She led me back through an entrance way with a cream marble floor and past the living room with its comfortable-looking sectional sofa and lots of earth colors: sienna, ocher, and burnt umber.
There was no guided tour, though. No more questions about why I was there. A little too much silence suddenly. My chi energy was draining off somewhere.
She took me into the huge kitchen. She went to the refrigerator, a big, double-door jobbie that opened with a loud whoosh.
“Let me see, we've got beer, diet cola, sun tea. I can make coffee or hot tea if you'd like. You do work too hard. That's for sure.”
She sounded a little like a teacher now. Understanding, but gently reminding me that I might have areas of improvement.
“A beer sounds pretty good,” I told her. I glanced around the kitchen, which was easily twice the size of ours at home. There were rows of white custom cabinets. A skylight in the ceiling. A flyer on the fridge promoting a “Walk for the Homeless.” She had a very nice home -- she and George did.
I noted an embroidered cloth on a wall stretcher. Swahili words: Kwenda mzuri. It's a farewell that means “go well.” A gentle hint? Word to the wise?
“I'm glad to hear you'll have a beer,” she said smiling. “That would mean you're at least close to knocking off for the day. It's almost ten-thirty. Did you know that? What time is it on your clock?”
“Is it that late? I'm real sorry,” I said to her. “We can do this tomorrow.”
Christine brought me a Heineken and iced tea for herself.
She sat across from me at an island counter that subdivided the kitchen. The house was far from being the mess she'd warned me about when I came in. It was nicely lived-in. There was a sweet, charming display of drawings from the Truth School on one wall.
A beautiful mud cloth on a stretcher also grabbed my eye.
“So. What's up, doc?” she asked. “What brings you outside the beltway?”
“Honestly? I couldn't sleep. I took a drive. I drove out this way. Then I had the bright idea that maybe we could cover some ground on the case... or maybe I just needed to talk to somebody.”
I finally confessed, and it felt pretty good. Directionally good, anyway.
“Well, that's okay. That's fine. I can relate to that. I couldn't sleep myself,” she said. “I've been wound tight ever since Shanelle's murder. And then poor Vernon Wheatley. I was pruning the plants, with ER on the television for background noise. Pretty pathetic, don't you think?”
“Not really. I don't think it's so strange. ER is good. By the way, you have a beautiful house out here.”
I could see the living room TV set from the kitchen. A mammoth Sony playing the medical drama. A black retriever, a young dog, wandered in from the direction of a narrow hallway with oatmeal-colored carpeted stairs. “That's Meg,” Christine told me.
“She was watching ER, too. Meg loves a good melodrama.” The dog nuzzled me, then licked my hand.
I don't know why I wanted to tell her, but I did.
'I play the piano at night sometimes. There's a sun porch in our house, so the awful racket doesn't bother the kids too much.
Either that or they've learned to sleep right through it,“ I said. ”A little Gershwin, Brahms, Jellyroll Morton at one in the morning never hurt anyone.'
Christine Johnson smiled, and seemed at ease with this kind of talk. She was a very self-assured person, very centered. I'd noticed that right from the first night. I had sensed it about her.
“Damon has mentioned your nocturnal piano playing a few times at school. You know, he occasionally brags about you to the teachers. He's a very nice boy, in addition to being a brainiac. We like him tremendously”
“Thank you. I like him a lot myself. He's lucky we have the Sojourner Truth School nearby”
“Yes, I think he is,” Christine agreed. “A lot of D.C. schools are a complete disgrace, and so sad. The Truth is a small miracle for the children who attend.”
“Your miracle?” I asked her.
“No, no, no. A lot of people are responsible, least of all me. My husband's law firm has contributed some guilt money I just help to keep the miracle going. I believe in miracles, though. How long has it been since your wife died, Alex?” she suddenly changed gears. But Christine Johnson made the question conversational and low-key and very natural to ask, even if it wasn't. Still, it took me by surprise. I sensed I didn't have to answer if I didn't want to.
“It's going to be five years soon,” I told her, partly holding my breath as I did. “This March, actually Jannie was still a little baby She was less than a year old. I remember coming in and holding her that night. She had no idea that she was comforting me.”
The two of us were getting comfortable talking at the kitchen counter. We were both opening up quite a lot. Small talk at first. Then bigger talk. Sojourner Truth School killer talk. Maybe something helpful for the investigation. It went on like that until almost midnight.
I finally told her I needed to be heading home. She didn't disagree.
The look in her eyes told me that she understood everything that had gone on here tonight, and all of it was okay with her.
At the front door, Christine surprised me again. She pecked me on the cheek.
“Come back, Alex,” she said, “if you need to talk again. I'll be here tending to my shrubs in my ostentatious house. Kwenda mzuri,” she said.
