“But even if you have this wrongful death verdict, isn’t there something called motive?” Peter asks. He pries a mussel out of its shell with his fork, places it delicately in his mouth. He is as fastidious as a young child when he eats, tastes everything as though he is prepared to throw it onto the floor in a tantrum. But the truth is, he is quite the epicure, and a terrific cook. The mussels are plump, fresh, tasting of garlic and white wine. Peter definitely didn’t get much work done this afternoon. “I’ve watched my share of crime dramas,” he says. “Motive is always the showstopper.”
“A man with three wives?” I ask. I find I’m speaking more impatiently than I want, so I calm my voice down. “Enough was happening in this guy’s life. Every place we poke around we find motive.” Without thinking I swallow the mussel in my mouth whole. I have to gulp some wine to get it down.
“How do you figure?” Peter asks when I’ve recovered.
“Anger. Jealousy. Payback time,” I say. “All the stuff that accumulates in romantic relationships, but times three.”
“But the only wife who knew the situation was the original one,” he reminds me. “And she accepted it. More than accepted it. She ran the show, right?”
“Right,” I say, but again impatience creeps into my voice. I’m tired. I take a deep breath and tell myself to enjoy the moment. The food, Peter’s presence—it’s been more than a week since we’ve had a meal together—the relief of having the inquest over. I try to relax my shoulders, move my head from side to side to get the knots out of my neck. My body just tenses up again. This used to be enough, us together at night, over simple but good food. Though it has been growing less satisfactory. Something left wanting. Something about the John Taylor case and its web of love and deceit is souring what used to sustain me.
Peter is still intent on the discussion. Possibly because he hasn’t noticed my shift in mood. Or possibly because he has. He’s hard to read sometimes, that Peter.
“Who do you put your bet on?” he asks as he breaks off another piece of garlic bread. Mounds of fresh-chopped garlic spill off the toasted loaf. I calculate the time he must have spent chopping it. This annoys me further. I put my fork down and take another gulp of wine. “When do you defend your dissertation?” I ask.
Peter waves the bread in the air. “End of fall quarter,” he says. “Plenty of time.”
So get to work, I think, but don’t say. Instead I ask, “So how’s it going?” and despite my best efforts there’s an edge in my voice.
Peter shrugs and ignores my question. Typical. Then, as is also typical, he goes into attack mode. His way of doing this is to push me into a corner with questions.
“Tell me who you think did it,” Peter says. “Tell me what you’re going to do next.”
He’s put his finger right on my vulnerable spot. “I don’t know,” I confess. “I suppose I could interview the wives again. Try and get a better sense of the lay of the land there.” I am suddenly unhappy.
Peter then drops his attack mode, and turns into the comforter.
“You don’t have to have all the answers now,” he says in a soothing voice, and helps me to more wine. This is also quite typical. As soon as he suspects he might have hurt me, or really that I’m hurting for any reason, he turns gentle. It’s as if he doesn’t believe I can take it.
“People do crazy things for love,” I tell him. “Or for what they think is love.” I’m thinking of Helen Richter, speaking of her passion for John Taylor in that flat, professional voice, yet somehow making you believe in it. Like that C. S. Lewis book we read in an undergraduate English class on romantic love. Surprised by Joy. That was definitely Dr. Richter.
“Do they, now? And how would you know?” Peter isn’t smiling as he says this. He is staring at the pile of shells on his plate. This is getting perilously close to the discussion we agreed not to have.
I lay my hand on Peter’s hand. “Good mussels,” I say, and he looks up and smiles.
“I’m useful in the kitchen,” he says. “Whatever else you might think of me.”
18
Samantha
LOOKING AT SOMEONE’S CELL PHONE records and emails is like looking in their underwear drawer. Their whole life is laid out in front of your eyes. John Taylor mostly made calls to his voicemail, and mostly received calls from his office. There were a lot of outgoing calls to different numbers that belonged to patients’ families. Dr. Taylor apparently took the trouble to personally follow up after his young patients left the clinic. There were fairly frequent incoming calls from Deborah. Just as she’d said, she organized his life, paid his credit card bills, booked his trips to LA and other places. He even depended on her to make restaurant reservations for him and the other wives.