“I hear you.”
For the rest of the afternoon I hang in the den, answering emails and reading a few articles online about reinvention, hoping they’ll kick start my brain. I try to keep thoughts of the murder at bay, but it’s impossible, and at moments they trample over me. I check out the police blotter on the website of the Saratogian, the local newspaper, to see if there’s any development. “Local Chef Found Slain in Office” is the first item. It doesn’t mention the ax, only that Eve Blazer was brutally killed. No suspects at this time. No mention of either me or Sara. Or any other woman who might have been at the scene.
Leaning back against the couch cushions, I hear Sara’s words echo in my head: Who did that to her? Who?
Though Guy and I had originally planned to go out for dinner, neither one of is up for it now. He makes a run to the butcher and picks up a steak, which he panfries for us. I nuke a couple of baked potatoes and toss a salad with vinaigrette.
Later in bed, Guy spoons me and I wonder if he’s going to initiate sex. But within a minute or two I hear his long, slow breaths, the sound of him surrendering to sleep. As much as I want our sex life back in sync, I don’t think I could have faced it tonight.
The next day is rainy and raw. Guy and I spend most of it in the den, reading and watching movies. He’s dressed in jeans and a heather-colored Henley shirt, with his feet bare, a casual look I love on him.
Halfway through the third movie, I glance over to see if he’s getting bored like I am. I catch him staring off into space.
“Where’d you go?” I ask.
“Hmm?”
“You seem lost in thought.”
“Oh, just ruminating about some work issues. A Sunday night habit.”
“You figured out that problem with the numbers, right?”
“Yes, that’s all resolved, thankfully.”
“Is it the murder? Are you still worried it might impact your job somehow?”
“That’s a possibility, but I’m trying not to borrow trouble. Let’s just see what happens.”
In the morning, after Guy’s left for the office, I notice an email from Derek Collins, suggesting we meet at a restaurant on the ground floor of an old hotel on Broadway. Damn, I think. Having lunch with him totally slipped my mind. My first instinct, in light of everything that’s happened, is to cancel, but I talk myself into going. I need to stick with the decision I’ve made to do more, to get out, to recapture my life.
It’s sunny today and pleasant, in the high seventies, so I skip the jeans and opt for a cotton dress and sandals. As I’m heading out the door, there’s a call on my cell phone from a local number and I wonder if it might be Derek.
It’s not.
“Ms. Harper? Good morning, this is Detective Corcoran. We spoke on Saturday.”
She’d mentioned the possibility of a follow-up call, but still, it unsettles me to hear her voice.
“Oh, good morning.”
“We appreciate your help the other day, but I had a few additional questions.”
I wonder if it’s about the money stolen from my office. I cringe, realizing that the murder might indeed blow back on Guy and me. We could really be in danger.
“Of course. What would you like to know?”
“It would be best if we could do this in person. We may ask that you look at some photos.”
My chest tightens. “Photos? You mean of the waiters?”
“Why don’t I explain when you arrive.”
“All right. I have an appointment in a few minutes; I could stop by afterwards. Around two thirty. Does that work?”
She agrees and gives me the address on Lake Avenue, which is right off Broadway and not far from the restaurant. When the call is over, I warn myself not to jump to conclusions. Maybe they’ve zeroed in on a suspect who isn’t one of the waiters and she just wants to know if I saw the person in the vicinity.
I try Guy on his cell, planning to alert him, but the call goes straight to voicemail. I leave a message asking him to return my call. I also leave a message on his office phone.
I lock up the house and manage to sprint to the car, searching the area with my eyes as I move. Derek is already at the restaurant when I arrive, sitting on the veranda of the legendary hotel. He smiles warmly when he sees me, and by the time I’ve mounted the steps, he’s stood and pulled out one of the rattan chairs for me. Still no sighting of the infamous cords. He’s dressed in jeans, with a V-neck sweater over a T-shirt.
“I’ve been dying to eat here,” I say after I’m settled.
“Don’t tell me that word of their chop salad has reached Manhattan.”
“Ha, not that I know of. I just wanted to sit on this veranda. When I drive by, I picture people from a hundred years ago hanging out here during the summertime.”
“Even longer ago than that. This building is pre-Civil War.”
“Do you know a lot about the area?”