“Is he single?”
Her grin faded as she shrugged. “I didn’t ask, and he didn’t tell. He wasn’t wearing a ring, though, so I took that as a no.”
I sighed and shook my head. “Not to be a downer, but you need to start asking, Donna. It’s not fair to the wives. Think if you were in their shoes.”
She nodded absently as her cheeks tinged pink, but I knew she wouldn’t discuss the subject any further. We’d already talked it to death.
“What's going on here?” Donna asked, glancing around the apartment. “Where's Ringo? Is he with Charles? You know, I think that cat may like him more than he likes us.”
A quick change of subject to put her back in her comfort zone. “No, Ringo's here. He just went into the bedroom a little while ago.”
On cue, the tabby stalked out and meowed, then jumped onto Donna's lap.
“There's my favorite boy,” she whispered as she stroked his back. “You’re the best boy ever. Even better than the captain who got me to Paris.”
I snickered as she whispered her sweet nothings, but a heavy feeling settled in my chest. She obviously had no idea what had happened to Charles since she'd been jet-setting in Paris. Delivering bad news was such a bummer, especially since she was still on a high from her amazing trip.
“There's something I need to tell you,” I said, setting down my glass on the coffee table.
“What's that?”
“Charles is dead.”
Her eyes widened as she stared at me for a long moment. “Well, don't beat around the bush or anything,” she said. “Oh, my goodness. What happened, Patty?”
“He was murdered.”
“Murdered?” Donna whispered. “Are you kidding me?”
I shook my head.
Donna placed her hand over her mouth in surprise. “Did I lock the door? I better check.” She handed me Ringo and ran over to examine the lock. “Who did it?” she asked as she returned to the couch and the cat immediately curled up in her lap again. He always wanted the attention of the one who had been gone the longest.
“The police don't know. I was the one who found him.”
Donna stilled for a moment, then shook her head and poured more wine into her glass. “Start from the beginning. Tell me everything. This is just… horrible.”
After I completed my story—everything from the demonstrators to my fear of being in the apartment—I waited for Donna to comment.
“I feel awful for Charles,” she said. “That's a terrible way to go. I wonder who did it?”
“Well, I don't think it was his friend with the long, greasy hair. His name's Wayne, by the way.”
“Why not him? I didn’t really know him, but he always looked a little rough to me.”
“He was here not too long ago,” I replied. “He cried like a baby when I told him. And if he did do it, why come back to the scene of the crime? Why not stay away and keep off the radar?”
“That's a good point.”
“Wayne said Charles suffered from nightmares from the war because of the things he saw when he served.”
Donna shook her head and sighed. “That's awful. I'll tell you this: I wish I was still in Paris. Things here are downright depressing.”
“I know.”
“Did the police give you any indication on who they thought did it?”
“No. They asked me a lot of questions about people who knew Charles.”
Donna sipped more wine and stared off into space. After a moment she asked, “Have you talked to Mrs. Wilson? To see what the cops said to her?”
“I haven't. I was actually about to hobble over there right before you came home.”
“Let me change and freshen up,” Donna said. “We'll go together.”
Fifteen minutes later, we stood in front of Mrs. Wilson's door and Donna knocked. We waited a few seconds, and then she answered.
“What a surprise!” Mrs. Wilson said, her face brightening up with a smile. “What can I do for you girls?”
Mrs. Wilson was in her sixties, a sturdily built widow who loved hearing stories of our travels. Donna had once said Mrs. Wilson lived vicariously through us. I only hoped I would be in as good as shape when I reached her age.
Unfortunately, she didn't get out of the building much except for her weekly trip to the salon to spruce up her gray bouffant and her monthly bridge meeting. Yet, she did like hanging around in the lobby downstairs and chatting with our super and the other residents, and claimed she got her exercise by climbing the apartment stairs.
“We wanted to talk to you about Charles,” Donna said, leaning down and giving the woman a hug, who didn't stand an inch above five-foot-one.
“Oh, what a terrible thing,” Mrs. Wilson said, her eyes widening when she noticed my crutches. “Come in. My goodness, Patty, what in the world happened to you?”
“A pig tripped her,” Donna said.
“A pig? As in a police officer?”
“No, a different kind. A drunk and handsy customer,” I clarified as I moved inside. “It's only a light sprain. I should be back on my feet in no time.”
Once we'd gathered in the tidy living room, Mrs. Wilson smiled again. “Would you girls like some coffee or hot tea?”
“No, thank you,” I said. I’d always liked her apartment because it smelled like sugar cookies. The pea green sofa and aqua blue chairs were from the fifties, but still in great shape. A black and white picture of Mrs. Wilson and her husband sat on top of the spindly-legged television
