Seventy-seven

In the two days that followed Ethan Humphrey’s arrest, I couldn’t sleep. When I wasn’t pacing the kitchen and opening the fridge every fifteen minutes, I was tossing and turning alone in bed.

My workdays were fueled by caffeine, and while my body stayed robotically busy, my mind was so distracted that I’d heard my staff say, “Earth to Clare!” more times than I could count.

Part of it was post-traumatic stress. Finding Joan Gibson’s bloody body would have given anyone nightmares. But the troubling sight of Ethan’s arrest also haunted me. I couldn’t stop seeing the childlike confusion on his face and hearing that pitiful little-boy cry—“I didn’t do anything! I don’t understand!”—as they hauled him away.

The police had more than enough evidence to charge Ethan with murder. I saw it with my own eyes. The trouble was—

I didn’t know if I believed it.

Yes, his inscribed lighter was found at the crime scene. Yes, there were bloodstains leading to his apartment and on his mallet. But when I closed my eyes and visualized Ethan lying on his couch, I saw a gray tracksuit with absolutely no blood on it. In fact, his clothes were spotless until they became stained with his paints during his struggle with the police.

As criminal behavior went, that didn’t make sense.

A murderer was either crazy enough to leave a Hansel and Gretel trail of blood right to his couch, or careful enough to shower and change into clean clothes. But then that careful killer wouldn’t get high, pass out, leave the murder weapon on the floor and the door ajar.

Yet, according to Detective Russell, who kept me abreast of the investigation, homicide detectives believed Ethan did all those things. They found no traces of blood in his bathroom or kitchen. None on his towels or soiled laundry. And nothing in his apartment garbage or the building’s dumpster.

Nevertheless, the police sent his towels and clothes to the crime lab hoping to find at least traces of Joan’s blood to prove their theory.

Results were still pending.

As for the autopsy, the cause of death was not blunt force trauma to the head but strangulation. While the blows to Joan’s head came from the bloody mallet found in Ethan’s apartment, those blows came post-mortem, which seemed odd to me.

Another question was motive. Why would Ethan want to kill Joan?

Yes, Joan Gibson was at war with his aunt over the approval of a business deal and publication of a true crime memoir (that I could only suppose revealed Addy to be guilty of some kind of criminal behavior), but would Ethan care enough about that to commit murder?

Was he trying to help his aunt? Or had he been high as a kite, assumed Joan broke into Mr. Scrib’s apartment, and attacked her as some kind of intruder? If he had, why would he strangle her first and then—after she was dead—beat her head bloody with his mallet?

And where was Mr. Scrib’s notebook?

The missing notebook was still missing.

The police hadn’t found it in Ethan’s apartment, Joan’s handbag, or in a third search of Jensen Van Dyne’s place. Detective Russell told me the investigators were hot to get it, too, since it would bolster their case of premeditated murder.

That very question of Ethan’s mental state—argued by his high-priced attorney—is what got him remanded to a drug rehab facility for treatment and a psych evaluation rather than a jail cell.

Despite the brutality of the crime, Ethan’s lawyer convinced the judge that the adjunct professor (former, since he was fired the day after his arrest) was no danger to the public, and that his drug addiction issues required humane treatment.

The plea was “not guilty” by reason of “settled insanity,” a legal term for a mind addled by long-standing drug use. Mike Quinn believed that defense was weak. In his calls to me from Miami, he voiced the opinion that the evidence against Ethan was strong enough for a conviction of premeditated murder.

If Ethan was guilty, I agreed he should be punished. But was he guilty?

These were the things that troubled me over the past two days and long, lonely nights. This evening, however, despite the fact that it was close to midnight, I was glad to be awake.

Earlier today, Mike texted me from Florida that he’d be catching a flight this evening and arriving in Manhattan around twelve am.

Should I come to you? he asked.

My reply was an all-caps ABSOLUTELY.

After that exchange, waiting was difficult. I distracted myself with roasting work in the basement and a dinner break upstairs—for me and my feisty felines.

Cooking always calmed my nerves, and I took pleasure in preparing my Sautéed Pork Chops with Caramelized Onions and a side of Pan-Roasted Baby Yukon Potatoes crisped golden in beef tallow. It was one of Mike’s favorite suppers, and I’d made extra in case he was hungry for a midnight meal.

As I sopped up the mouthwatering juices on my plate with a hunk of crusty bread, I shared a few small morsels with my purring roommates. Then I placed a catch-up call to my daughter in DC, gave Java and Frothy a loving brushing, and returned to the shop to help with closing. After my baristas said good night, I worked on staff schedules and inventory lists while waiting for Mike to arrive.

I’d set up a table for two by our flickering fireplace with a French press and a plate of Baileys Irish Cream and Caramel Nut Fudge saved from today’s pastry case. Then I settled in, doing my best to focus on my laptop screen (instead of that fudge). Before long, the shrill buzz of the night bell startled me.

I assumed it was Mike and hurried through the pantry to the back door. Eagerly, I turned the locks and unhooked the security chain. When I threw open the steel door, I saw a man waiting for me under the stark glare of our repaired LED light, but that man was not my fiancé.

It was Ethan Humphrey.

“Good evening, Clare.”

For a moment, I stood stiller than stone, as if Ethan were Medusa and I’d been caught in his mythic spell. Then I moved to slam the door in his face.

“No! Wait! Listen to me. I’m here to tell you the truth—”

His pleading words made me pause, but only for another second. I was a witness against an accused murderer who was now confronting me in an alley at midnight. The most likely reason banged through my brain—

He’s here to kill me!

I swung the heavy door. Ethan lunged forward to hold it open, and I screamed. That’s when a deep voice shouted from the darkness.

“Police! Freeze or I’ll blow your head off!”

Mike was finally home.