“Hon—” Michael started.
She began to cry. “It was me. I left the lit cigarette in the couch. I was so drunk that night. I thought I was prepared to see Phil with Deborah, but I was wrong. Everyone else there was coupled up. Barry and Enid announced their engagement. It was crushing. I made a pass at Michael in front of Fran.”
Michael leaned across the table and laced his fingers through hers. “It all turned out okay. We’re happy. Fran’s happy. She is, isn’t she?” he asked me.
Before I could answer, Sheila said, “It didn’t turn out okay for Madeleine and Howell, or for their little boy.” She took a napkin from the holder and wiped her tears. Then she gestured around the dreary old kitchen. “You call this happy?” She sobbed into the napkin.
Michael looked so discouraged, I almost couldn’t go through with it, but I had to. “While I was in Connecticut, I talked to the Lowes’ insurance agent and picked up the insurance report on the fire.”
“Does it say who left the cigarette?” Sheila’s voice quavered.
“I haven’t opened it. I’m saving it to give to Lieutenant Binder tomorrow. It’s still in the manila envelope, in the tote bag, in my apartment.”
They didn’t respond to that, so I rose and said my good-byes. Neither of them walked me out. When the kitchen door swung shut behind me, I heard the murmur of their voices as I walked down the hall.
One more visit to make.
*
The Bennetts’ luxury SUV was parked in front of their massive garage addition. Deborah answered the door.
“Julia. How lovely to see you.”
“Is Phil around?”
“In his studio. Do you need to talk to him? You look very serious.”
I consciously unfurrowed my brow. “Yes, but I’d like to speak to you first.” I needed Deborah’s take on some things, and I wasn’t sure how many questions Phil would let me ask her.
She stole a glance up the stairs toward the studio. Had Phil heard the Caprice in the driveway, I wondered. Would he come down?
“Phil usually paints with headphones on,” Deborah told me. “He listens to classical music. I think we have some time before he realizes someone is here.” She led me to the kitchen, and we sat at the island.
“I know Phil was married to Sheila before he married you,” I said.
Deborah looked me straight in the eyes. Now that I knew her, I was able to return her gaze without being distracted by her face. “I know what they say about me, said about me back then,” she responded. “Phil was on a fast track in his family’s business and needed a more glamorous wife, but none of that was true. None of us is all one thing. Phil may have been a genius at corporate life, but he was also an artist in his soul. During the summers at Rabble Point, he used to go off painting with Barry and his father. Barry’s dad thought Phil had something really special.
“That side of Phil held no attraction for Sheila. It’s ironic that I was viewed as the corporate wife when I had no interest in entertaining or making appearances at functions to support his career. It was Sheila who loved those things. Phil got satisfaction from his job, as one does when one is good at something, but it was so stressful. He needed a home life that nurtured his other side, the artist. That was the part of him I loved. Had always loved, all those summers, though I kept it to myself.”
Sheila had gone on to success in her own career. Perhaps her ambitions for Phil masked thwarted desires of her own. “For what it’s worth,” I said, “Sheila and Michael seem happy. Sheila was a federal judge until she retired last year. She’s had a good life, though I think she’s feeling isolated and lonely since they moved here, trying to adjust to retirement and find friends in a new town.” I paused. “Perhaps you understand some of what she feels.”
Deborah’s face didn’t move, but I thought I saw recognition in her eyes. “I made peace with our situation years ago, but Phil has always felt terrible guilt about what we did to Sheila. He knows they had no chance for happiness. He never should have married her. He knew it was wrong from the start.”
“Phil may know how Sheila’s doing,” I said. “He’s seen Michael Smith since they’ve been in town.”
“I’ve what?” Phil stood in the kitchen doorway, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, paint flecks on his skinny forearms.
“I was telling Deborah that you’ve visited Michael Smith since you’ve been in town.”
“Phil, why didn’t you tell me?” Deborah asked. “I thought we’d agreed to let the past stay in the past.”
Phil rolled his shoulders and looked pointedly at me. I wasn’t going to say anything about Quinn. Let her parents, real and biological, figure it out. I wondered if Phil would tell Deborah after I left. Now that I had them both in the room, I did what I’d come to do. “I was in Connecticut yesterday. I know about the fire that killed the Lowes.”