I sit up straight. “I went out Friday evening to run errands,” I say. I am careful to be precise. “I went to both the grocery store and the drugstore. I left my cell phone at home, I frequently forget to take it with me, it drives . . . drove . . . John crazy. So I didn’t get John’s text or see that he’d tried to call until I got home. Around a quarter till eight. Then, of course, I was alarmed. What was he doing in Palo Alto? He should have been in LA! I started calling him. When I couldn’t reach him, I called the Westin, asked for room 224. No one answered. I also asked the receptionist if John was a guest there. She said no. She couldn’t tell me the name of the guest in room 224, but she could say it wasn’t John Taylor.”
I’m wondering if it’s apparent how much I’m sweating. I can feel my shirt sticking to my back, and the drops of perspiration rolling down my sides. This girl is making me as nervous as a june bug on a string.
“Why did you stop calling Saturday night?”
“I went to bed, finally. And the next morning I saw the obituary in the paper,” I say.
“Why didn’t you volunteer this information earlier?” the young detective asks. She looks genuinely puzzled rather than suspicious.
“No one asked. I was questioned about the last time I talked to John, but not about what happened afterward.” I know this sounds lame, but what can I say? That I was frightened? I felt responsible that John had apparently reached out to me for help, and I wasn’t there for him? I wipe a damp strand of hair off my face, tuck it behind my ear.
The young detective is silent for a moment. Then she asks, “Did it seem usual for John Taylor to do such a spontaneous thing as fly to LA at the last minute? And then suddenly surface in Palo Alto?”
I’m eager to answer this one. “Oh, it was highly unusual! We had no surprises in our lives. Everything was carefully planned.” By Deborah, I think.
“And that worked for you?”
Do I detect a hint of scorn in her voice? The superciliousness of the very young, who believe that spontaneity is the spice of life.
“We made it work,” I say. I sound defensive.
“How far did this go?”
“What do you mean?”
“This lack of spontaneity. Were you allowed to change the television channel, for example?”
I look at her to see if she’s kidding, but she’s not. “If it wasn’t one of his shows, yes.” I hate how pathetic I sound. As though I was under John’s thumb, but it wasn’t like that (not really). We had a rhythm. It worked.
“What were his shows?”
“Mostly PBS. News. He enjoyed Antiques Roadshow. Documentaries. Although he hated so-called reality shows. They had no structure to them, he complained.”
The detective allows herself a smile.
There is a brief silence as she winds up her hand again. But before she can come at me, I decide to try to take control. “Why are you asking me these questions?” Then, as a kind of joke, “You’re not planning to charge him with bigamy beyond the grave?”
“No.”
Silence.
“Are you asking his other . . . wives?” I pause. “Or are you singling me out?”
“We’re questioning all of you.”
“Why?” My voice comes out louder than I intend.
“We have some concerns about the death.”
“Yes, obviously. But no proof.”
“What do you mean?” she asks.
“You don’t have proof he was murdered. Only suspicions.”
The detective nods. “That’s right. We don’t know for sure. We have suspicious circumstances.” She doesn’t say anything more.
“And?” I prompt her.
“Some definite irregularities,” the young detective says. She shifts in her seat as though she’s uncomfortable. I derive some satisfaction from that, and from her obvious lack of experience. “So I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you again where you were and what you were doing Friday afternoon and evening.”
I feel relief. “That’s easy. I was at work until 4 PM. I took off a little early. My work was done, and it was Friday after all.”
“And then?”
“I went home, took a nap for an hour, dallied about until around 6:30.”
“Can anyone verify that you were there?”
“Not at first. Later, my brother, Thomas, could. He lives in the city, but visits frequently. Given that John was out of town, he came down to spend a couple nights in the guest room.”
“Was this usual?”
“Yes, when John wasn’t around. We’re very close, my brother and me.”
“We’ll talk to him,” the young detective makes a note of it. “What did you do while waiting for your brother?”
“I went out at maybe 6:30, 6:45 to Trader Joe’s to do some grocery shopping. I’m pretty sure they’ll remember me there. I’m a regular. They always comment on my hats.” Here I flush a little with shame. “Actually, I’m sure they’ll remember me, because I accidentally knocked over a display of cereal boxes.”
“And after that?”
“After that I went to Walgreens to buy some shampoo and stuff. I forgot I had a prescription ready until I got to the car. I didn’t feel like going back into the store, so I used the drive-through window. It was probably 7:30 by then. I imagine they’ll have a record of both those transactions.”
The detective writes these times down in her notebook. Trader Joe’s 7:15 PM. Walgreens 7:30. I see her draw a little happy face next to those numbers. She looks up, and it’s her turn to blush when she sees that I’ve been watching.
“And after that?”