The Widower's Wife

by Cate Holahan

  “Mommy just needs to run a quick errand,” I explained. “It’s a surprise for daddy, though, so we can’t tell him.” Her eyes lit up, excited to be included in a secret—especially one that she believed would make her father happy.

  I disliked lying, and I hated myself for involving my daughter in my alibi. But the shoe excuse had been the easiest way to duck out without Tom asking questions. He knew that Sophia needed sneakers. Her toe had made an impression on the roof of her old Stride Rites from bending to fit inside the shoe.

  The duffle was squeezed between us, helping silence the clang of bottles brushing against one another. We stepped into a foyer with a little table, where patrons must taste wines. I hovered around it, looking for the owner.

  Legs culminating in a push up bra and copper dye job appeared from within a hallway of Napa Valley reds. “Looking for anything in particular today?” The saleswoman gargled her r sounds as though her first language was French. She flashed a large, fake smile at my daughter before frowning at the duffle.

  “Actually, yes. I’m looking for the owner. Vincent.”

  Her smile softened at her boss’s name. She could peg me now: wife of a key client seeking to impress her husband with something special, maybe for an anniversary or birthday, stopping by on the way back from her daughter’s kiddie soccer practice or, maybe, the gym. The bag and the need to bring my child into a fancy liquor store no longer sounded the alarm.

  “Of course. I’ll get him. What is your name?”

  “Ana Bacon.”

  “Bacon.” Her eyes narrowed, though her smile spread to each ear. “As in bringing home the. Got it.”

  I recognized the joke as something Tom would say, or had said. He’d always liked that his surname was synonymous with a slang term for money. He brought home the bacon. I could imagine him, glass of wine in hand, casually flirting with this woman. Yup, I bring home the bacon.

  Maybe she explained why he went so often to the wine store. Jealousy tightened my chest as I followed her to a back room. Sophia’s grip closed around my hand. She sensed my emotion again.

  I knelt beside her, bottles jangling as I shifted position. “Hey, Mommy just has to give this man a few things and then we will leave, okay? Want to look for animals on the bottles with me?”

  She brightened and swung my arm. We walked between ash-gray wooden racks filled with wine. I spotted a fat mallard on Duckhorn Cabernet. I recognized the bottle as one that had often graced the table during dinner. The eighty-dollar red stood just above Sophia’s head, not even near the top shelf. “There’s a duck.”

  She followed my pointed finger to the bottle. “It looks like Make Way for Ducklings.”

  The salesclerk returned with a man who barely met her chin line. He wore a gray suit open to reveal a blue shirt. His Roman nose combined with his black hair, long and gelled into small spikes, served as an ethnic calling card. The Italian smiled upon seeing me, just enough for his top lip to rise above his front teeth.

  “You must be Tom’s wife.” He extended his hand as he approached. The redhead stood at his side, a doting wife, or mistress.

  I shook. His grip was firm. He maintained eye contact. “I haven’t seen Tommy in a while. How is he doing?”

  Tommy? My husband never went by anything so casual. He would have hated the familiarity.

  “Fine. Thanks for asking. Could we chat a moment?” I glanced at the young woman. “In private?”

  His open smile sank into the closed-mouth version. The girl’s toothy grin became even more strained than before.

  “Maybe in your office?” I suggested. “I’d hoped you would be interested in purchasing some of Tom’s wine collection.”

  Whatever remained of Vincent’s smile faded. “Well, it would depend on what you are selling and whether we already have it in stock, but I’m willing to give a listen.”

  I held Sophia’s hand as we followed him into the back room. He chatted while we walked. “So Tom is getting out of collecting? That’s unfortunate. He was always so passionate.”

  I scanned price tags as we walked: $80, $95, $100, $150, $200, $220. Either the selection here was extraordinary or this guy marked up bottles like a nightclub.

  “I’ve truly missed him coming into the store. He really possessed a sophisticated palate.” Vincent didn’t need any response from me to keep filling the space between us with hot air. “Not many folks can recognize the difference between a fruit bomb and a wine with layers of flavors: raspberry, oak, blackberry, vanilla. You know, all the different notes. Like a symphony. Tom really had an ear for wine.”

