“Insight?” I ask. This morning Corcoran didn’t want to divulge an iota about the investigation, and now she’s asking me to play junior deputy.
“I assume you interacted with Ms. Blazer when she catered your dinner. How did she seem to you?”
“How did she seem? I’m not sure what you mean.” Does she want a read on Eve’s mood that night?
“Was she on edge in any way?” It’s Mazzola piping up for the first time as he simultaneously pulls out a pen and notebook. “Acting nervous.”
I find the question ridiculous. Do they really think I could have surmised in one night’s interaction whether Eve Blazer was in fear for her life?
“I spoke to her only briefly, but from what I could see, she wasn’t on edge.”
“What about the next day, down at her place of business? Anything odd about her behavior?”
“Not that I recognized.”
“But didn’t you say her back was up on Friday?” It’s Corcoran. Am I just imagining it, or is there a “gotcha” trace to her tone?
“Yes, but that was concerning the money. I don’t believe she was pleased with the idea that one of her staff might have taken it.”
Corcoran does that pursed-lips thing of hers. Perhaps it’s a tell, a window into her thoughts and intentions, but if that’s the case, I’m clueless about what it means. She shifts her gaze to Guy, and I can feel his utter stillness through the cushion. Is he finding this as absurd as I am?
“And what about you, Mr. Carrington? You’d worked with Ms. Blazer a number of times.”
“Well, my organization had. We used her catering company fairly regularly.”
“Did you have a chance to speak to her when she was here?”
“I said hello as I came in through the kitchen after work—and oh, I gave her the heads-up when we were ready for the dinner to be served.”
“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary?”
“Not during those thirty-second encounters, no. And even if we’d spoken more, I doubt I would have been able to gauge whether she was worried about her safety. Isn’t this a question that would be better put to her employees? If she’d had concerns, she might have raised them with a colleague.”
“Our job is to speak to as many people as possible,” Corcoran says.
The comment just hangs there, like a leaf caught on a current in midair. Please, I think, just don’t ask about the dinner guests.
“Of course,” Guy says. “Unfortunately we really have nothing to contribute about her state of mind. Is there anything else we can help you with?”
Again, his tone surprises me. It’s vaguely patronizing. Corcoran shoots her partner a look and then turns her attention back to me.
“There is one thing,” she says. “It’s about the phone call you received on Saturday.”
“Yes?” I assume by now she’s finally reached the caller.
“You see, we still can’t locate the woman. It’s all a bit of a mystery.”
I feel a prick of anxiety. What’s going on? I wonder.
“Did you try the number I gave you?”
“We did. But it’s for a disposable phone that’s no longer in operation.”
Could I have given Corcoran the wrong number from my log? But no, that’s not possible. That call was the only one I received Saturday morning besides the one Guy made to me from his office. Guy, I notice, has gone quiet again, and I assume he’s trying to interpret what Corcoran is saying. I never had the chance to catch him up to speed on this.
“Maybe . . . maybe the woman who called me had lost her phone,” I venture. “And she was using a disposable one for a couple of days.”
Corcoran says nothing in response but levels her gaze at me. Like at the station, her manner suggests that I’m making trouble, creating roadblocks in the investigation.
“If the waiters aren’t suspects, why does it even matter anymore?” I say, trying to regain my footing.
“In a murder investigation, everything matters,” she says coolly.
Of course it does, I think, recognizing how dumb my comment was. The caller had more or less indicated she was in the blue house, making her a person of interest to the police.
I wonder what’s coming next, but Corcoran rises slowly, with Mazzola following suit.
“All right,” she says, though nothing actually feels all right. “Thank you for your time.”
I let Guy see them to the door, and I head back to the kitchen, where I grab my glass from the table and take a large gulp of wine. I should be less stressed now that they’re gone, now that they’ve revealed that neither waiter is an ax murderer, but the discomfort I felt upon their arrival has swollen like a fresh bruise.