and gold.
The house itself was two stories tall and thirty or forty years old. It had aged well. The whole block was composed of similar houses, but they differed sufficiently so that one didn't have the sense of being in a development.
Nor did I have the sense of being within the five boroughs ofNew York . It is hard to remember, living inManhattan , just how high a percentage of New Yorkers inhabit one-family houses on tree-lined streets. Even politicians sometimes have trouble keeping this in mind.
I walked up a flagstone path to the front door and rang the bell. I could hear chimes sounding inside the house. Then footsteps approached the door, and it was drawn open by a slender woman with short dark hair. She wore a lime-green sweater and dark green pants. Green was a good color for her, matching her eyes, pointing up the shy wood-nymph quality she projected. She was attractive and would have been prettier still if she hadn't been crying recently. Her eyes were rimmed with red and her face was drawn.
I told her my name and she invited me inside. She said I would have to excuse her, that everything was a mess because it had been a bad day for her.
I followed her into the living room and took the chair she indicated. Despite what she'd said, nothing seemed to be a mess. The room was immaculate and very tastefully furnished. The decor was conservative and traditional without having a museum feel to it. There were photographs here and there in silver frames. A book of music stood open on the upright piano. She picked it up, closed it, put it away in the piano bench.
'The children are upstairs,' she said. 'Sara and Jennifer went to school this morning. They left before I heard the news. When they came home from lunch I kept them home. Eric won't start kindergarten until next year, so he's used to being at home. I don't know what they're thinking and I don't know what to say to them. And the telephone keeps ringing. I'd love to take it off the hook, but what if it's something important? I would have missed your call if I'd taken it off the hook. I just wish I knew what to do.' She winced and wrung her hands. 'I'm sorry,' she said, her voice steadier now. 'I'm in a state of shock. It's made me numb and jittery at the same time. For two days I didn't know where my husband was. Now I know that he's in a prison cell.And charged with murder.' She made herself take a breath.
'Would you like some coffee? I just made a fresh pot. Or I could give you something stronger.'
I said that coffee with whiskey in it would be good. She went to the kitchen and came back with two large mugs of coffee. 'I don't know what kind of whiskey or how much to put in,' she said. 'There's the liquor cabinet. Why don't you pick out what you like?'
The cabinet was well stocked with expensive brands. This did not surprise me. I never knew a cop who didn't get a lot of liquor at Christmas. The people who are a little diffident about giving you cash find it easier to give you a bottle or a case of decent booze. I put a healthy slug of Wild Turkey in my cup. I suppose it was a waste. One bourbon tastes pretty much like another when you pour it in coffee.
'Is it good that way?' She was standing beside me, her own mug held in both hands. 'Maybe I'll try some. I don't normally drink very much. I've never liked the taste of it. Do you think a drink would relax me?'
'It probably wouldn't hurt.'
She held out her mug. 'Please?'
I filled her mug and she stirred it with her spoon and took a tentative sip. 'Oh, that's good,' she said, in what was almost a child's voice. 'It's warming, isn't it? Is it very potent?'
'It's about the same strength as a cocktail. And the coffee tends to counteract some of the effects of the alcohol.'
'You mean you don't get drunk?'
'You still get drunk eventually. But you don't get tired out en route. Do you normally get drunk on one drink?'
'I can usually feel one drink. I'm afraid I'm not much of a drinker.
But I don't suppose this will hurt me.'
She looked at me, and for a short moment we challenged one another with our eyes. I didn't know then and do not know now precisely what happened, but our eyes met and exchanged wordless messages, and something must have been settled on the spot, although we were not consciously aware of the settlement or even of the messages that preceded it.
I broke the stare. I took the note her husband had written from my wallet and handed it to her. She scanned it once quickly,then read it through more carefully. 'Twenty-five hundred dollars,' she said. 'I suppose you'll want that right now, Mr. Scudder.'
'I'll probably be having some expenses.'
'Certainly.'She folded the note in two,then folded it again. 'I don't recall Jerry mentioning your name.
Have you known each other for a long time?'
'Not long at all.'
'You're on the force. Did you work together?'
'I used to be on the force, Mrs.Broadfield . Now I'm a sort of private detective.'
'Just sort of?'
'The unlicensed sort.After all those years in the department I have an aversion to filling out forms.'
'An aversion.'
'Pardon me?'
'Did I say that aloud?' She smiled suddenly and her whole face brightened. 'I don't think I've ever heard a policeman use that word. Oh, they use large words, but of a certain sort, you know. 'Alleged perpetrator' is my favorite phrase of all. And 'miscreant' is a wonderful word. Nobody but a policeman or a reporter ever called anybody a miscreant, and reporters just write it, they never say it out loud.'
