“You sound cynical.”
“I’m not. They just don’t really have a clue yet.”
“Like we did?”
“No. We didn’t either.”
“I thought we did.” She scratched at the table with a fingernail. “I thought we had it all.”
“Maybe you did. I didn’t.”
“I think you did, even then. You were always so good with who you were, so together.”
He snorted. “Together. There’s a word you don’t hear a lot of anymore. If I was so together, how did I fall so completely apart?”
“How about your parents being in a plane crash? You think that could have been a life-changing event?”
“I guess it was.”
“You guess?”
Hardy shrugged. “Well,” he said quietly, “whatever it was. In any case, I’m sorry. I was a shit to you.”
“You weren’t really. You just dumped me, that’s all.”
But it was the only way Hardy had been able to do it. He had had the excuse of his parents’ death so that he could keep at bay his own guilt over wanting to end it with Catherine. He was sorting out his life and had no time for a relationship, especially such a demanding one as theirs. The truth was that he had simply grown tired of the dramatics, the narcissism, the omissions. (“I never said I wouldn’t see anybody else when you went to college.”) But he also knew that if he allowed himself to get back into her presence, the physical connect might make him weaken. So without a word he’d just dropped out of her life. In retrospect he knew that she was what he’d had to abandon to get to where he’d come now, to where he needed to go.
But now, a salve to his conscience, he said, “After three years, a decent person maybe shouldn’t just disappear without some explanation.”
“Sometimes maybe the decent person needs to. Maybe he needs something else.”
“Still.”
She reached across the table and briefly touched his hand. “Okay,” her voice was gentle, “you were a shit. But you’re here now because I called and said I needed you. So let’s call it even.”
Hardy nodded. “Even it is.” He put his mug down and reached into his briefcase for a yellow legal pad and a couple of pens. “Now, at the risk of ruining our new and hard-won equilibrium, I’ve got to ask you a few more questions.”
She backed her chair away from the table and crossed her legs, holding her mug in her lap. She wore shorts that flattered her legs and a salmon-colored, sleeveless pullover. “Does this mean you’re my lawyer?”
“Not yet,” he said. “Maybe not ever, if they never charge you. But either way, I’m going to clear it with my wife first. It’s one of our rules. Murder cases can be hell on family time.”
Catherine sat back and crossed her arms. “You’ve really changed, haven’t you?”
“Most of us do, Catherine.”
“I don’t know how much I have.”
“I’ll bet more than you think. You’ve got a family, and after kids the whole world is different.”
“With the kids, yes.” Hardy noted the omission of Will and wondered exactly what it meant in this context, but this wasn’t going to be the time to pursue it. “But assuming that your wife . . .”
“Frannie.”
“Okay, assuming Frannie agrees, and if I become a suspect . . .”
Hardy shook his head. “Too many ifs, Catherine. Let’s get specific. Why did you go and visit your father-in-law that day?”
“I told you. I was worried about the college money for the kids.”
“I’m sure you were, but why that particular day? Had something changed? Did Paul and Missy move up their wedding day or anything like that?”
She twirled the mug before looking up at him. “Maybe it had just been building up and suddenly I needed to know for sure. And . . .”
“And you’re trying out how that answer sounds on me?”
The tone—unexpectedly sharp—stopped her. She shot a glance at him and took in a quick breath. “No. No, I’m not doing that.”
“So there was no reason? Nothing different that day from any other?”
“Like what?”
Hardy lowered his voice. “Well, for example, your husband was out of town.”
“He was fishing down south.”
“That’s what you said on the phone earlier. So maybe you had a little more time to yourself to think about all these money issues?”
“Right.”
“And you suddenly needed to know Paul’s plans?”
“Right.” She thrust out her chin. “You don’t believe me?”
“I’m just asking you questions and listening to how you answer them, Catherine. How are you and your husband doing?”
“Fine.” The defensiveness unmistakable now. “We’re fine.”
“No problems?”
A pause, then. “Everybody has problems, Dismas. Nobody’s perfect.”
“I didn’t say anybody was. I asked about you and Will.”
Her eyes went to the doorway, then looked Hardy full in the face. “We’re not great.”
He leaned in toward her, his voice barely audible.
“Catherine, nobody’s indicted you yet. Maybe they never will. And maybe you’re completely, factually innocent . . .”
“I am. I didn’t do any . . .”
He raised a palm. “But if they do arrest you, if you wind up going on trial for these murders, you won’t have any secrets. Everything comes out. And getting surprised in the courtroom is the worst bad luck you can imagine.”
He drank coffee. When he spoke again, his tone was more conversational. “But as I say, there’s no indictment yet. We’re just covering some possible contingencies here tonight. So we’ll leave you and Will for the moment. Let’s talk about Paul Hanover. Did you know he owned a gun?”
“Sure. We all knew that.”
“And where he kept it?”
“In the headboard of his bed.”
“Loaded?”
“Yes. He mentioned it more than a few times over the years. He got a kick out of riling up his daughters, who think weapons are dangerous.”
“They’re right,” Hardy said. “But you did know where Paul kept his gun? And people knew it and would testify to it?”
