“TALK TO ME, PETER,” I say. “You’ve got three women, no, make that four women, all feeling extraordinarily possessive of the same man.”
I’ve just returned from LA and we’re having a lazy Sunday, of the type that used to delight us, sitting outside in our tiny patch of garden that borders the creek. It’s almost sunset, and the cicadas are starting up but the mosquitos haven’t come out in full force yet. The perfect time in what should be a perfect August afternoon. Yet Peter is mostly absent, playing some game on his phone. Not that I particularly need his attention. I’m half reading a library book, and thinking about the Taylor case. But I sense some hostility in the way he’s holding his phone at arm’s length—positioned precisely so it blocks my face.
Peter reluctantly puts it down when I speak. “And?” he asks. “‘Possessive’ is the word? I notice you didn’t say ‘in love with a man.’”
“You’re right, I didn’t.”
“So what’s the question?”
“You find out about these other women. You realize your existing life is basically over. Total wreckage. What do you do?”
“You’re asking, does this make a woman crazy enough to kill her husband?”
“I guess,” I say. “Yeah. Is it enough provocation? Forget about alibis, opportunity, whatever, for now. Just think in terms of motivation.”
Peter stretches. His long 6'2" body overhangs the cheap deck chairs we got from some garage sale. He’s taller than me by almost a foot and has a fairly massive amount of facial hair. I used to call him Sasquatch. We no longer have nicknames for each other, I think, sadly. Some phase of life has passed by while I wasn’t paying attention.
“Give me before and after pictures of these women’s lives, and I’ll tell you who killed him,” Peter says.
“Let start with Helen,” I say. “She’s the easiest, because she had the most independent marriage of the three. With John, she had the occasional companionship of a man she seemed to quite genuinely love. She sounded sincere when she described the relationship.”
“And if this sexpot young doctor takes Taylor away from her?” asks Peter.
“Well, she loses that companionship. And from things she’s said, I don’t think she’s had a lot of romantic attachments in her life. So that could be a real bummer for her.”
“Not to mention the whole woman-scorned aspect of things,” Peter says.
“Yeah, there’s that. Female rage and jealousy.” I say. “Bo-ring.”
“That’s the one who’s pregnant, right?” Peter asks. “Making this guy a father from the grave?”
“Yes. And he wouldn’t have been happy about being a father again,” I say.
“She wants the baby, though? She’s happy about it?”
“Absolutely,” I say, thinking of the transformed woman I saw in LA.
“But her financial position doesn’t change, does it? Presumably as a doctor she’s raking in some pretty big bucks on her own. Enough to support a kid.”
“She didn’t need him financially,” I say. “Not like MJ did.”
“This MJ, she had the most to lose, right?”
“It depends on your values,” I say. “She would certainly have suffered financially if Taylor left her to marry Snow White. She’s now in a tenuous legal situation regarding the house. Legally, Deborah could make the case that the house belongs to her. Leaving MJ with nothing.”
“Which brings us to my favorite wife, Deborah,” Peter says.
“Why is she your favorite? She’s the one that gives me hives,” I say. “I kinda get MJ. And I have a healthy respect for Helen. But Deborah?” I stop talking.
“I’m just teasing,” Peter says. “You stiffen up when talking about her, and your voice gets deeper. Unconscious mimicking.”
“Deborah had the most to lose in the case of a divorce as far as her social standing in the community. That seemed awfully precious to her.”
“What’s interesting about that?” Peter asks. I see him glance back at his phone. I’m losing him. And here I am, trying to engage in a conversation, spend some time together. Anything to dispel the heavy silence that we’ve had between us all day.
“She also had the most to gain from the death,” I say. “A ten-million-dollar life insurance policy. Hey,” I say, louder, as he continues to poke at his phone, “I’d shoot you in a heartbeat if you had that kind of bounty on your head.”
“I bet you would,” Peter says without looking up or smiling.
I smack my hand on the end table next to my chair. My glass shatters as it hits the brick pavement.
“Goddamn it, Peter,” I yell. A couple of crows that had been feeding on crumbs from our late lunch spun off into the air.
“What?” he asks. He finally looks up.
“You know what. You’ve been in such a mood. Out with it.”
He doesn’t speak for a moment. Then, “It’s just all the cracks you’ve been making about marriage. The disparaging remarks.”