Everything about Corcoran’s visit feels so weird to me. The way they pressed Guy and me for our impressions of Eve Blazer’s mood that night. How could we be expected to have read her thoughts? Plus, this whole crazy thing about the woman who called me and now can’t be located. I’m struck, too, by the fact that the entire time Corcoran and her sidekick were here, there seemed to be two conversations going on: the one they were conducting with Guy and me, and the unspoken one between just the two of them.
A frightening question forms in my mind: Am I a target in the investigation? I was the one who found the body, after all—or at least one of the ones—and aren’t the police always suspicious of the first person on the scene? But Corcoran can’t suspect me. What could my motive have been?
Guy comes up behind me and I jerk in surprise.
“Oh, I didn’t hear you. Do you want some wine?” I ask.
“Not now, thanks. Maybe later.”
“You must be relieved, right? Since the waiters aren’t suspects, it doesn’t look like the police will need to talk to the dinner guests.”
“Well, at least for now it doesn’t seem that way.”
I scoff. “Unless they want to ask them whether the chef seemed on edge that night. I can’t believe they thought we’d have any insight.”
“What’s this business about the phone call?”
“It came up this morning—at the station—so I never had the chance to tell you. They claimed they spoke to all the women employed by the catering company and no one admitted to having called me.”
He frowns, as if he doesn’t understand.
“Why would the person who called you hold out on the cops that way?”
“I don’t know, but it’s troubling. When I spoke to that woman, I had the impression she was at the house. So maybe she went into Eve’s office after the call—to tell her she’d reached me—and found the body. She might have panicked so much that she fled the scene and doesn’t want to admit to the cops she was there. Or she may know something about the murder and wants to distance herself as much as possible.”
“Well, that’s for the police to figure out.”
“I just hate the way that Corcoran makes it seem as if I’m holding out on her about the call. She pressed me the same way at the station. You don’t think she believes I had something to do with the murder, do you?”
“Don’t be silly. Though it’s smart you didn’t bring up that verbal exchange you had with Eve Blazer that night. You don’t want to give the cops anything to sink their teeth into. I have serious concerns about their competence.”
“Of course I wouldn’t have said anything about that,” I say, wondering why he’d feel the need to dredge that up. “It’s not even relevant . . . What about dinner? I could throw together a salad.”
“I think I’m going to head upstairs and tackle a bit of work for a while. I’ll fix a sandwich for myself later.”
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Yes, I need something to take my mind off this whole ugly mess.”
After he leaves the room, I carry my glass of wine to the screened porch and curl into one of the wicker armchairs. Now that I know one of the waiters isn’t the killer, I can relax a little about being out here, especially with Guy in the house.
I haven’t bothered switching on any lamps, so after a few moments dusk begins to fill the room like fog. I take another sip of wine and set the glass on the floor, realizing that I don’t want any more, that it’s doing nothing to ease my stress. Something feels off center, as if I’m trying to sleep on the opposite side of the bed than I usually do.
What’s unsettling me, I realize, isn’t simply the way the cops talked on two planes. It’s Guy and his behavior tonight, details that seem out of character for him. Like the curt tone when the cops first introduced themselves. And his inattention toward me since they left. He must know I’m rattled by this whole experience. Why not sit with me for a while as we both decompress?
There’s something else, too. His sudden stillness on the sofa midway through the conversation, like someone trying to decipher an odd sound coming from another room.
I wonder if he’s experiencing what I went through earlier at the station, that discomfort that arises simply from sitting across from a detective and being quizzed. I recall what Sandra said today about the unnatural guilt she experienced being stopped for speeding.
The room darkens. There’s a hint of honeysuckle in the air.
And then fatigue sneaks up behind me, like it had earlier in the day. I start to rise, ready for bed, but my arms and legs feel too heavy to move. I flop onto the daybed and close my eyes. It’ll be just be for a minute, I think, until I summon my energy back.
And then I’m dreaming, half knowing it’s a dream. I’m in the hotel room again. There’s the smell of smoke. And the man behind me. He calls for me to wait, and I tell him I can’t. This time I feel him reach for me and touch my arm.
“Listen,” he says. “You have to listen.”
Chapter 11