“What are they doing here?”
“Maybe they’ve made an arrest.” That would be a relief, but if it’s one of the waiters, it would put the murder right at our feet.
“Let me handle this, okay?” He steps around me and swings open the heavy wooden door.
“Good evening,” Corcoran says. She nods at me and then directs her attention to Guy. “You must be Mr. Harper.”
“I’m Guy Carrington. But I’m Bryn Harper’s husband if that’s what you’re asking.”
There’s a slight curtness to Guy’s tone, not his usual MO with strangers. He’s anxious, I think. Just like I am.
Corcoran introduces herself to Guy and her partner, Detective Mazzola, to both of us. He’s younger than she is, maybe midthirties, with short spiky hair. He’s dressed in khaki pants, a blue button-down shirt, and a scuffed brown belt that, based on the imprints in the leather, has been used on about three different notches over the years.
“Is it all right if we come in?” she asks. “We’d like to speak to the two of you.”
“May I ask what this is about?” Guy says. Again, his tone catches me off guard. “I thought my wife already provided you with all the details she could.”
“Ms. Harper has been very helpful, but we have an update we’d like to share.”
An update. My stomach clenches. It has to be about one of the waiters.
“All right, come in then,” Guy says. He shuts the door behind them and leads us all into the living room. Neither cop comments on the house, but I notice Mazzola letting his gaze roam over the space, making a judgment I cannot read.
Guy gestures for them to be seated, and they take the two armchairs by the fireplace; we lower ourselves onto the couch directly across from them. My heart is racing now, simply in anticipation. I don’t want this to create trouble for Guy at work. But it’s more than that. I dread that I’ve been the unwitting catalyst for Eve Blazer’s murder.
“Have you lived here long?” Corcoran asks. I can’t believe she’s starting with chitchat. That was her approach this morning, too: the faux-friendly question about how I was doing. Is that some kind of technique she uses?
“About a month,” Guy says. “We’re renting the house for the summer.”
“You work in Saratoga, your wife said.”
“Yes, I do. I’m head of development for the opera company.”
“But this isn’t where you usually live?”
Guy quickly sums up our situation. A commuter relationship, him with a small apartment in town, me coming up for the summer, prompting the need for a roomier place. The side of Corcoran’s mouth is tugged upward, as if she’s thinking, Must be nice.
Please, I beg silently, just get on with it and tell us why you’re here.
“You said you had an update,” Guy says.
“Yes, that’s right.” Corcoran’s tone is polite enough, but the pace of her words suggest she’s not about to be hurried or bossed. “We know there’s been concern on your wife’s part that the murder could be related to the theft of money from your home last Thursday.”
“There’s been concern on both our parts,” Guy says. He reaches out a hand and lays it over mine. “We feel terrible about what’s happened.”
“As you’d expect, we’re not in the business of keeping witnesses up to speed on developments in our investigations. But because of your fears for your safety, we’re making an exception in this case.”
Guy doesn’t comment, but I feel a mild tremor in the sofa cushion as his body shifts almost imperceptibly.
“Well, you can breathe a little easier,” she continues. “As it turns out, each waiter has a confirmed alibi for the time of the homicide. Neither one is a suspect.”
I can’t help it; I let out a gasp of relief. I haven’t set this gruesome chain of events into motion after all.
“So the murder had nothing to do with the stolen money?” I say.
“It doesn’t appear that way.”
I turn to Guy, expecting him to respond as well, but he’s silent, his face expressionless. Finally he nods as if it’s taken him a few moments to grasp the news.
“Thank you for telling us,” I say. “It doesn’t change what’s happened, of course, but it’s a relief to know.”
What I’m still in the dark about is whether one of the waiters actually did take the money, and I’m probably going to remain there, and also never learn whether the matches were a taunt or just a bizarre coincidence.
“Let me echo my wife’s feelings.” It’s Guy, finally speaking up. “We appreciate the information.”
And now they can go, I think, and we’ll finally be done with all this. But Corcoran appears as unwilling to budge as Jabba the Hutt.
“Of course, that leaves us still looking for her killer,” she says. “So any insight on your part would be helpful.”