The Pocket Wife

by Susan Crawford

  He turns on the radio and thinks about a case he worked years before, when the song now playing on the radio was popular, “Crazy,” which is probably what’s popped the case back into his head. He and Rob used to look at each other and nod every time that song came on, since that’s what the case was. Crazy. A murder where nothing added up until a button in the molding under a back window led them straight to the killer. Jack’s forte is finding needles in haystacks. If there’s anything else in Celia’s house to tell what happened to her, he’ll find it.

  He sees the first sign several blocks before the subdivision. MISSING KITTEN, it says in huge, neon-orange letters, and underneath there’s a blown-up picture of the feral cat he picked up from the Steinhausers’ yard and has kept at his house the past couple of days. SPOT, the sign says, and he notices the Catrells’ address.

  Once inside the Steinhausers’, he closes the door behind him and stands for a moment in the foyer. Besides the crime-scene mess—the furniture moved around by the EMTs, the bloody footprints near the door—the house is fairly neat, which he’d noticed that first night. He smiles. He’d expect no less from a house where Ronald lived—Ronald, who looked apoplectic at the thought of having to shake hands at the hospital. Celia, he guessed from the way she’d organized her phone photos, was probably a very ordered person, too.

  He looks around the living room, and then he walks to the kitchen, where the dishwasher stands open, displaying neatly racked Fiestaware like the dishes they have at home—the different-colored plates, the bright bowls and cups, painstakingly acquired by Ann. He wonders if she’ll want it now in her new place—in her new life—or if she’ll want to start over, buy something different, something white and understated and expensive from Nordstrom’s or Neiman Marcus. He doesn’t care. Paper plates work fine for him, McDonald’s wrapped in tinfoil, Styrofoam containers full of Chinese takeout—like she always said, he’s never home anyway.

  He walks through to the bathroom and the extra bedrooms he figures were the boys’. The shelves are full of books. Trophies crowd their tops, and posters of sports figures, a couple of them autographed, cover almost all the walls.

  He stops at the doorway to Celia’s room—Celia’s and Ronald’s, although the rumpled spread on the bed in one of the boys’ rooms tells him the Steinhausers slept separately this summer. He glances around, but nothing catches his eye. He’ll wait on the prints from the other day. He’ll hold his breath on that one, hope to hell they’re not Kyle’s.

  He walks back to the living room. He squats and looks at it from this new perspective, a Lilliputian view. He stands up and takes one more look around the room before he heads outside, walking through the yard. He moves slowly, checks the doors, the windows, even though there was no forced entry. The grass has grown knee-high in the front. It’s greener, lusher in the small side yard where a lone tree offers shade.

  Something glints in the sun, shiny and green. Jack stoops down and picks up a small glass elephant—a charm, a key-chain charm. He squats down again. He holds the tiny elephant between his thumb and index finger, turning it around. Something clicks in his brain, a picture, a memory of a long-ago September day—he and Margie and the boys walking across a fairground outside Paterson, the sunlight falling down, the crunch of autumn leaves, the barkers calling, “Try this! Try your luck at this one!” Their sweeping hands displaying rows of plastic toys, the bears and dolls and painted faces, balloons stuck to paper walls, darts and pins and plastic guns with plastic bullets. Kyle’s hair, blond and fine, streaked with gold, as he tugged on Jack’s hand, pulling him along the dirty rows between stands, the throngs of people, the toothless barker calling, “Hit the bull’s-eye, sir, and win the boy a prize!” Kyle’s pleading eyes, his pleading voice, “I want that, Dad!” his stubby finger pointing at the wall, at the smallest, cheapest thing—a prize so small that Jack had to ask him twice: “What?” he said. “Which one?” His mind snaps in on that day, that booth, that little finger pointing, that prize he won for Kyle with three shot arrows, the green elephant, its trunk held high for luck. He remembers how much Kyle loved elephants, especially this one, this glass, this green, this charm that now sits in his hand.

