‘Who do you think did it?’ Clara asked, passing a glass of red wine to Peter before sitting back in the easy chair and sipping from her own.
‘Ruth.’
‘Ruth? Really?’ Clara sat up and stared at Peter. He was almost never wrong. It was one of his more annoying features. ‘You think Ruth killed CC?’
‘I think if I keep saying that eventually I’ll be right. Ruth’s the only one here, as far as I know, who could kill without a second thought.’
‘But you don’t really think that of her?’ Clara was surprised, though she didn’t necessarily disagree.
‘I do. It’s in her nature. If she hasn’t murdered someone before now it’s only because she’s lacked the motive and opportunity. The ability is there.’
‘But would she electrocute someone? I always figured if Ruth killed someone it would be with her cane, or a gun, or she’d run them down with her car. She’s not a great one for subtlety.’
Peter went to their bookcases and searched the volumes stacked and piled and crammed in together. He scanned the titles, from biographies to novels to literature and history. Lots of murder mysteries. And poetry. Wonderful poetry that sent Clara humming and moaning in the bath, her favorite place to read poetry since most volumes were slender and easy to hold with slippery hands. Peter was jealous of the words that brought such pleasure to his wife. She made sounds as though the words were caressing her and entering her and touching her in a way he wanted to keep just for himself. He wanted all her moans. But she moaned for Hecht and Atwood and Angelou and even Yeats. She groaned and hummed with pleasure over Auden and Plessner. But she reserved her greatest pleasure for Ruth Zardo.
‘Remember this?’ He brought over a small book and handed it to Clara. She flipped it open and read, at random,
‘You were a moth
brushing against my cheek
in the dark.
I killed you
not knowing
you were only a moth,
with no sting.’
She flipped to another poem, again at random, and another and another.
‘They’re almost all about death, or loss,’ she said, lowering the book. ‘I hadn’t realized that. Most of Ruth’s poems are about death.’ She closed the book. It was one of Ruth’s older volumes.
‘Not just about death,’ said Peter, throwing a birch log on the fire and watching it spit, before heading to the kitchen to check the casserole warming for dinner. From there he shouted, ‘But also very subtle. There’s a great deal to Ruth we don’t see.’
‘You were only a moth, with no sting.’ Clara repeated the words. Was CC only a moth? No. CC de Poitiers had a sting. To come anywhere near the woman was to feel it. Clara wasn’t sure she agreed with Peter about Ruth. Ruth got all her bitterness out in her poetry. She held nothing in, and Clara knew the kind of anger that led to murder needed to ferment for a long time, often sealed beneath a layer of smiles and sweet reason.
The phone rang and after a few short words Peter hung up.
‘Drink up,’ he called from the doorway. ‘That was Myrna inviting us for a quick one at the bistro.’
‘I have to gulp one drink to get another?’
‘Like old times, isn’t it?’