I slipped the boot on and followed Roche through a reception area—a less intimidating space decorated with local travel posters (“Moon over Massamat Harvest Festival”), potted plants and orange plastic chairs. The chairs were empty except for a Hispanic woman with a cooing infant on her lap. We walked down a long corridor next. No softness or warmth anywhere. Fluorescent lights, beige linoleum floors and bare white walls. Room six was also white. No windows. Just a gray metal table, three gray metal chairs and a gray metal door. A black electronic device sat on the table, likely a tape recorder. The mirrored wall behind the two chairs had a dark tint. One-way glass. My mouth was dry as sandpaper.
“Have a seat here.” Roche indicated the single chair with its back to the door. “Are you thirsty? Can I get you any coffee? Soda? Water?”
My new best friend.
“Coffee would be great, thanks. Black is fine.”
Roche picked up an intercom handset on the wall and asked someone to bring coffee to room six. Then he sat down opposite me. It was so quiet I could hear the nervous gurgling in my stomach. I noticed my hands were tightened into fists and opened them.
“All right then. Let’s get started.”
He flipped the switch on the electronic device and a little red light came on. He leaned forward and then instantly back, probably catching a whiff of my stress breath. After clearing his throat, he said, “Interview with Nora Glasser by Detective Lawrence Roche. November sixteenth. Massamat station. 1:47 p.m.”
Then Roche paused and reached inside his jacket. He pulled out a folded copy of the Courier and laid it down on the desk with my recent Tips column faceup. I thought of my caustic remarks about Summer People, and gulped. My complaints about how they clogged exercise classes. Did he know Helene was in my Pilates class?
Roche focused his dark, sly eyes on me.
“Are you Nora Glasser of number three Crooked Farm Lane, Pequod?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve been employed as a writer at the Pequod Courier for the last two and a half years, approximately?”
“Yes.”
“Hugh Walker is your ex-husband, Ms. Glasser. Is that correct?”
I nodded.
“I need a verbal, please.”
“Yes.”
“When was the last time you had any contact with him?”
Was Hugh’s letter technically contact? It wouldn’t make me look good.
Can’t you please try and let go of your rage at me? Hasn’t enough time passed?
Unless the mailman read and memorized return addresses, there was no way the police could know the letter existed. I’d take that chance.
“Just about three years ago.”
“You haven’t seen him since?”
“Well, I saw him. A number of times.”
“Exactly where and when most recently, if you can remember?”
“Outside the Pequod hardware store. This past Labor Day.”
“What were you doing there?”
“I was going in to buy some DampRid. He was coming out. He had two armfuls of tiki torches from the end-of-season sale.”
“And you didn’t talk to each other?”
It was the one time I couldn’t avoid Hugh. There might have been a witness. I had to tell the truth.
“Actually, I misspoke. We did have contact.”
“Oh?”
“He said hello. He told me I looked great.”
“That’s all?”
“He asked me if I was seeing anyone.”
“And did you respond?”
I hesitated and wiped some moisture off my upper lip.
“Ms. Glasser, did you speak to Hugh Walker?”
“Yes. I told him to light up a tiki torch and shove it you know where.”
Roche smiled slightly. “No, I don’t,” he said.
My face reddened. “His ass,” I said, softly.
“For the recorder, please.”
“His ass.” Damn.
“So, you were not on friendly terms.”
“We really weren’t on any terms at all.”
Roche eyed me steadily. He put his palms on the table and spread his fingers. “Ms. Glasser. Do you know of anyone who might want to harm your ex-husband or his wife?”
I relaxed a little, grateful we seemed to be moving on. “I have one idea,” I said.
Roche slid his chair in closer and clasped his hands on the table. “Go ahead.”
“A drug dealer. A dealer who felt ripped off or dissed by them.”
“Are you saying the Walkers were drug addicts?”
Was he trying to put words in my mouth? “Maybe not addicts. But I bet they got stoned a lot.”
“Do you know that for a fact?”
“No.” I’d said “idea,” not fact. Was he setting some trap? I felt light-headed. I tried to control my breathing. Mad. Sad. Bad. Glad. Bad.
“Then what makes you think they did?”
“It’s an artist thing. Hugh used to partake sometimes when we were together. Drug habits tend to get worse over time when there’s a lot of money. Hugh certainly had plenty.” Oh shit. That sounded bitter. I was not a bitter, angry woman. Or was I? I guess I did feel cheated by Hugh, but Roche didn’t need to know that.
“I see,” he said, sitting back again and crossing his arms. “That’s interesting information, Ms. Glasser. We’ll look into it.”
“I really think you should.”
“Did he have enemies? Was anyone very angry about his treatment of them?”
I was sure he meant me. I tried to think back, determined to come up with alternatives.
“Well . . . I remember he thought his accountant did a lousy job on his taxes and fired him. But that seems pretty far-fetched.” Who else? Who else? “How about the housekeeper? The one who found them. Maybe they didn’t treat the help very well?”
Roche nodded, paused for a few seconds, then uncrossed his arms and pulled on his chin. “I understand Hugh and Helene Walker bought their house at Pequod Point last spring. I can imagine you must’ve had some feelings about them moving here?”
I shifted in my chair and Roche registered it.
“It’s a free country,” I said. Now I sounded defensive. This was not going well at all. I noticed my palms were glistening with sweat. “I only meant . . .”
Roche interrupted. “And where were you between the hours of midnight and three a.m. this morning?”
“Where was I?” I began blinking nervously. I was definitely on his radar.
He nodded.
“At home. Sleeping.”
“Are there any witnesses? Anyone who could corroborate that?”
“I was sleeping alone, if that’s what you mean.”
“How did you get that scratch on your face?”
I felt the blood drain from my cheeks as I touched the cut under my eye.
“This?”
I was floundering for an answer when the door behind me opened unexpectedly, causing Roche to look over my shoulder and scowl. “What is it?”
“He claims he’s her lawyer.”
I was confused. “Who is?”
I turned and saw Sergeant Klish with my coffee in his hand. Douglas Gubbins, the lawyer with offices upstairs from the Courier, stood off to the side behind him. Gubbins was suited, tied, and carrying a leather attaché case. A beanpole of a man in his sixties with a neat helmet of graying brown hair, clear-rimmed glasses, and pasty skin—Aunt Lada would call him a “nebbish”—he stepped forward.
“Ms. Glasser, I came as quickly as I could.”
He extended his hand palm up, as if he were asking me to dance at a ball. Roche groaned. I was flabbergasted. What was Gubbins doing here? I barely knew him—our interactions had been limited to polite “hellos” in the hallway of the Courier building or in Eden’s Coffee Shop, where I’d often see him having breakfast or lunch. But that little voice inside told me not to ask questions, just to waltz out of there with him. I pushed back my chair, stood up and put my hand in his. I could swear Gubbins bowed before he led me to the door.