  He breathes in the air of the yard that he now knows held his boy, held his prize on a day stained by blood, tainted by murder. He sticks the elephant in his pocket and walks to his car, and he doesn’t look back. He starts the Crown Vic, keeps his face aimed at the windshield, the road. He doesn’t glance at the yard where Dana reaches toward her mailbox. He doesn’t see her long legs, her bare feet, her skinny arm with the white sad line running down her wrist. Just keep on keeping on, he tells himself, and heads back to the station for the two interviews he’s scheduled back-to-back. This thing with Kyle is breaking his heart, messing with his sleep, with his entire life—has ever since he found Kyle’s prints were in the woman’s car—this knowledge he was involved somehow in a murder, and now this charm, this proof his son was at the woman’s house. “Kyle, Kyle, Kyle,” he mumbles. “What the fuck have you done?”

  CHAPTER 25

  When Jack gets back to his office, the fingerprint report is on his desk. Timely. He looks it over, throws cold water on his face in the men’s room, and heads for the lobby to meet the neighbor.

  Wanda Needles is British. Jack knows this even before she opens her mouth. Something in the way she carries herself, he thinks, her neat and proper pantsuit, the stoic expression. Maybe it’s her name. She follows him down the hall to the interrogation room and perches on a straight-backed chair.

  “Thanks for coming, Ms. Needles. Appreciate it.”

  “You’re welcome.” She smiles a fleeting little smile. “I’m happy to help.”

  “Your neighbor,” Jack says, “Celia Steinhauser. What can you tell me about the day she died?”

  Wanda sits back a tad on the chair. “Not much, I’m afraid. I was out most of the afternoon. Most of the day, actually.”

  “Did you see her at all?”

  “No,” she says. “Sorry. No.”

  “How about Ronald? You see her husband that day?”

  “No. But, again, I was out most of the day. I saw . . . well, of course, the ambulance when it took her away to hospital. I saw Ronald then, running outside with the medics.”

  “Did you see anyone on your street that day? Anyone unusual? Anything unusual?”

  “No,” she says. “I’ve racked my brain but haven’t come up with anything.” She says the last word like it hasn’t got a g. Anythin’. “The only neighbor I saw was Dana. Oh, and Mr. Nguyen. He was in his front yard, washing his car.”

  “And where was Dana?”

  “Across the street. She was going to her car, and we waved, you know, and then she went on about her business, fetching her purse from the front seat.”

  “I see.”

  “Yes. And then she ran down the street. To see why the medics were there. She and Celia were—”

  “Were what?”

  “Well, I was going to say friends, but I’m not sure they were all that close, really, from some of the things Dana said. They bummed around together sometimes, bought things at yard sales for their houses when Dana was feeling—” She stops.

  “Feeling what?” Jack looks up at her across the table. Unusual eyes—violet, almost.

  “‘Well.’ I was going to say ‘well.’ Dana can be quite energetic when she’s feeling well.”

  “And when she isn’t?”

  “Oh,” Wanda says. She fiddles with her hair, wraps the ends around a finger. Pale hair, if pale were a color, like wheat or old grass. “She is a bit moody,” she says. “But then who isn’t, eh, Detective?”

  “Moody how, exactly?”

  “I don’t know. Restless, I suppose.”

  “And this . . . restlessness, how does it manifest itself, Ms. Needles?”

  Wanda inches closer to the edge of the chair. “I don’t know, really. She walks a lot; she wanders ’round the street, drives off; I hear her
car sometimes; wakes me up.”

  “At night, you mean?”

  “Yes,” Wanda says. “Late at night. But then with that husband of hers . . .”

  “Not so fond of him, Wanda?”

  “No,” she says. “A sneak, that one.”

  “Ever see him down at the Steinhausers’?”

  Wanda clears her throat. “We were all neighbors,” she says.

  “Right. So did you ever see Mr. Catrell at the Steinhausers’?”

  “Well,” she says, “I might have seen him leaving out of there a time or two, but I couldn’t swear to it.”

  “During the day?”

  “Yes,” she says in a small voice.

  “Did you tell his wife you’d seen him at the Steinhausers’? Did Dana know this?”

  Wanda shrugs her shoulders. “I never told her. No. I’ve no idea whether she knew.”

  “We’re almost done here, Ms. Needles. Just a couple more questions.”

  “Yes?” She’s already gathered up her things. There’s a tiny rip in her pantyhose, at the ankle. He wonders if it will continue ripping or if she’ll discover it in time. I’ll just put some clear nail polish on it, Ann used to say, and I’ll be good to go.

