WHEN THE CHECK CAME, Bobby Frye examined it and quickly called back the waiter. "Clint," the electronics magnate scolded. "You put my guest’s Diet Sprite on the bill, but you never delivered it."
"Oh, sorry, man. It's been a zoo here today. Sorry, lady." He hustled off to correct the total.
I noticed that Frye left an exceedingly large tip, so it must have been that never-pay-for-nothing principle, a concept that did little toward eliminating the franchise owner from my list of suspects.
We parted at the office's parking lot, shaking hands like two people who would never do it again. I would write him a lovely thank-you note, which his assistant might or might not bother to show him, and that would most likely be that.
LATER IN THE AFTERNOON Michelle sat on the floor of what would be the nursery, back against the wall, legs splayed like a play-weary doll. She looked fragile and worried again, her eyes darting every which way, her hands plucking at her favorite denim jumper.
For a distraction I’d talked her into putting the crib together, and for a while she was into it—reading me the instructions and playing around with baby names. Now the instructions were on the floor, and her head was in a gray cloud. When I glanced up from screwing part C into part D, she said, "I'd like to pay a condolence call on Elise Duffy."
"Okay," I agreed with a bit of trepidation.
"Would you mind getting the phone–please?" Michelle begged. "I can't move."
I brought her the cordless one from her bedroom and tinkered with a crossbar while she spoke to the murder victim's widow.
"That's strange," she said after she hung up.
"What?"
"She says she's leaving tomorrow afternoon, but I could stop over in the morning if I really wanted to."
"And you said..."
"You heard me. I said I really wanted to."
"Because she was acting strange?"
"Yes. You don't think...?"
"That's the trouble with situations like this," I reminded my cousin. "Everybody seems guilty."
Michelle’s eyes widened in panic and I knew she was thinking of Doug.
"Some more than others," I quickly amended.
The door chimes rang. When I rose to go see who was there, Michelle sighed with gratitude.
Two gentlemen waited politely on the stoop. One wore an obsequious manner with his baggy black pseudo London Fog, the other the air of an apprentice.
"We're from the Norfolk police, ma'am. Are you by any chance Mrs. Turner?"
"May I see some identification, please?"
"Certainly."
Shields in nice black leather wallets were produced for my inspection.
"Is it really necessary to speak with Mrs. Turner?" I pressed. "She was just released from the hospital yesterday."
"I'm afraid so," Fake-London-Fog lamented. "We promise not to keep her long." His real name was Lt. Glenn.
His sidekick, Detective Markowitz, earned my sympathy. My nutmeg red hair came with dark brown eyes and skin that would suntan if I was careful. Since he had the transparent freckled skin of a carrot-colored redhead, hats and sunscreen were surely his daily companions.
Glenn's freckles were confined to the top of his head, above a skirt of black hair that tickled his ears and collar. Naturally, he completed the circle of fringe with a moustache–they always do. Glenn's made him look as if Kilroy was here.
We maintained a silent standoff for a moment; but since I was bound to lose, I capitulated and went to fetch Michelle.
Introductions made, the four of us settled into the Turner's sparse living room. The dining chair I brought in for myself made me look and feel like Michelle's guardian, which seemed about right. Already I feared another emergency trip to the hospital.
To speak to her, Glenn had to swivel toward her on the sofa. "Detective Markowitz and I are conducting the investigation regarding the death of Timothy Duffy, Mrs. Turner," he began.
Without glancing up, Michelle asked, "What has that got to do with me?"
"You knew the Duffys, I presume."
"Yes."
I spoke directly to my cousin. "You know you don't have to talk about this if you don't want to."
Michelle looked into my face. "The sooner I answer their questions, the sooner they’ll leave."
"That's right." Glenn’s eyes glittered as he glanced between the two of us.
Since his interest had been piqued, I explained about the premature labor earlier in the week. "I'm sure you wouldn't want that to happen again."
"Of course not," he said, but I could see that the timing hadn’t been lost on him. His left eyebrow twisted into a quizzical curve. Had my efforts to protect Michelle only made matters worse?
"Your husband and Mr. Duffy were rivals of sorts, were they not?"
I glared my disapproval but held my tongue.
"Before my time," Michelle replied.
"I was referring to the present." Glenn returned my glare.
Michelle slowly met his eye. "What's your point, Lieutenant?"
"Your husband said you were together at the time of Mr. Duffy's death."
"We were." Her back stiffened as her fingers plucked at the fabric covering her lap.
"Really, Lieutenant. Aren't you being a little rude? What exactly do you want from Mrs. Turner?"
Glenn's ruthlessness, which would have endangered most cases, scared me witless. It meant that Doug was a favorite suspect and Glenn was after anything he could get. Since Michelle could not be compelled to testify against her husband, I also surmised that Glenn was desperate, driven to take risks by the tremendous pressure augmented by the entire media industry each and every day.
Michelle eyes darted like a woman with only minutes to live.
"I'm sorry," Glenn apologized insincerely. "But I had to ask."
"No, you didn't," I challenged. The Kilroy eyes wished me in hell or perhaps somewhere less pleasant.
He took a breath and started over. "Tell me about your family, Mrs. Turner. Do you have any brothers or sisters?"
Michelle imitated Glenn's go-to-hell look, while Doug let himself in the front door with his key.
Get out," he commanded the intruders. "Get out of my house."
"We have every right to be here," Glenn remarked mildly.
"Not if you're frightening my wife, you don't."
Glenn and his partner stood. "This doesn't look good, you know. Not at all."
"Get out," Doug repeated, and this time they went.
I watched through the window until they were gone. The homicide lieutenant drove a long, dark green Buick with a black top, ugly and drab as the man himself.
Still in the living room when it was gone, Michelle stood crying into Doug's shoulder while he stroked her back and stared.
I left them alone as long as I could, until dinner, when we all made a transparent effort to be cheerful. We even laughed a little, but it didn't last. Faces fell, sentences trailed off.
The damage had been done, and we were all of us helpless to erase it.