“Yes, well, you make a good point there.”
“So what’s on your mind?”
Anna took a second to compose herself, and said, “I don’t think Paul was having delusions.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I don’t think there was anything wrong with him. Yes, he’d been depressed. But I don’t think he was imagining the things he claimed to be hearing in the night. I think he heard something, but I don’t know what. And I don’t think he wrote the messages he was finding in the typewriter. Not consciously, or subconsciously. I don’t think he was having hallucinations. I don’t think he was mentally ill in any way whatsoever.”
Arnwright leaned back in his chair and took in what Anna White had said. “Okay.”
“I do concede that Paul was, during these last few days, extremely agitated because of what was going on at home. And that last night I saw him, he was incredibly distressed.”
“So, I’m not sure what you’re trying to say here. Are you saying you don’t think he committed suicide?”
“I’m not saying that.”
“So you think he did.”
“I don’t know.”
Joe Arnwright smiled. “Dr. White, I—”
“I think he might have done it. But, then again, I think he might not.”
“So you’re leaning toward this being an accident? Because that’s still within the realm of possibility.”
Anna White bit her lower lip. “I shouldn’t have come in. I’m making a fool of myself.”
“No, you’re not. What I do, Dr. White, is often based on a hunch, a feeling. Do you have a feeling about what happened?”
“I do.”
“And what is that feeling?”
“That if Paul did kill himself, he was driven to it.”
“Driven to it?”
Anna nodded. It took everything she had to force out the next few words. “And if he didn’t take his own life, someone took it for him.” She put her hands in her lap decisively, as though she had just gotten the toughest word at the spelling bee.
“You’re saying you think someone might have murdered Mr. Davis?”
Anna White swallowed. “I think it’s a possibility.”
“What makes you say that?” Arnwright asked.
“Because of what he said,” she blurted.
“Something Paul said?”
“No, not Paul. His friend. Bill Myers. I heard him whisper ‘It worked’ to Charlotte.”
“That’s it,” Arnwright said. “Just those two words.”
Anna nodded sheepishly. “When I asked him what he meant by that, he came up with a story about how he got a printer to work so he could have a copy of the eulogy he gave. But he didn’t read a printed speech. It was handwritten. I saw it. He lied to me.”
“Okay,” Arnwright said, doing his best to tamp down the skepticism in his voice.
“I also asked Mr. Myers about talking Paul out of going to the hospital.” She paused. “It’s like he wanted to make sure Paul was where he could get to him. Almost like he didn’t want Paul to get away, to get help.”
Arnwright frowned. “Okay, so all these things that happened with the typewriter, you’re suggesting it was a setup?”
Anna nodded.
“Why?”
Again, Anna struggled to get the words out. “I think Bill Myers and Charlotte Davis might be having an affair.”
“You have any evidence of that?”
Anna hesitated. “Not really.”
“So that’s just a feeling, too, then.”
“It was the way . . . they held hands. And . . . I guess that’s all. Body language, I suppose.” Another anxious swallow. “I’ve learned to read that kind of thing over the years.”
“Body language,” Arnwright said.
“I know. I must sound ridiculous.”
“You said you think Mr. Davis was set up. How on earth would they do that?” the detective asked.
“I . . . have no idea.” She shook her head. “There’s something else.”
“Yes?”
“The boxes.”
“Boxes?”
“When I visited his wife, after his death, she had all these empty boxes.”
Arnwright looked at her, waiting.
“She’d gone out and gotten all these empty boxes to start packing his things. Who does that so fast after someone dies? It’s like, it’s like she couldn’t wait to get at it.”
Joe Arnwright took a long breath, put both palms on the desk and said, “Anything else?”
Anna sat there, feeling increasingly ridiculous. “No,” she said.
“Well, I want to thank you for coming in. It’s all very helpful.” He stood, implying the therapist should do the same.
Anna got up. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“And what’s that?”
“That I’m trying to get myself off the hook. That I’ve come up with this elaborate fantasy so that I won’t feel Paul’s death was my fault.”
“That’s not what I’m thinking.”
“I didn’t know what else to do but come and see you.”
“And I’m glad you did. If I need to talk to you again about this, I know how to get in touch.”
Dr. White knew she’d been dismissed. She stood and said, “Just about every meeting I’ve had lately I’ve regretted immediately afterward. I guess I’ll add this one to the list.” She nodded her good-bye and walked out of the detectives’ room.
Arnwright sat back down and reopened the folder on his desk, as well as the report that had been on his screen.
He read, for maybe the fifth time, what had been found on Paul Davis’s body.
There had been the wallet, of course. Despite his body having been tossed about by the waves after he had—presumably—walked out into the waters of Long Island Sound, and then subsequently washed back onto the beach, the wallet had not been dislodged from the back pocket of his jeans. It was solidly in there, and it had taken some effort for the police first on the scene to extricate it from the tight, wet clothing.
His watch, an inexpensive Timex, remained attached to his left wrist. It was still working. His tightly laced Rockport walking shoes remained on his feet. Retrieved from the front pocket of his jeans were a gas station receipt, wadded tissues, three nickels, four quarters, one dime, and a dollar bill.
That was it. None of those things had been washed out of Paul Davis’s pockets during his time in the water.
Arnwright had been troubled not by what was in his pockets, but by what was not.
He thought back to that night, when Paul Davis’s wife got out of her car and went to the front door of her house.
It was locked. She had her keys in her hand, and used one to open the front door.
How had the door been locked in the first place? Presumably, Paul Davis had locked it as he exited the house, on his way to the beach or to a pier or wherever.
So where was the key?
Why was there no key in his pocket?
Fifty-Seven
Charlotte wasn’t surprised to see her phone light up with Bill’s name on the screen. Not two hours since the funeral and already he was calling her. So much for discretion. But then again, a guy who puts your hand on his dick in the middle of a funeral service clearly has a problem with delayed gratification, not to mention subtlety.
She figured if she ignored the call, he’d just keep trying. So she accepted it.
“Hello?”
“We need to talk,” he said.
“Why, Bill,” she said, feigning a casual tone. “It’s good of you to call. I know I already told you, but I thought what you said about Paul was lovely. Straight from the heart. He’d have been touched to know how you felt.”
Bill paused. It took him a second to catch on. There was either someone in the room with her, or Charlotte thought someone was listening to her calls. She had no reason to believe that was happening, but why risk it? She’d actually gone online, looked up bugging devices and where they were most commonly hidden, and then had searched the house to make sure it was clean.
No fool, she. You didn’t hear her whispering “It worked” in the middle of a crowded church.
“Yeah, well, thanks for that,” Bill said. “Like you said, it was from the heart.”
“The house feels so empty with him gone.”
“Yeah, right. Uh, like I said, there was something I needed to talk to you about. In person.”
Charlotte sighed. Maybe it was time. Besides, there were some things she wanted to discuss with him.