  “Have you seen anything unusual lately in your neighborhood?”

  “Yes,” she says. “I did see someone in a . . . hoodie, is it? Lurking about. I noticed only because it’s not the sort of weather for a hoodie.”

  “Where was this?”

  “Near Dana’s house,” she says. “Once or twice.”

  “And when was this?”

  “Recently,” Wanda says. “In the past week or so. I called it in. Normally I wouldn’t, but with the murder and all . . .”

  Jack looks up. “They send someone out to your house?”

  “No, actually,” she says. “I guess it didn’t seem that important, a little thug running about. Not exactly an uncommon occurrence these days, is it? Anyway, Mr. Nguyen has added himself to the mix. He’s out neighborhood-watching in all types of weather and attire, so really it might have been either Nguyen or one of his minions.”

  “Still, right now if someone sneezes on your street, it warrants a follow-up. Somebody dropped the ball on that. I am sorry, Ms. Nettles.” Jack stands up, reaches out his hand, and Wanda gives it a limp little shake. “Thanks for coming in,” he says. “You’ve still got my card if you think of anything else?”

  “Yes,” she says, sticking her briefcase and her bag under one arm. Together they walk out toward the front, where Peter Catrell paces back and forth as if he’s in a cage, his shoes making clicks and taps on the cheap linoleum. He glances down at his watch and strides toward them; he looks annoyed. “Oh, my,” Wanda says, giving Jack a quick good-bye nod. She ignores Peter, who has frozen in his journey across the linoleum and is staring openmouthed at Wanda as she slips out the heavy doors and clips along to the parking lot without a backward glance.

  Even if the labs hadn’t come in on the prints, Peter’s reaction to seeing his neighbor indicates at least questionable activity on his part—something Wanda may or may not know, his involvement with Celia, clearly—and Jack is glad he scheduled their interviews to overlap. He watches Peter for a minute, notices the way his eyes follow Wanda out the door and out of sight into a jumble of parked cars in the lot.

  “Morning,” Jack says. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Catrell. Any word from your wife?”

  “Yes.” Peter shifts his weight, looks nervous. Lying, Jack guesses.

  “She okay?”

  “Yes. She’s— Listen, Detective. I have an appointment; I’m a little strapped for time.”

  “Come on back, then,” Jack says. “We’re over here on the left,” and Peter nods, heaves a hefty sigh, follows Jack down the hall and back to the interrogation room, where Wanda’s perfume still swims in the air.

  “Mind if I call you Peter?”

  “Not at all.” Peter looks at his watch.

  “I’ll get right to it.” Jack takes out a manila folder and slides its contents onto the table between them. “How well did you know Celia Steinhauser?”

  “I believe we’ve been over this, Detective. I told you, I didn’t know the woman. My wife knew her.”

  “Right. That is what you said, but in the interest of time— You did say you were in a hurry?”

  “Yes,” Peter says, “I am.”

  “Then let’s cut the crap, shall we?”

  “I don’t—”

  “Your prints were on every inch of her bedroom. Particularly the bed.” Here at least he’s caught a break. The prints say Kyle was never in the woman’s room.

  Peter smiles a little half smile. “What can I say, Detective?”

  “I don’t know, Peter. You kill her?”

  “No.”

  “Did Celia Steinhauser maybe get in your way? Cramp your style? Threaten to go to your wife?”

  “No.”

  “Or maybe she was messing up your new . . . uh, relationship?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Detective. Just to clarify. Am I here so you can accuse me of sleeping with my neighbor?”

  “Not at all, Catrell. You’re here so I can ask you if you killed her.”

  “And I said I did not kill her.”

  “Right. But you also said you didn’t know her.”

  Peter shrugs.

  “As Ms. Needles might say, ‘Bit of a sticky wicket.’”

  “Are we finished?”

  “Not quite. Did your wife know about your affair with the deceased?”

  “I have no idea what my wife might think she knows.”

  “And yet you didn’t make a secret of it, did you?”

  “I didn’t— Listen, Detective. I don’t know exactly what that Wanda person told you—”

  “Right. Now we’re finished. Thanks for coming in.”

  “Is that it?”

