If I'd Killed Him When I Met Him…

courtesy to the widow, and perhaps as a strategy toward a possible murderess, they were pretending that their visit was little more than a social call. The suspect, Donna Jean Morgan, was also pretending that their visit was a formality, because she was too embarrassed and frightened to consider any other possibility.

“You’re sure you wouldn’t like a doughnut?” she twittered again.

The older deputy responded with a plaster smile, while the young, nervous one got out his notebook and looked expectantly at his partner.

Alvin Brower decided that it was time to get down to business, but he wasn’t going to be unpleasant about it, because this was still an interview, not an interrogation. In an interview, you put the witness at ease, acted friendly, and let him do most of the talking, because you didn’t know all the answers yet, and you wanted all the information you could get, including, you hoped, any inconsistencies or demonstrable lies the witness might care to tell. The interrogation came later, when you did know all the answers, and you wanted the suspect to admit guilt. That discourse was far less courteous, and would not be held in the suspect’s living room. Brower thought he was one step closer to an interrogation now: the autopsy report had come back.

“Now, Mrs. Morgan, I don’t want to have to charge you with assault on my waistline,” he said, smiling again. “So don’t tempt me with baked goods.” Actually, the offer wasn’t all that tempting, since the last recipient of Donna Jean’s cooking was dead of arsenic poisoning. “Let’s go back over the evening of Mr. Morgan’s death again, as best we can.”

Donna Jean sighed. “It won’t change with retelling, Mr. Brower. He came here, and I fixed him a supper to take with him while he worked. I always fixed his supper. Maybe he thought Tanya Faith would take over that task, and she was welcome to it as far as I was concerned, but I don’t think it ever would have happened. Catch Tanya Faith cooking!” She smiled at the absurdity of it.

“But you were angry with your husband, weren’t you, Mrs. Morgan?”

“Chevry could be a stubborn man,” his widow admitted. “And I think he heard more instructions from the Lord than the Lord ever gave.”

“My wife agrees with you there, ma’am,” said Brower genially. “She had heard about your previous trouble over polygamy, and I’m sorry to tell you that she laughed out loud when she heard of your late husband’s demise.” He watched the widow closely for a trace of a smile.

“He didn’t deserve to die for being a graven fool,” said Donna Jean solemnly. “To my way of thinking, he deserved to live so that he could repent at leisure after he found out what a bad match he made with that teenaged slut.”

The deputies looked at each other. A new possibility had presented itself. “Was Tanya Faith helping your husband work that night?”

“She was not,” said Donna Jean.

“And she wasn’t supposed to go over and eat with him, by any chance?”

“No. Tanya Faith didn’t go out there much. I don’t think she liked the fact that it was next to the old church cemetery. She’d have had nightmares if they’d moved in, you mark my words. Anyhow, the old place wasn’t fancy enough for her yet. She was waiting for her wallpaper and her carpeting to be installed.” The older woman frowned. “She stayed here with me.”

“Did she help you fix Chevry’s dinner?”

“No more than she could help.” Donna Jean sniffed. “She may be a handmaiden to the prophet in the bedroom, but she made herself scarce in the kitchen.” She thought for a moment in the ensuing silence. “Reckon that would have changed in time. She’d have been scarce both places, but Chevry wasn’t ready to see that. I wish he could have lived for the disillusionment.”

Alvin Brower frowned at the other deputy. Donna Morgan wasn’t sounding like any bona fide killer that he’d ever met, but he’d be the first to admit that he wasn’t an expert on homicides-especially not on homicides perpetrated by women. She could be too sly to gloat about her husband’s death-or maybe she did regret his passing, but that didn’t necessarily mean that she hadn’t helped him leave this world in a fit of jealous rage.

“Was Tanya Faith ever alone with Chevry’s dinner box that evening?”

“I didn’t pay her any mind.” Donna Jean sniffed. “I was too busy working.”

“I sure wish you could remember details about that night, ma’am,” said Brower. “Because, you see, the fact is we got the autopsy report back, and it shows arsenic in your late husband’s system.”

“I didn’t poison him,” said Donna Jean. “He’d been saying that he felt poorly off and on for more than a week. Even Tanya Faith had a touch of it for a day or so.”

“And what about you, Mrs. Morgan? Did you ever feel sick?”

“No.”

“Well, there may be explanations we haven’t even thought of yet,” said Brower, standing up and shifting into his brisk mode. He talked faster when he wanted suspects to agree to something without thinking too much about his request. “We need to clear this up, though, Mrs. Morgan. You don’t want this business hanging over your head for who-knows-how-long. You know how people talk in a small town. If we don’t clear it up soon, you’ll be subjected to trial by bridge club.”

“Card playing is sinful,” murmured Donna Jean.

“So is gossip,” Brower agreed. “So I say let’s shut ’em down. If you’ll let Wade and me search the house now, and if you’ll show us how you made that dinner, that will go a long way toward clearing things up. I have a report to write, you know.”

It always amazed Brower that people didn’t tell him to go to hell right then and there. There was no way that he could legally impel a suspect to allow an informal search or to reenact part of a suspected crime, but most people didn’t seem to realize that. Maybe they were afraid that they’d look guilty if they refused, or maybe they thought he’d never find anything incriminating. Maybe they just didn’t want to inconvenience him. I have a report to write, you know. It was his best line, practically surefire. Sure enough, Donna Jean Morgan was smiling and nodding just like all the rest of the poor fools who had given Brower just about an inch too much rope.

But then, she said, “Certainly, Mr. Brower. I’ll just call my attorney, and if he says it’s all right, why, then you can do whatever you please.”

It was 5:04 P.M., and Margaret MacPherson was experiencing the familiar sensation of waiting for the emissary from the outside world. She remembered it well from her married life: she stayed home day after day, sending children to school, and a husband off to the city, while she waited in the tidy brick house, like a domestic Prisoner of Zenda, cooking and cleaning and waiting to hear about everyone else’s adventures that day. Because, of course, she hadn’t had any.

She thought she had left behind that existence, when she filed for divorce upon finding out about Doug’s pubescent bimbo, but now the feeling was back: the five o’clock vigil. She had busied herself all day with her photography, trying out new exposure times in the darkroom on some of the black-and-white portraits. She had even mopped the kitchen floor, because it needed doing, and she’d set some green beans and new potatoes on to cook, because she was home and Casey wasn’t. It wasn’t a division of labor or anything. She wasn’t a housewife anymore. She just happened to be home, so it seemed like the sensible thing to do.

At least she didn’t have to comb her hair and put on makeup anymore just because it was five P.M. Some things had changed, after all.

Phyllis Casey turned up at 5:30, slinging her briefcase onto the dining-room table with a groan. “If anyone wants to know what it was like in the Borgia court, they have only to ask me,” she declared, heading for the wine decanter.

“English faculty meeting?” Margaret guessed.

“What else?” Casey kicked her shoes off and sank down in the armchair across from Margaret. “I think we should put a metal detector at the door to the conference room, because, I swear, one of these days an untenured peon is going to kill Stanley Johnson. It may be me.”

“I know a good lawyer,” said Margaret, with a lazy smile.

“Actually, it wasn’t as bad as usual,” Casey said. “I think word of our party had got around. All through the meeting, Johnson kept eyeing me nervously, as if he expected me to jump up and spit tobacco juice into his coffee mug.”

“Yeah, you militant lesbians are dangerous, all right,” said Margaret solemnly.