“It wasn’t a family secret.”
“So, family members?”
“Yes.”
“And you think they’d testify against you, if it came to that?”
This obviously brought her up short. She took in the familiar kitchen surroundings as if suddenly seeing them in a different light for the first time. “Well, no. I mean, Mary wouldn’t. We’re fairly close. I can’t imagine Beth or even Theresa . . .”
“Beth and Theresa?”
“Will’s older sister and my mother-in-law. Not my favorite people and probably vice versa, but I mean, there’s nothing inherently negative about knowing where Paul kept his gun, is there? They knew where it was, too.”
Hardy looked up from his note taking. “Yes, but they weren’t at his house a few hours before he was shot. Were they?”
“No. No, they weren’t. I mean, I don’t know that for sure, but . . .”
He waved it away. “Don’t worry about that. If they don’t have alibis, the police will know soon enough. But was there somebody else?”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. You said Mary wouldn’t testify against you. I got the feeling you were going to say Beth or Theresa might.”
“I didn’t say that!”
“No, I know you didn’t.”
“I wasn’t going to say it!”
“All right.”
He waited while she worked through her emotions. “This is not about the family,” she said at last. “It’s about Cuneo.”
“Well, no,” Hardy said, “it’s about everything.” He came forward and spoke quietly but with some urgency. “You might not want to talk about it now, but everybody else in your family has the same motive that you do, and if someon
e among them doesn’t like you and you get charged, they might find themselves in an unusually good position to do you damage and at the same time protect themselves. If this is about Paul’s money, which seems likely, then it’s about their money, too. Okay?”
“Okay. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t need to be sorry. You’re allowed to feel defensive about your family. If you didn’t, in fact”—he broke a small smile—“I might think something was fishy about that.”
The jab of lightness broke some of her tension. “So I can’t win no matter what?”
“Essentially right. But all I’m after now is basic, general information.” He sat back. “I believe we were on Theresa.”
Something went out of Catherine’s shoulders. Hardy stole a glance at his watch—quarter to ten—and realized he should wrap this up pretty soon. If the investigation truly came to settle on her, and if he took it on, they’d have all the time in the world. But her relationship with her mother-in-law was already on the table and he wanted to hear what else she had to say about it.
“She doesn’t approve of me and never has.”
“Why not?”
“I wish I knew. God knows, I’ve tried to be a good wife and mother and even daughter-in-law, but she’s . . . well, she’s a very difficult woman. She’s got this one rock-solid vision of how all women should be, and I’m not it.”
“And what’s that vision?”
“Well, first, they should work. She works. Beth and Mary both work.” Catherine stopped and shook her head. “But that’s not really it because when Will and I were first together, I did work, and if anything she was more negative about me then than she is now, which is kind of hard to imagine.” She sighed again. “I just wasn’t good enough for her baby.”
“That would be Will?”
She nodded. “The golden boy. He should have married someone with more . . . I don’t know what . . . ambition. Who maybe would have pushed him harder to get to his true potential. I just weighed him down with a family and stayed at home instead of bringing in an income, so he constantly had to struggle just to make ends meet. Which is why he’s never . . . he’s never been as successful as his father.”
“And that’s your fault?”
“Absolutely. How could it not be? How can you even ask? It couldn’t be Will, so that left me, right?” Catherine suddenly looked over at the kitchen door, got up and swung it shut, then sat back down. The color had come up again in her cheeks.
“But the real fun didn’t start until we had the children. I, of course, was a terrible mother. I spoiled them; then I was too hard on them. I let them get away with murder, then wouldn’t let them have any fun. I fed them the wrong food and made them wear awful clothes. I was ruining the girls because I didn’t give them the example of a strong working woman, and ruining Saul because I was too soft on him. Except when I was too hard on him and squished his sensitive soul.” She brushed her hair back from her forehead, drew a breath. “Well, we’re getting into it now, aren’t we?”
“It’s all right.”
“I know. I know.” She paused. “Anyway, finally it got bad enough—Saul was about five at the time—that I told Theresa she couldn’t come by anymore. She was relentless, poisoning the kids against me. I got Will to agree. So you know what she did then?”
“What?”
“Filed a petition for grandparents’ visitation rights. Against us! By this time, she and Paul were divorced and she had nothing else in her life except her job and her grandkids. She just went off the deep end. Lord, what a time.”
“So what happened?”
“So finally Paul got involved and made us all sit around and talk it out. Theresa really didn’t want to break the family up, did she? And we didn’t want the kids not to know their only grandma. Bottom line, she could come and visit whenever she wanted within reason, as long as she agreed not to criticize me anymore, especially in front of the kids.”
“And how did that work out?”
“Surprisingly, pretty well. Although I still think she considers all eight grandchildren ultimately her responsibility because none of the families have done as well as Paul did. She’s always double-checking us on how much we’ve saved for their colleges and the down payments on their starter homes. Down payments! I love that.” A last sigh, and she offered an apologetic shrug. “Anyway, that’s Theresa.”
“Sounds charming.” Hardy again consulted his watch, came back to her. “Do you feel like stopping? We’ve covered a lot. How are you holding up?”