  I didn’t think Tom’s palate achieved the sophistication that Vincent applauded, but I had no doubt that my husband knew expensive. I nodded along. All Vincent’s praise had probably helped turn Tom into a wine connoisseur—that and the leggy salesclerk. I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing the thoughts from my mind.

  Vincent opened the door to a small back room, just big enough for a stainless steel desk, three chairs, and several bookcases stocked with wine. The room smelled like oak barrels, though I couldn’t see any.

  Vincent settled into a tufted leather chair behind the desk. I put Sophia in a smaller club chair facing his seat and then placed the duffle bag on the table. I withdrew the two most expensive bottles first. With luck, their value would negotiate for me.

  “I understand 1990 was a good year for Gaja. It sells for nearly four hundred dollars online. And I saw the Pingus for well over six hundred.”

  The warmth wafting from Vincent dissipated. He grabbed the neck of the Pingus, tilted the bottle upside down, and rotated it, looking for something in the liquid. He examined the cap.

  “The online price includes a significant retail markup.” He continued to examine the wine as he spoke. I figured he was checking for color and clarity, though I didn’t see how he could discern either through the near-black bottle. “When I buy wine like this, direct from the vineyards, I get dealer discounts that make it much less expensive. Plus, there’s the question of how well it’s been stored and cared for.”

  Sophia scanned the wine shelves. She was looking for animals. Thank goodness that game amused her.

  I sat on the edge of my chair. Too eager. I forced myself to lean back into the fabric as I tried to convince my mind to adopt the same laid-back demeanor.

  “Well, you know Tom.” I faked a giggle. “He babied his wine and he certainly took care of these bottles. We have a temperature-controlled wine cellar, custom built by a design firm that did many of the boutique shops in Manhattan. And, of course, the house has a generator, so it never lost power.”

  Vincent’s tongue dragged across his top lip. “I could give you three hundred dollars for the Pingus.” He put the bottle in front of me and checked out the other one. “Maybe two hundred dollars for the Gaja. Say five hundred dollars for both.”

  Half the value. Tom would be furious. “I could do better on eBay.”

  Vincent shrugged. “You could try. But I doubt it. People would be too worried that they weren’t the real deal without inspecting the bottles. You’d be surprised the things people do: take out the corks, fill the bottle with cheap swill, recork it, and try to sell it as the real McCoy.”

  “These are authentic.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” He placed both elbows on the desk. A half smile cracked across his stony face. “You get a read on people in this business. Whom to buy from. Whom to sell to. Who’s a repeat customer looking to build a relationship with the store and who is just running in for a quick bottle of anything to bring to a party. You have your kid here. Tom hasn’t been in for an age. You strike me as an honest woman trying to sell off her husband’s collection for some extra cash.”

  He grinned, the satisfied expression of a swindler psychic sure he’d convinced his target of his extraordinary abilities. He wasn’t that good. I was just that obvious.

  “Unfortunately for you, people won’t get any read online.” He folded his arms across his chest.
“And wine buyers don’t trust anyone they can’t look in the eye nowadays.”

  Five hundred beat nothing, but my parents needed a thousand. If he only gave me half the worth of the best bottles, what could I expect for the six midpriced vintages in the bag? It wouldn’t be enough. Could I try another wine store? Would the salesman there take me for a con artist?

  Vincent removed the other bottles from the bag. He frowned at the labels, forced to look at inferior swill that he’d undoubtedly sold to my husband at more than one hundred dollars a pop. “These are mostly California Cabs. Some decent bottles, sure, but nothing that commands a high price. I get the—”

  “Mommy.” Sophia tugged my shirt.

  “Yes, honey?” I answered her without thinking. A Pavlovian mom. Paying attention to my daughter was a reflex.

  A flustered sigh escaped Vincent’s lips. Good. He’d enjoyed his monologue too much. Sophia pointed to a high shelf on the bookcase behind Vincent’s desk. It only contained one bottle in a glass case. A white equine was etched into the dark glass. “It’s a horse,” she whispered.

