before. I said no. I’m loath to point them straight to Ralph Isles, not when I’m afraid he heard us fighting. But the cops will get to Ralph sooner or later. I suspect something was up with their business. Something unpleasant. Ralph looked awfully shifty yesterday morning when he asked about Stanley.
“Did your husband have enemies?” asks Detective Bellows, as if voicing the same thing in a different way might help it get through my thick skull.
I shrug. The more avenues they have to pursue, the more chance they’ll get lost down one. “Maybe someone from work.” I say hesitantly, then hasten to add: “Which I know nothing about. I just didn’t ask.” I shift in my seat. “But I do know, well, not all investors were happy. Some people.” I wring my hands like I’m ashamed to express it. “Some people lost money. Lots of money.”
Detective Bellows nods. He glances at Detective Shergold. She nods. She’s definitely in charge here. “Thanks for your time,” she says.
They both rise. I do too. My sore eye feels hot when I touch it. I follow them down the long hall.
“Ah, while we’re here,” says Detective Shergold, “when’s a good time to speak to your children?”
My throat clogs. I should have been prepared for this. “I can’t let you speak to them. It’s too upsetting for them. They’re struggling.”
Detective Shergold’s lip curls. “What if your children saw or heard something that could help us find their father?”
I shake my head and force my clenched hands to relax. “They’re minors. My lawyer advised against it. I’ve asked them,” I continue. “They heard nothing. Not even . . .” My finger finds my bruised eye. “Not even our fight.” I drop my hand. “Thank God,” I add. “I’m sorry, but they can’t help you.”
“Sometimes children remember things,” says Detective Bellows. “When professionals ask them. Naturally, your lawyer could be present. And a child psychologist, if you like.” He sounds sincere, like he’s just trying to help us.
I feel tired and drunk. And increasingly rattled. “I . . . Let me think about it.”
Detective Shergold nods. In the hall light, her face is grim. “Think fast. The first seventy-two hours are vital.”
We’ve reached my foyer.
I nod. That deadline is tomorrow. And Stan is way beyond help. Before I can blink it away, a vision creeps into view: Stan on the ocean floor, crawling home toward Winderlea, bloated and battered.
“Mrs. McFarlane?”
Stan’s ravaged face fades, leaving Bellows’s. He zips up his coat. “There was no one else here Sunday night?” His voice is too casual. “Before or after your fight?”
They haven’t asked this before, not straight out. I always stopped the story soon after Stan left.
I unlock the door and pry it open. They might already know Jo came over. It’s better to just say so. “My friend, Jo, Jo Dykstra. She came over. I was . . .” I hold the door open. In my thin sweater, I’m freezing. The detectives don’t move. “I was very upset,” I say.
“How long did she stay?” asks Bellows.
“Most of the night,” I admit. “Her daughter, Ruby, slept in the den. Jo sat up with me, trying to calm me down. It was late when they left. Or early morning.”
“Morning?” says Shergold.
I’m still holding the door. I pause, considering. These detectives seem too interested in my best friend. While I don’t know what Ralph saw, they’ll question him no matter what. He’s Stan’s business partner. I may as well deflect them from Jo.
I look up, like I’ve recalled something. “Oh. And Ralph. Ralph Isles, Stan’s partner, he said he stopped by Sunday evening to see Stan.” I swallow, abashed. “I think he heard us fighting and left. I met him in the street yesterday morning.”
Detective Shergold has been gazing out the door at the floodlit garden. Her eyes veer to me. “What time did Mr. Isles stop by?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “He didn’t ring the bell or anything.”
I think I’ve distracted her with this mention of Ralph. But a moment later her voice sharpens. “This friend of yours, Jo Dykstra? How do you know each other?”
“Oh,” I say. “We’re old school friends.”
“Best friends?”
I nod warily. It’s awful, having to answer all their nosy questions. Normally, I’d let my housekeeper deal with these people. Or my assistant, Daisy. “We’re good friends. She only moved back here this summer.”
“Old friends are the best, aren’t they?” says Detective Shergold. “The ones you can count on in a crisis.” Her smile gives me shivers. “What brought Ms. Dykstra back to Glebes Bay?”
“I . . .” The question’s so unexpected I can’t answer. Besides, I’m not sure of the details—just that Jo wouldn’t want her to know. Does Shergold know more than I do?
I clear my throat. “She came back for her daughter,” I say. “Glebes Bay’s a good place to grow up. Beautiful nature. Small and safe.” I realize what I’ve said and feel stupid. It’s hardly safe when your husband’s vanished.
Shergold pretends not to notice. She nods happily. “The sort of place where everyone knows everyone.” She leaves “and everything” unsaid.
“Goodnight,” Shergold says briskly. She marches across the porch and down the stairs, Bellows trailing behind her.
“G-goodnight.” The salutation sticks in my throat. I’m scared. They’re going to talk to Jo.