Chapter 6

“Sarah? Sarah? You look a little green, dear,” Olivia Honeycut said.

“Yes, Sarah, she’s right, you don’t look good. Did you eat breakfast today?” Frances Noonan asked.

“It’s the picture, you ninnies,” said Enid Carmichael. “Sarah, do you know them? The killer? Do you know the killer?”

Sarah could hear the excitement in her voice. Mrs. Carmichael loved other people’s troubles, other people’s business, other people’s misery.

“Oh, dear.” Alma Gordon pulled Baby Owen in close. “Do you know them, Sarah?”

Sarah’s mouth was dry. She licked her lips. “Did you say her name was Andrea?”

“Yep,” said Mrs. Carmichael, “Andrea Blackwell.”

“I know them,” said Sarah.

It had been less than a month, and Sarah remembered every detail. She especially remembered the little boy’s smell and the man’s pleading voice, “Andrea, I love you.”

Sarah told them about her weekend at the resort. She tried to leave out the nastiness but found she didn’t have much to say about the couple that wasn’t unpleasant. Could a marriage get so ugly that a man would resort to murder?

The next day’s paper had more details. Andrea Blackwell worked for an investment firm and had a large insurance policy, one million dollars, payable to her husband. He was in custody and the child had been turned over to his grandmother, who had watched him regularly while his parents worked. The man’s coworkers in the hospital’s radiology records room expressed disbelief that he could have committed the crime.

Sarah, too, struggled to believe it. She had only met him briefly, but he made an impression. The man had worked in the radiology department at her very own hospital. She had never seen him. She headed down there, into the bowels of the building, drawn by some urge she could not explain. The room was enormous, with multiple workstations with large computer screens and paper folders with colored tabs stacked high. From the counter barrier, Sarah craned her neck to try to see more.

Despite being in the basement, the room was well-lit, tidy, and surprisingly cheerful. A radio played a soft tune in the background. A young woman came to help her, and Sarah made up some excuse about an outside film and gave a pretend patient’s name. The woman could not, of course, find the image. She was helpful and apologetic and did not give any indication that one of her fellow workers had been arrested for murder. Sarah couldn’t bring herself to ask any questions. It was an unsatisfactory experience, but what had she expected?

She knew what she expected. She expected something to show there had been a mistake. The man she met could not be a murderer.

She remembered how quick he was to hold his wife steady when she fell. Could someone so loving and protective go on to kill her?

At home that night, she stood in the lobby and scanned the newspaper on the table, searching for more about the killing. The elevator door opened, and Frances Noonan stepped out, her cat, Camouflage, tucked under one arm.

“Are you reading about that man again?” she asked.

Sarah nodded. She picked up the paper and read aloud. “‘Preliminary autopsy results show Andrea Blackwell died from multiple stab wounds to the upper body inflicted by a pair of scissors. The scissors were recovered at the scene and fingerprint data matches those of her husband, Paul Blackwell, who is currently in custody for the crime. Authorities say he has remained silent since his arrest. The couple’s young child remains with his grandmother, Julia Bentley Blackwell.’”

“Julia Bentley?” Frances Noonan stepped closer.

“Julia Bentley Blackwell.”

“I know a Julia Bentley.” Mrs. Noonan knelt to put the cat down and he settled at their feet, sprawled across Mrs. Noonan’s sturdy shoes. “If she’s the daughter of Fred and Grace Bentley. Bill worked under Fred Bentley when he first started at the police department.”

Mrs. Noonan had been married to a police officer. Sarah had heard her tell many stories about him. He died not in the line of duty but after retirement, hit by a car while crossing Lombard Street on his daily walk down to the waterfront.

“Fred Bentley was a man of great integrity and courage. He stood up to the brass and put an end to a nasty cover-up in North Beach, put his job on the line because his immediate boss was involved in the scandal. Bill admired him tremendously. Fred showed all the young cops that good wins out.”

“Does your Julia Bentley still live in San Francisco?” Sarah asked.

