“I know you shared a lot on the phone, but let’s go through it once more. Then, we’ll work on springing you from here.”
By the time I’m finished with my story, I’m sick to death from hearing myself talk. But I’m impressed with Tina. Her questions are smart and intuitive. She manages to seem both buttoned-up but also empathetic to my plight and invested in me.
“I know this isn’t a pretty situation, Bryn,” she tells me when I can’t think of anything more to add. “But we’ll get you through this.”
The interview with Corcoran and Mazzola goes decently, better than I anticipated. They want to know everything they can about Lisa Wallins—when she first surfaced, the times we were together, every comment she uttered on those occasions, as well as the exact statements she made in the bathhouse. There’s nothing about Corcoran’s attitude this time that suggests she thinks I’m culpable of a crime or I’m withholding essential information.
Unsurprisingly, Corcoran’s annoyed when I finally divulge the detail about the matches, but I explain that the information didn’t seem in any way relevant to Eve Blazer’s murder. She shoots me a “let me be the judge of that” look before moving on.
They want to know about Guy, too, whether I have any evidence of his relationship with Lisa Wallins.
Are they thinking I might have been keeping Sandra/Lisa close because I was suspicious of her?
“I never had a clue,” I say. “The first I learned about their relationship was today.”
“What did your husband say when you told him a woman had dropped by the house and given you the brochures?”
“I don’t think it ever occurred to him it was her.”
Corcoran taps her pen on the table a few times, clearly forming the next question in her mind.
“You said you’re staying at the Saratoga Arms. Are you and your husband not living together now?”
No, we’re not. I began to think he’d been involved with Eve Blazer. I didn’t feel I could trust him anymore.”
I leave it at that. Based on what’s occurred, what Guy set in motion with his infidelity, he’s not going to have a job with the opera company much longer, and I don’t have the stomach to tar him any more than necessary.
Later, when we’re alone in the vestibule, Tina whispers that she thinks I did very well.
“They can’t just be taking my word, right?” I say. “They’ve got to have another reason to suspect this Lisa Wallins.”
“That’s my bet, too. They may have found evidence that implicates her. Maybe the burner phone she used to call you the day of the murder. Or something even more incriminating. But it’s time for you to rest. Let me drop you at the inn.”
I realize suddenly that my car is still back at the Washington Baths—though I wouldn’t be able to drive it anyway. I nod, wondering how I’m going to cope over the next few days.
As soon as I step onto the sidewalk I see him: Derek.
“Bryn, what’s happening?” he says, rushing toward me. “I tried to find you at the hospital, and they wouldn’t tell me if you were there. I finally realized I should come here.”
Part of me is comforted to see him and appreciative of his efforts to track me down, but I’m still discomforted about what I learned—that he spoke to Eve privately in the kitchen that night.
“It’s a very long story. Why don’t I call you later? I’m headed back to the inn now.”
“Can I at least drop you there?” he says.
Tina has her eyebrows raised, as if to ask, Are you cool with this? I think for a sec, and then consent. After thanking Tina for everything, she squeezes my arm and promises to speak to me later.
“I was so worried about you,” Derek says as soon as Tina’s departed.
I look at him, unsmiling.
“Why didn’t you ever admit to me that you’d spoken to Eve?”
“What?”
“That night, at our dinner party. I know you spoke to her. When we talked about the murder over lunch, you didn’t say anything about that. And when I mentioned to you earlier today that the waiter saw Eve talking privately to a man by the kitchen, you never volunteered it was you. That seems like a pretty odd omission.”
“Okay, I see your point. Remember how I told you that she catered for a friend of mine? They dated for a while and he was completely smitten with her. That night she came up to me in the hallway and asked about him, acting all flirty. She had an agenda, but I had no idea what it was.”
“Why not tell me?”
“My only excuse is that I was being protective of my friend. If I brought up his obsession, you might feel obligated to tell the cops and they’d want to talk to him. I knew he could never have killed her, but he’s the type of guy the cops would have loved to have hounded.”
I look into his eyes, trying to gauge the veracity of his words. Over these past weeks, I’ve been forced to deal with a nearly endless stream of secrets and lies, and I can’t be sure that this isn’t just one more. For the moment, at least, I decide to believe him.