  Vincent grinned. “Not just any horse. A ghost horse. Those bottles are very rare. That one is worth more than fifteen hundred dollars.”

  The silver stallion in Tom’s cellar. “We have a bottle of that.”

  Vincent’s body language changed. The cocky trader left. “I didn’t sell Tom that.”

  I settled back into the chair. Time to play my part: Rich housewife helping “rid” her husband of a hobby. “Tom belonged to several wine clubs. What would you pay for a bottle?”

  “It depends on the vintage.”

  “Assume it’s good.”

  “I’d really have to see it.”

  I collected the Pingus from the far side of the desk and returned it to the duffle. “Okay, then. Thank you for your time.”

  “I would be interested in the Ghost Horse.”

  “I understand that one is valuable. Unfortunately, it’s not easy to come to liquor stores with my daughter.” I slipped the bag’s shoulder strap over my arm. “I believe Christie’s auction house would send someone to survey the conditions in our cellar. And they might be willing to buy the larger collection, as well.”

  He held up his hand. Calling my bluff or biting? Please don’t call my bluff.

  “If the Ghost Horse is on the table, I could do, maybe, eight hundred dollars for this lot.”

  The silver stallion bottle was beyond my reach, literally and figuratively. But if I could get more than a thousand for the bottle, how could I not try?

  “Well?” Vincent licked his bottom lip. The man was salivating at the idea of having two of the famed bottles.

  “If we make a deal now for these bottles, I’m inclined to return with the Ghost Horse,” I said. “Though I’m sure I couldn’t part with it for less than a grand.”

  A checkbook landed on Vincent’s desk. “To whom should I make it out?”

  13

  November 24

  Ryan drove past the Bacons’ French-style McMaison with his headlights off, hoping to spy signs of life in the house before Tom could pretend that no one was at home. The gray day had darkened into evening, raising the risk of a driver clipping his unlit vehicle. Fortunately, the Bacons’ house was tucked in the middle of a quiet residential street, the kind of place that forgave bending the rules.

  A car sat in the driveway, blocking one of the home’s three garages. Ryan sucked in his breath and pressed the brake. Part of him had hoped Tom would be out. He wasn’t prepared to confront a grieving widower about his dead wife’s possible infidelity. But he needed to know Tom’s suspicions about Michael before confronting the guy about hiding the true reason for Ana’s departure.

  Lights shone through windows beside the front door. A male figure walked through the dining room, toward the kitchen. Ryan parked across the street and limped up the driveway. Tom must have seen his slow approach. He answered the front door before Ryan had a chance to ring the bell.

  The extra week of grieving had done little to mar Mr. Bacon’s groomed appearance. He was showered, shaved. And if Ryan’s chilled nose didn’t deceive him, Tom was wearing cologne.

  “Mr. Monahan, are you here with news?”

  “I have some more questions.”

  “Oh?”

  “Some concerning information has come to light.”

  Tom scratched his neck as if Ryan’s words irritated his skin. “I can’t imagine what.”

  Ryan steeled himself. There was little point easing into this one. “An affair.”

  A sarcastic smile cracked at the side of Tom’s mouth, as if he’d known this conversation was coming. He shook his head. “Well, come on in, I guess.”

  Tom led the way through the foyer past a grand spiral staircase leading to the second floor to a descending stairwell tucked behind it. Ryan thought he could hear the sound effects of animated characters having accidents on a TV.

  “Just eat it, Sophia.” A woman’s voice clanged like an angry cowbell from the kitchen.

  “I don’t like beans, Auntie Eve,” Sophia whined.

  “It’s what I made.”

  Tom froze as he heard the exchange. He waited for a moment, an animal caught by a floodlight. Hearing nothing else, he continued down to the house’s lower level. Ryan waited until his feet hit the basement’s tile floor before mentioning the female visitor. “Sorry to interrupt when you have guests. Your sister?”

  “I don’t have siblings. A family friend comes by to help take care of Sophia.”

  Tom spoke without looking over his shoulder. He led Ryan through a well-organized playroom and past a gym, complete with rubber flooring, treadmill, and a weight machine. He pulled back a metal barn door at the end of it and entered into a dark room.

