“Dr. Petermann, the papers say you had over twenty species of rare birds lining the walls of your attic in cages!” I push.
“Yoshi Yamamura is one of the top criminal lawyers in Massachusetts,” Petermann says. “If he can’t get the charges dropped, I don’t know who can. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to my lesson. I’ll see you in a few weeks, Alice. There’s no way you’ll have gone crazy by then. Trust me.”
Petermann shuts the door in my face and I hear the sound of somber flute music resume in the house. I stand there a second, thinking. Petermann’s reassurances are not comforting.
“No way,” I say out loud. And then I start banging on the door again. I bang louder and louder, but the flute music only increases in volume. Eventually my hand starts to hurt and a few people on the sidewalk are staring, so I have no choice but to give up. I am almost all the way down the driveway when I hear the front door open again and a woman wrapped in a green cashmere cardigan and black leggings comes dashing out after me.
“Wait!” she cries. “Wait, please.” When I stop, confused, she speaks first. “It’s Alice, right? Alice Rowe?”
In response I am only able to nod my head. I feel a specific hopelessness building within me and am certain that the tears will come any minute.
“I’m Virginia Petermann,” she says. “Gustave’s wife.” She extends a hand and I shake it slowly.
“I’ve heard all about you,” she says. “This project, the work with you and Max, it reinvigorated Gustave over his research. The possibility of it all . . . you don’t know how much it meant.”
“He has a funny way of showing it,” I say with a small sniffle.
“Well, here’s the thing about Gus,” Virginia goes on. “I already wanted to kill my husband half the time, even before I found out he was adding more parrots to the attic and giving me vague answers about where they came from, even before he got arrested and even before he hired that ridiculous lawyer who comes over every day with his flute music. But I can’t murder him, because I love him. Even if the man spends eighty percent of his waking life in athletic attire. Even if he has entire chest of drawers filled with cashmere sweaters that I buy him for Christmas in the hopes that once, just once, he might wear that to the office rather than a poly-Lycra blend. So instead I’m going to help you.”
I stare at this Virginia Petermann, with her wispy bob and her cuddly sweater, her sensible boots with just a hint of furry trim. “How can you help me?” I ask.
“Because I know who you need to talk to,” she says, as though it’s obvious.
At this moment behind Virginia I see a curtain whisk closed, and suddenly Petermann is running out the door in his karate outfit and a pair of LL Bean duck boots.
“Virginniaaaaaaa!” he calls as he takes each long leap.
“You’re too late, Gus!” She turns around, practically shouting. “I’ve already told her about Margaret Yang.” Virginia turns back to me. “Margaret Yang is the one who did it,” she says quickly, excitedly. “And she can fix it all. She works at Wells College in Maine.”
“Did what, exactly?” I ask, looking between them. Then to Petermann I ask, “What is she talking about?”
Petermann just shuffles his feet.
“Tell her, Gus,” Virginia says.
Petermann doesn’t say a word.
“Gustave Louis Petermann, you will tell this girl what she needs to know, or I will walk out the door and I will never come back. And guess what—you’ve got an ankle monitor on that says you can’t go past the front walk, so you won’t be able to find me this time!”
This time. Somehow it does not surprise me that Dr. Petermann is not an easy man to live with.
“What did Margaret Yang do?” I try again.
Petermann sighs like a petulant child. “Margaret Yang was just starting out as a research assistant years ago, when you and Max first came to CDD,” he says. “She was brilliant. The most gifted student I had ever seen. And I was remiss to admit it at the time, but I couldn’t keep up with her. She seemed to have a handle on more than just the brain, she understood the mind. She understood it in a way I could not. And it plagued me.” Petermann looks into the distance for a moment, as though remembering past demons.
“I heard rumors that Margaret was carrying out some unorthodox practices at the lab, and I fired her from the program,” he says. Then he notices the look his wife is giving him. “What, Virginia! What else is there to say?”
“Maybe something along the lines of, ‘I’m sorry,’” she says, her tone softening as she rests a hand on his forearm.