He found Fischer waiting for him by the stairs. They went down together, then crossed the foyer and went out. The early afternoon was dark gray, the cold air a relief. He’d been in the study too long. Blood drying on the walls and Castelli, unrefrigerated, on the floor. Mist drifted up Sea Cliff Avenue and sifted through the jasmine flowers that lined the walk next door.
Mona Castelli had gone next door when the ambulance left. The neighbors had taken her in, had walked her to a couch. They’d also let in a patrolman, whose instructions from Cain were straightforward: Watch the widow Castelli. Keep her in sight. And if she tries to take a drink, put a stop to it.
The young officer met them at the front door.
“Sir—ma’am—she’s just waking up.”
“And the people who live here?”
“Sitting outside, to give you space. Make yourself at home, is what the husband said.”
“Did she have anything to drink?”
“Coffee, ten minutes ago.”
“No brandy in it, anything like that?”
“No sir. I saw them make it.”
“All right. Let’s go see her.”
“You want me to wait out front?”
Cain took a better look of the patrolman. A young kid. Nineteen, twenty. But he seemed sharp enough.
“Sit in. You might learn something,” Cain said. “A third witness can’t hurt.”
“Yes, sir.”
The neighbors’ living room wasn’t half as nice as the Castellis’. Cain supposed everything ran on a graduated scale, even the extravagant wealth on Sea Cliff Avenue. They sat down in overstuffed white leather chairs opposite the matching couch where Mona Castelli lay. Her coffee mug was on a glass table next to her. It was still full.
“Have you told Alexa yet?” she asked. “Inspector Cain—have you told my daughter?”
She hadn’t opened her eyes yet.
“No, ma’am. We haven’t told her. Have you?”
“I can’t bear to.”
“Do you want me to?” Cain asked.
Mona sat up. She put her elbows on her knees and leaned her forehead against her hands.
“Will you do it for me?” she asked. “Would that be okay?”
“All right.”
There was no reason to tell her he preferred it that way. It was always better to see a family member’s initial reaction.
“Do you know where she lives?” she asked. “I don’t remember the address. I just know how to get there. It’s on Montgomery—New Montgomery.”
“I’ll call Melissa and get it from her,” Cain said. “I can go see Alexa after we finish up here.”
Mona reached for her coffee. Her hands weren’t steady, but she didn’t spill any. She took a long sip, then put the mug down.
“I need to ask you a few questions,” Cain said.
“All right.”
“And just so you know, I’m recording this.”
He set his phone on the coffee table between them.
“That’s fine.”
“Did Harry own any guns?”
“Yes, one. A pistol. A revolver.”
“Where’d he get it?”
“I don’t know. He’d always had it. It was his grandfather’s. Or maybe it had been his grandfather’s brother’s.”
“The gun we’re talking about, his grandfather’s revolver, is the one that was next to him under the desk?”
“I didn’t see it under the desk. I didn’t look under the desk—I saw him, and all the blood, and I got out.”
“You told 911 he’d shot himself, but you didn’t see the gun?”
She shook her head.
“I could smell the smoke—and the blood everywhere. The wall, the ceiling.”
“You didn’t touch him?”
“He was dead!”
“He was dead,” Cain said. “Okay. So you didn’t touch him.”
“I didn’t.”
“This gun, where did he keep it?”
“In his study? I don’t know. I hadn’t seen it for years. He isn’t a gun person. He just happened to have that gun.”
“Did he ever shoot it, that you know of? Take it to a range, and practice?”
“I never even saw him touch it.”
“How did you know about it?”
She was using her thumbs to massage her temples now. Her frosted hair hung around her face and brushed back and forth against her knees.
“I moved in with Harry when I was nineteen. Sea Cliff House, next door, is the fifth—no, the sixth house we’ve had since then. Six times, I’ve packed his stuff. Six times, I’ve unpacked it.”
“He’s not secretive about anything in his study? He let you pack it, each time?”
“You mean the Playboys?” Mona asked. She looked up, and her eyes were so red, she might have just stumbled clear of a forest fire. “Those belonged to his father. I already told you—there’s nothing about Harry you can’t find online.”
She’d told him that, but she’d also hinted what she thought about her husband and Melissa Montgomery. Cain had checked online, but even the political gossip blogs had come up clean. So either Mona was wrong, or Harry Castelli wasn’t such an open book after all.
“Was he depressed?”
“Not Harry. He’s driven. Confident.”
“But he was taking Wellbutrin.”
“Not Harry.”
“Trouble sleeping?”
“None.”
“Any other trouble in bed?”
“What are you—Are you serious?” she asked. “He wasn’t impotent, if that’s what you’re trying to say.”
“But no problems, ever, with sleeping? Or anything else?”