  Ryan followed him inside. A disorienting moment later, blue LEDs revealed a home bar worthy of a bustling Manhattan lounge. A floor-to-ceiling glass wine-storage container with underlit shelving dominated the facing wall. The adjoining back wall featured ceiling-mounted black cabinets flanking long, lit wall shelves for liquor bottles. A zinc-topped bar extended in front of the display. No barstools. Standing room only. The adjoining home theater featured two rows of black leather recliners, mounted atop a carpeted, tiered floor.

  “Get you anything?” Tom walked behind the bar. Ryan peered around it to see a back counter with enough stainless steel appliances beneath to rival a top-of-the-line kitchen.

  Ryan considered the selection, more for his mental inventory than anything else. Whiskey and cognac bottles dotted the wall shelves, but many were empty, or nearly so. The wine storage container was basically bare. He revised his earlier opinion about the space belonging in a fancy Manhattan club. Tom’s bar was going out of business.

  “Nothing for me, thanks.” Ryan took off his barely lined pea coat and draped it over the back of a theater chair before heading to the standing bar.

  Tom pulled the glass stopper from a curved bottle of Crown Royal. He grabbed a short glass from inside a cabinet and poured. Whiskey neat. Not many people had the stomach for that.

  “Hope you don’t mind.” Tom took a long sip. His lips smacked together before finishing his thought. “I think I might need one for this conversation.”

  Ryan did mind. Alcohol was a contributing factor in more than 40 percent of murders, let alone physical assaults. Hard liquor heightened anger. He would have preferred having a nice, sober conversation within earshot of Tom’s “family friend,” someone who could make Tom control himself if things got heated.

  He pointed to the ceiling, reminding his host of the witnesses in the house. “So, your friend is helping with the cooking?”

  Tom lowered the glass to his hip. “You said something about an affair. In case you’re getting any ideas, I’m not sleeping with her. She’s just a friend. A lot of friends have been coming to help since Ana passed. They’re concerned for Sophia.”

  Tom was already on the defensive. Ryan tried to keep his tone nonconfro
ntational. “I’d like to talk to Ana’s friends. Maybe she would—”

  “No.” Tom flashed a tight smile. “She didn’t come over to be interrogated. I’m talking to you.”

  Ryan’s host took another long sip of whiskey. He leaned on the back counter, a bartender feigning interest in a client. “So let me guess. Someone misinterpreted my relationship with one of our friends and told you that I must have been cheating. And now you think that Ana found out and jumped overboard, thereby violating the suicide clause in her life insurance policy and letting your company off the hook. Am I right?”

  “It’s not that.”

  Tom didn’t seem to hear him. “I’m telling you, if you go the suicide route, my lawyers will make sure that your company ends up paying double in damages.” He looked into his drink and sighed. “First off, I wasn’t sleeping around. Second, even if I had been, my wife wouldn’t kill herself. She’d never do that to Sophia or her unborn child—not to mention her parents, whom she’d pretty much supported since fourteen. I mean—”

  “These rumors are about Ana.”

  The blue light from the bar highlighted the dark shadows beneath Tom’s eyes and the bulge of his brows. He placed his whiskey on the counter. “What?”

  “Someone at Ana’s old job suggested she might have been seeing her boss.”

  Ryan watched Tom’s face for flickers of rage and recognition, but the man didn’t tense up. If anything, he relaxed. His shoulders shook with a chuckle as he reclaimed his whiskey. “Michael’s an ass, but he wasn’t having an affair with Ana. Though, I’m sure he would have wanted to. Who even is this source of yours? Michael himself?”

  “An employee.”

  “And this employee knew my wife?”

  “Not exactly.”

  He pointed a finger above the rim of his glass. “My wife was loyal.” He looked down at the liquor in his glass. A small, sad smile sneaked onto his face.

  Ryan examined Tom’s stance. Either the man was an excellent actor or he honestly believed it impossible that his wife had slept with her superior. In Ryan’s experience, few people could completely cover genuine anger. If Tom knew that Michael had destroyed his marriage and driven his wife to kill herself, there’d be hatred in his eyes or clenched teeth behind his smile, not the resigned expression before him.