“Oh, heavens, I don’t know. Fred retired long before Bill. I lost track of their family. I did work with Grace once on a raffle through the SFPD Wives’ Guild. That was years ago. Thirty years ago, perhaps even forty. My, time flies. She was lovely, a beautiful woman and every bit as honest as her husband. There was a discrepancy in the raffle monies, and she wouldn’t let it rest until she made sure every cent was accounted for. Turned out, it was my own arithmetic error which caused the turmoil. Oh, I was embarrassed. But she was very gracious, said she just wanted to be sure the fund got all the money coming to it.”

“And their daughter’s name was Julia?” Sarah said.

“Yes, Julia. She and I spent a summer volunteering with the juvenile offenders. If this is their daughter, then she is as proper and upstanding as her parents. She must be beside herself.”

“Because her son’s been accused of murder?” Sarah asked.

“Or because he is a murderer.” Mrs. Noonan lowered her voice, though no one else was present.

“What? I met him, I saw how he was with his boy, how much he loved his wife. He couldn’t be a murderer!”

“Murderers might not be murderers until something sets them off. Crimes of passion.”

Sarah’s stomach tightened, remembering the man’s pleading voice.

“I don’t want Enid to think I agree with her,” Mrs. Noonan continued, “and I know you met the man and I defer to your judgment, but my husband always said that if there is a domestic crime, the spouse did it.”

“Oh, Mrs. Noonan, how can you say that? What a stereotype!”

“I know, I know, that’s exactly what I’d say to Bill. But time after time it turned out to be true. If you were placing odds, you’d put your money on the spouse.”

“Wagering is a sin.”

Sarah jumped. Harriet Flynn and Olivia Honeycut stood just inside the lobby.

“Mrs. Flynn! You startled me! How long have you been there?” Sarah said.

“Long enough to know you’re talking about that murderer again. Of course the husband did it. One million dollars. Money is the root of all evil.”

The elevator door opened, and Enid Carmichael dashed out, pulled by her Bichon Frise, Snowball. The dog was tiny but strong, and Mrs. Carmichael flew across the lobby like a kite behind the leash.

The small dog saw the cat tucked under the table and u-turned toward him. Mrs. Carmichael came to a halt within inches of Mrs. Noonan, who swept Camouflage into her arms.

The scene was so typical that no one commented. Only Sarah seemed flustered by these near misses. Her heart pounded, but Mrs. Noonan exuded calm, as always, standing still and petting the cat under the chin.

Enid Carmichael nodded to the others, then her eyes lighted on the story in the paper.

“Any news on your killer?” Mrs. Carmichael asked.

“Innocent until proven guilty.” Frances Noonan winked at Sarah.

“Lambs are innocent. This man is not,” said Harriet Flynn. “It’s the breakup of the family, no family values, no respect. What’s society coming to?”

Sarah couldn’t stand it any longer, this flippant chitchat about another man’s life. She blurted out, “Mrs. Noonan knows his family! They’re good people! With values!”

The women turned to Mrs. Noonan, and Sarah was relieved to see her thoughtful expression as she stroked Camouflage’s fur. Finally, she addressed them. “Ladies, Sarah’s right. I know this man’s mother and his grandparents. They are as honorable as they come. There may be more to this than money and passion—”

“And a dead-end job and a wife with a rising career,” said Mrs. Carmichael.

“Jealousy. A sin,” said Mrs. Flynn.

“And the loss of manhood manifest by his wife’s lack of respect and his unusual choice of exercise,” said Mrs. Honeycut.

“Vanity. A sin,” said Mrs. Flynn.

“Ladies, ladies, please,” said Mrs. Noonan. “This is not just some man we’re reading about in the newspaper. Sarah met him. She got a feeling about him. I know his family. I think we should offer our support. If nothing else, we can be a comfort to his mother. But there may be more to this killing than a desperate husband.”

“Oh, I hope so,” said Mrs. Carmichael gleefully. “When do we get to meet the killer?”