“Mrs. Pendleton? I’m Jeremy Barnes.” I gave her one of my cards. Just my name and office number printed in black on a plain white background.
She glanced at the card and said, “Yes. Hello, Mr. Barnes. Please come in.”
As I followed her into the living room, I looked around and noticed the expensive furniture and tasteful decorating. Someone, Rachel or her husband or someone else, had done a good job here. As for Rachel Pendleton herself, she was in her early thirties, about 5’5” tall and slender, with dishwater blonde hair that curled down to her shoulders. She was wearing a pink oxford-cloth shirt tucked into faded blue jeans. White athletic socks, no shoes. Very little makeup, perhaps none, and her face had the drawn look of someone who hadn’t gotten much sleep lately. Even so, I had the idea that she was one of those women who, although not beautiful in the classic sense, could be very attractive when she put her mind to it. There was an ease in the way she moved, the way she sat in the large wing chair in the living room and curled her legs up under her, that indicated a woman who was comfortable with her body. She’d motioned that I should take a seat, and I did so on the sofa opposite her.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Pendleton.”
“Thank you. Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Barnes, I should have offered you something,” she said. “Would you like some coffee, or tea or . . .” She paused for a minute and then said, “Listen to me. I sound like a flight attendant, don’t I?”
“I had breakfast just a little while ago,” I told her. “And please call me Jeremy.”
“I’m Rachel, then,” she said. The voice was the same monotone I’d heard last night. Angie was right. This was a lady in pain.
“I don’t know how much Angie told you, Jeremy, about why I wanted to speak to you.”
“Just that you had some concerns about your husband’s death.”
“Concerns. Yes, I guess that’s the best way to put it. Concerns.”
“What sorts of concerns?”
“I’m not exactly sure, but I do know that I don’t agree with the police. They seem to think that Terry’s death was a simple case of a mugging that got out of control.”
“And you think there was more to it than that?”
“Yes, I do,” she said, and for the first time, there was some emotion in her voice.
“Okay,” I said, “take your time and tell me about it.
She took a breath.
“Terry worked for Chaney and Cox. They’re a small law firm downtown.”
“I’ve heard of them,” I told her.
“Terry’d been with them for a little over five years. He worked for another firm for a few years after he graduated from law school, and then Chaney and Cox made him a very good offer, so he went with them. We were expecting him to eventually become a partner. Everything seemed to be going along according to schedule.”
“Until?” I prodded.
“Until the night before he was killed. I mean, it wasn’t anything bad. In fact, it was good. Terry came home that night and told me that he thought he might make partner sooner than we’d thought. He was excited. I remember teasing him about it, because Terry never got excited about anything. He was the most laid-back person I’ve ever known. We had a great time that night. We opened a bottle of good champagne we’d been saving for a special occasion and we . . . had a great time together.”
“Did Terry say why he thought he might be made a partner sooner than you’d thought?”
“No, just that things were going very well at work. He said he’d met with the senior partners that afternoon, and he was going to meet with them again the next day, and he expected to have good news for me after that.”
“I’m not sure I understand how all of this ties in with Terry’s death”
“Don’t you see? The police said Terry tried to fight off a mugger. Why would he do that, with all that he had to look forward to?”
“Why don’t you tell me what happened that morning, Rachel?”
“Terry got up and dressed for work. He said he didn’t want any breakfast, but he often didn’t have breakfast at home, so that wasn’t unusual. He seemed eager to get started on the day. I closed the door after he left, about seven o’clock, and I went back to the kitchen to clean up a few things. A couple of minutes later, I opened the back door to let Sammy in. He’s our toy collie. As soon as he came in, he ran right to the front door, which was strange. Usually, Sammy heads straight for his food bowl when he comes inside, but that morning, he went right to the front door. I thought . . . well, I don’t know what I thought. I went to the window and looked out. Terry was lying on the sidewalk in front of our house, curled up like someone had punched him in the stomach. I ran out and . . . and . . . then I saw . . .”
“Okay, Rachel,” I said. “That’s okay. I want to ask you a few questions, all right?”
She nodded, and I said, “The