A sudden warm expression transformed her face. “You know,” she said, “I’m really okay.” She paused. “Do you find it a little bit surreal that we’re sitting here doing this?”
He smiled at her. “To be honest, yes.”
“Okay. So it’s not just me. Maybe you really haven’t changed all that much after all.”
“Except in every fiber of my being.”
“Well, that, of course. The life thing.”
“The life thing,” he repeated, and a short silence settled between them.
She reached over and squeezed his hand. “I’m so glad I called you.”
He nodded, blew out some air, tapped his pen against the legal pad. “So. Let’s talk about after you left Paul’s that night.”
“All right,” Catherine said, “what about it?”
“Everything,” Hardy said, “beginning with what time it was.”
She sat back, an elbow on the table. “A little after four, I’d say, four thirty.”
“And what did you do then? After you left?”
She met his eyes, then looked quickly away and swallowed. She paused another moment. “I drove home, Dismas. Here. Straight here.”
Hardy suddenly flashed on a time that she’d gone out with another guy. She’d looked him right in the eye and even swallowed the same as she did now as she denied it—and then she broke down in an admission, begging his forgiveness.
He almost expected her to have the same reaction now as he waited for her to retract the obvious lie. But she kept her composure this time, meeting his gaze. He made a mental note to return to this point—where had she gone after leaving Hanover’s?—and pressed on. “Were your kids here when you got home?” He gave her a somewhat sheepish smile. “I’m really hoping you’re going to say yes right about now.”
“I wish I could, but they weren’t.”
Hardy hated that answer and must have shown it, because she hastened to explain. “I could show you in my calendar. It’s really nothing sinister. Wednesdays they’ve all got something at school until five or six. Saul’s got band. Polly’s in the school play and Heather has yearbook. She’s the editor. And since we all knew Will would be gone that night, I told them I could use a night off from cooking and to catch up on my bills. So I said why didn’t they all rendezvous at school and go out for a pizza.”
“Which they did?”
“Right. I assume so. I didn’t ask.”
Hardy took in a breath. “So you were home alone, paying bills and watching television until you saw the fire on TV?”
“That’s right.” She came forward. “I wasn’t there, Dismas, at Paul’s. I really was right here. All night before I went out.”
“Okay, then,” he said. “Although it would be a plus if we had any way to prove it. Did you call anybody? Go out to borrow some sugar?”
She brightened for a beat. “I called Mary, my sister-in-law. I wanted to tell her what Paul had said.”
“That’s good. And when was that?”
“As soon as I got home. I had to tell somebody.”
“Okay, what about later?”
“Like when?”
“Five, six, seven?”
She shook her head. “I was just here, puttering around, having something to eat. One of the neighbors might have seen me pull in, or the car in the driveway.”
“That would be helpful,” Hardy said, “but let’s not hold our breath.” He thought for a beat. “So you do
n’t really have an alibi.”
“I was watching television. I’ve got the dish. Maybe there’s some way they can verify that I was using it.”
Hardy made a note, decided to leave the topic for one that was potentially even more explosive. “Okay, Catherine. This one you’re really not going to like. Did you come on in any way to Inspector Cuneo?”
Her jaw clamped down tight. “No, I did not.”
“Because he’s going to say you did.”
“Yes, I suppose he will.”
“And you did nothing that he might have construed as some kind of sexual advance?”
“Dismas, please.”
He held up his hands. “I’ve got to ask. It wouldn’t be very much fun if he had something that he dropped at trial.”
“Let’s not say ‘trial’ yet, all right?” She shook her head. “But no. There was nothing.”
“Because from what I’m hearing tonight, he can’t have much of a case. Unless he finds something like gasoline or gunshot residue on your clothes, which isn’t going to happen, is it?”
“No.”
“Okay, then. So what’s probably happening is exactly what you said. That he heard about your accusation of sexual harassment . . .”
“But I didn’t file anything! I didn’t do anything with it.”
“Yes, you did. You told his boss. Cuneo looks like a horse’s ass and maybe worse. So now he serves the search warrant on you as a pure hassle, telling you that in spite of you going over his head, he hasn’t been pulled from the case, he’s still got his mojo working and you’d better not say anything else against him.”
She considered that for a long moment. “Well, in a way it’s almost good news, I suppose,” she said. “It means they don’t really think I killed Paul. They’re just mad at me.”
“That may be true,” Hardy said. “But don’t underestimate how unpleasant cops can make your life if they’re mad at you.”
“Well, I’m not going to talk about the harassment anymore. He’ll see he made his point and just leave me alone.”
“Let’s hope,” Hardy said. “Let’s hope.”
13
At a little after nine the next morning, the extended Glitsky family was sitting in bright sunshine at one of the six outdoor tables on the sidewalk in front of Leo’s Beans & Leaves, a thirty-year-old family-run tea and coffee shop/delicatessen at the highest point of Fillmore Street, just before it fell precipitously down to the Marina. Abe and Treya were splitting a smoked salmon quiche, drinking tea, while Rachel was happily consumed with negotiating a toasted bagel and some slices of lox from the knee of her grandfather Nat.
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