33
“Not a cloud in the sky,” said Roger, driving west on Storrow, hands at the proper ten-minutes-to-two position on the wheel. “My suit satisfactory?”
Had he ever asked her opinion of what he wore? Not that Francie remembered. She glanced at the suit: black wool, perhaps blended with cashmere, probably from Brooks Brothers. “It’s fine,” she said, recalling that they’d discussed this particular suit once before, her mind about to zero in on the occasion when he did it for her.
“Doesn’t make me resemble a luncheon companion of the godfather?”
“What are you getting at?”
“Why, nothing. Quite a funny joke you made about this suit, that’s all. Perhaps I’m just fully appreciating it now.” He smiled at her. “You always had that sense of humor, Francie, come what may.”
His teeth shone, his shave was close, skin smooth, color high. He might have just returned from a spa weekend. She decided to leave him.
Decided at that moment, regardless of Roger’s situation, of whether the Lauderdale job came through, or whether the timing suited Ned. She would start searching for an apartment tomorrow-perhaps moving into a hotel for now. Why spend another night in the house? He could have the house, keep whatever he wanted; there’d be no trouble from her.
A decision that had nothing to do with Ned. But what about him? She had planned to end their relationship the night Anne died. Would she have been able to do it? Had it ended anyway? If so, if Anne’s death should have ended it, her own will having failed, what was the reason? Was there a reason, precise and definable, more than lace-curtain niceties? Yes. She felt that reason in her throat, a hard lump of guilt that wouldn’t go away. To put it as baldly as she could, to lacerate herself with it, she had been fucking Ned and it had killed his wife. But even punishment like that didn’t make the guilt go away. And worse, that new apartment of hers-she could already picture Ned knocking on the door. What was wrong with her?
“Something troubling you, Francie?” They’d stopped at a traffic light and Roger’s eyes were on her. “You seem preoccupied.”
“We’re on our way to a funeral, Roger.”
“Yes,” he said, as the light turned green, “it’s emotional, I know.”
They parked outside the church, five or six spaces behind a hearse and a black limo. The wind blew out of the west, driving snow off the ground, spinning it in various shapes. “I thought you had a warmer coat,” Roger said, taking Francie’s arm as they walked down the sidewalk, the wind in their faces.
“I’m not cold,” she said, and was starting to pull her arm away when a car door opened in front of them and Savard got out. He hadn’t shaved closely, hadn’t shaved at all, and his color was bad.
“A quick word with you, Mrs. Cullingwood?” he said. “If you’ll step into the car for a moment.”
Francie saw Nora climbing the steps of the church. “About what?” she said.
“The investigation.”
“Will you be needing me, too?” said Roger.
Savard shook his head. “This is only for those with some connection to the cottage.”
“Of course,” Roger said. “I’ll save you a place, Francie.”
Francie sat in the back of Savard’s car, not the old Bronco this time but a police cruiser; a worn heel from someone’s shoe lay upside down on the floor mat, rusted cobbler’s nails showing. Savard got in beside her, opened a manila envelope, took out some photographs. “Have you ever seen this man?”
She examined a police photograph, full face and profile, with numbers at the bottom. “No,” Francie said.
“Take your time.”
She did, and gave him the same answer.
“Have you ever heard the name Whitey Truax? Or Donald Truax?”
“No.”
“Anne never mentioned that name?”
“No. Is that him?”
“Yes.”
“What’s his connection to Anne?”
“Probably none,” Savard said. “I’m almost certain they met for the first time late Monday afternoon.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He broke into your friend’s cottage. Your other friend was there. He killed her. He’s done it before-is on parole at this moment, in fact.”
“For killing someone?”
“Yes.”
“A woman?”
“Yes.”
“Did she have some connection to Anne?”
“No.” Savard was staring at the photograph. There was a silence, a strange one; she had the crazy notion that he was about to start crying. He did not, of course, but looked up at her with dry eyes and said, “There’s no connection at all.”
“How do you know it was him this time?”
“Normally I ask the questions.” Their eyes met. Did he expect her to apologize for asking questions? She remained silent. “But yours are good,” he said at last. “The answer is he left his prints all over the place. He also killed his mother a little while later, down in Lawton Ferry.”
“Why? I don’t understand any of this.”
Savard put the photographs back in the envelope. “I’ll fax you the testimony of the psychiatrist from his trial, if you’re interested. Thanks for your time, Mrs. Cullingwood.”
Francie reached for the door handle, understanding one little part. “This means that all those questions you asked me before…”
“What questions?”
“The ones that seemed to be leading to…”
“The husband?”
“Yes.”
“Are irrelevant now,” Savard said. “They were before we had the prints, actually.” Pause. “It turned out that Mr. Demarco-or is it doctor-”
“I’m not sure which he prefers.”
Another pause. “-had an explanation for his whereabouts.”
“I’m not surprised,” Francie said, a loyal remark, almost wifely.
“Why is that?”
“He has a private practice, as well as the radio show.”
“So?”
“It must raise issues of patient confidentiality.”
“Not this alibi,” Savard said.
“Not this alibi?” Francie said. “What do you mean?”
Someone rapped at the window of the car. A man in a clerical collar stood outside. Francie opened the door so he could talk to Savard, but it wasn’t Savard he wanted.
“Francie Cullingwood?”
“Yes?”
“I wonder if you could help us this morning.”
“How?”
“The deceased had a longtime tennis partner from Cleveland.” He frowned at a sheet of paper. “I’m not sure which one of these it is. In any case, it was thought that representatives of various aspects of her life might speak briefly at the ceremony. Tennis being one, you see. The problem is that the woman, the tennis partner, is snowed- in in Cleveland. It’s been suggested that you might be able to find a few words.”
“Ask Nora.”
“Ms. Levin? She was the one who gave me your name.”
