Odd first question, Miranda thought. “Yes.”
“How did he … what happened?”
“He was murdered.”
Her already pale face became ashen. “That’s not … possible.”
“Why not, Professor Peale?”
“Everybody loved him.”
“Did they?”
“Yes. His students … the other faculty.”
“Especially women,” Jake said. “Isn’t that right?”
She looked at him, gaze sharpening. “Everyone liked him, including women.”
“He have any enemies that you know of?”
“No.” She shook her head, said it again. “No.”
“What about a recent breakup?”
“Not that I know of.”
“He mention any relationship that had gone bad, a crazy ex-girlfriend or anything like that?”
“No, not that I—” She bit back the last and frowned, moving her gaze between them. “You think a woman may have killed him?”
“Actually, we know a woman killed him,” Jake said.
Miranda stepped in. “Where did you say you were last night?”
“I didn’t. But I was here. Grading papers…” Her words trailed off, her eyes turned glassy. “If I’d … maybe…”
“If you what?” Jake prodded.
She looked away. “If I’d gone to see him, maybe he’d still be … you know, alive.”
Miranda wasn’t convinced. “We know he invited you over. Why didn’t you go?”
“How did you—of course, Facebook. That’s why you’re here.” She brought a hand to her mouth; Miranda saw that it trembled. “I wasn’t about to run over there like some besotted teenager. So I didn’t answer.”
“But you saw the message?”
“Yes.” She cleared her throat. “I posted grades at one. Or a little after.”
“Was it unusual for him to contact you that way?”
“He usually calls or texts.”
“And you usually go?”
She looked at her lap. “Yes.”
“Why not last night?”
Without lifting her gaze, she shook her head.
“You said you didn’t want to look like a besotted teenager. What did you mean by that?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“I don’t like to put words into other people’s mouths, Professor Peale.”
“I have some pride. And I’m not desperate.”
“You’re a beautiful woman,” Jake said. “Obviously smart and accomplished. Why would he think of you as desperate for taking him up on his offer?”
She looked at them. “Because I knew I wasn’t the only woman he makes those kind of offers to.”
Miranda worked to hide her excitement. Rhonda Peale had opportunity and now, admitted motive. “He cheated on you?”
She laughed, the sound tight. “How can it be cheating if there’s no commitment to begin with?”
“Is that what he told you?”
“Yes.” She curved her arms around her middle. “And then he messages me that he’s free. Bastard.”
“You were in love with him.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you were,” Miranda coaxed. “Handsome, charming, smart, seems to me it’d be hard not to fall in love with him.”
“He seemed perfect,” she said, voice small and vulnerable. “Until that night when I realized—”
She bit it back. Miranda pressed her. “When you realized what?”
She hesitated a moment, then said simply, “That he wasn’t.”
Jake stepped in again. “Before last night, when was the last time you saw Richard?”
“Sunday night. I surprised him by stopping by.”
Miranda glanced at Jake and could see he was thinking the same thing as she. “He was with someone else, wasn’t he?”
Color flooded her cheeks. “Yes. I was completely humiliated.”
“Who was he with?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t see her.” Her voice thickened and she cleared her throat. “I didn’t get past the front door.”
“I’m sorry that happened to you,” Jake said. “You didn’t deserve that.”
Her eyes flooded with tears. “No, I didn’t.”
“That’s when he gave you the commitment speech,” Miranda said. “Am I right?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“Was there a vehicle you didn’t recognize in the driveway or out front?”
Peale thought a moment then shook her head. “I parked in the drive. And I didn’t take note of other vehicles.” She stood. “Do you mind if we cut this short, detectives? I’m not feeling so well.”
“Of course not.” Miranda got to her feet; Jake followed. “One last question. Were you aware that Richard Stark was writing a novel?”
“Of course. He talked about it often.”
“You know what it was about?”
Her mouth thinned. “A dominatrix and the lives of her clients.”
“Are you into that sort of thing, Professor Peale?”
“Excuse me? What could that possibly have to do with—” She stopped short, eyes widening. “You’re not saying—”
“It was just a question.”
“No,” she said stiffly, “I’m not.”
“Was he?”
“A novel is fiction, detectives. Make-believe.”
“I’m aware,” Miranda said lightly. “But that doesn’t answer my question.”
“No, as far as I know, he wasn’t. And certainly with me he wasn’t.”
She walked them to the door.
When they reached it, Jake handed her a card. “My number’s on there. Call me or Detective Rader if you think of anything else.”
She agreed she would and they stepped out into the burgeoning day.
Miranda stopped her. “One more thing, Professor. You asked if we’d told Richard’s parents. In fact, it was your first question. Why?”
Her face went blank; she looked at Jake. “I did?”
“Yeah,” he agreed, “you did.”
“I don’t know,” she said.
“You must have had a reason,” Miranda went on. “You must admit, it’s a little odd, learning your boyfriend’s been murdered and the very first thing out of your mouth is a question about his parents.”
Peale reached up and nervously smoothed her hair. “They were very close. Rich and his parents, I mean.”
“Closer than parents and their grown children usually are?”
“I don’t know.” Her voice rose slightly. “Why does it matter? Obviously they didn’t kill him!”
“Of course they didn’t,” Miranda said softly. “Thank you for your time, Professor.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
9:50 A.M.
Neither Miranda nor Jake spoke until after they’d buckled in and she’d started the car. Miranda pulled away from the curb. “What do you think? Is she our perp?”
“She fits the profile. They were lovers, she caught him cheating. And they communicated right before the murder.”
“And no alibi.”
“Right.” He angled in his seat to look at her. “But?”
Miranda eased to a stop at the sign, then rolled through. “But it can’t be that easy.”
“Why not? I like easy.”
“I do, too, but—” She thought a moment. “It doesn’t feel like an easy one. There’s something more going on here than a pissed-off girlfriend. Too much … fury there.”
He snorted. “I dated one of those fatal-attraction types.”
“No kidding?”
“When I was living in Austin. I met her in the library—”
“You’re making this up.”
He laughed. “I’m not, honest. Before it was all over, she’d keyed my car, conned her way into my apartment when I wasn’t there, slashed my clothes and her wrists. Not enough to actually kill herself, just enough to smear blood over everything.”