  “Yep. Stay close, Catrell. Within earshot.”

  At noon, Jack stops by the house for the kitten and tries not to think about how quiet it will seem without him climbing up Jack’s legs and throwing himself into a refrigerator with achingly disappointing contents. But it can’t be helped. He grabs the cat, holds him up so Molly can see, so she won’t drive herself nuts looking for him when he’s gone. Spot, he thinks. Cute.

  He pulls in to Dana’s driveway and turns off the engine. He runs his hand through his hair and over the stubble on his chin, feeling almost self-conscious. Even though there is definitely something off about her, something a little wild, he finds Dana appealing. She’s also very pretty in an unconventional way. Strangely open, he would say, except she isn’t, really—at least not about the case.

  He grabs the kitten, ignoring the struggling and clawing until they get to the front door. Jack sets him down and rings the bell as somewhere in the house something falls and breaks. He hears the splintering sound of glass on the floor. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other as, beside him, Spot’s huge ears tilt forward like a dog’s.

  “Spot!” Dana is there, tugging the door open, a whisk broom in one hand. The door creaks and hesitates on sticky, swollen hinges. “Oh, my God!” she says. “Spot!” The kitten trots inside, and Moss stands alone on the porch as the screen door pops into place and Dana bends to pick up the tiny cat. “Where have you been?” She nuzzles her face against his neck. Spot pulls away, trots to the kitchen, where his bowl sits optimistically on its plastic place mat.

  “Oh!” Dana turns back to the porch. “Oh, Detective Moss! I am so sorry! Please. Come in! Have a seat. I was just making some coffee.” She opens the screen door, and Jack wipes his muddy boots on the porch mat. BEWARE, it says, ATTACK CAT. He wipes his heels against the edges, careful to avoid the lettering, the picture of a huge, menacing cat in its center, the mat so new it still smells like plastic.

  “Spot?” He gestures toward the mat, and Dana smiles.

  “Of course. How do you take your coffee?”

  “Black.” He sits
down on the sofa in front of a large picture window. The layout is identical to the Steinhausers’, and for a second, fear for Kyle nearly chokes him. He glances through the glass. “More rain coming.”

  “Yes,” she says from the kitchen. “Always. Summer of the rains. . . I wonder if the wet weather will . . . if we’ll have a lot of snow this winter.” She reaches toward a cupboard, pours dry cat food into a bowl. “We never let him out,” she says, walking to the living room. She sets two cups on the coffee table along with two cloth napkins and a plate of scones. “Wanda,” she explains, nodding toward the biscuits. “My British neighbor brought these over.” She glances back to the kitchen as if the cat might disappear. “I have no idea how he got out.”

  “Maybe your husband,” Jack says. “Maybe while you were away. . .”

  “How did you know I was—”

  “He filed a missing person on you.” Jack isn’t sure if she knows this, whether the husband’s told her. If so, she would know that Jack knew.

  “Why would he do that?” Dana sits down at the opposite end of the sofa.

  “Worried, I guess. It’s not unusual,” Jack says, but of course it is.

  “I left him a note.”

  “Yeah?” He decides to let it go, to not dig himself into a deeper hole. “You ask your husband about the cat?”

  “I haven’t seen him yet. He hasn’t been home since my . . . since I left New York, but maybe that’s better, his not being here, his being away. Maybe he’s—” She tugs at her top, pulls it higher up on her shoulders. “I guess he slept in town . . . at his office. Sometimes he does that. He gets so busy with work, so overwhelmed, sometimes he just . . .” Her gaze shifts back to the kitchen where Spot hunches over his blue bowl, his plastic place mat, where he turns to look at Jack and Dana in the living room. “Peter really isn’t very fond of Spot. The other day he told me it’s the ugliest cat he’s ever seen. ‘Maybe it isn’t even a cat,’ he said. ‘Maybe it’s a big rat or some kind of hybrid experiment gone wrong.’”

  And suddenly Jack knows her husband let the cat out. He knows it like he knows his own name, like he knows that Kyle was at Celia Steinhauser’s house. Peter let the cat out as soon as Dana left—he’s sure of it. After their last interview, he wouldn’t put anything past the guy. He stands up, shoots a wave toward Spot in the kitchen. “Bye, buddy.”