“Glen, I don’t know what-”
“You make Sheila having a drink at lunch sound like she’s an alcoholic, and then you tell them about the time the two of you smoked some marijuana?”
“Glen, please, I never meant-”
“Where’s your head at?”
“What was I supposed to do, lie?” she asked. “I get called into a law office and I’m supposed to lie?”
“You didn’t have to lie,” I said. “You just could have kept a few things to yourself. She wants fifteen million, Belinda. Bonnie Wilkinson is suing me for fifteen million dollars.”
“I’m so sorry, Glen. I didn’t know what to do. George said-you know what George is like, he’s all by-the- book-he said if I didn’t tell the truth they could charge me or hold me in contempt or something like that. I don’t know, it was all so confusing. I certainly never meant to-”
“And they might just get it because of you. I just wanted to call and say thanks.”
“Glen, please. I know I screwed up, but you don’t have any idea of the kind of stress I’ve been under lately.” Her voice was starting to break. “I’ve made some stupid decisions, everything’s starting to unravel, I-”
“Anyone suing you for fifteen mil, Belinda?”
“What? No, no one-”
“Well then, consider yourself blessed.” I hung up.
Not long after that, the doorbell rang. Kelly had still not emerged from her room.
I opened the door and found a man in a dark blue suit standing on the porch, holding some sort of identification in his hand. I put him in his late forties, about five-ten, with thinning silver hair.
“Mr. Garber?”
“That’s right.”
“Arthur Twain. I’m a detective.”
Oh shit, I thought. Darren Slocum was filing charges.
Maybe I had police detectives stereotyped in my mind but Twain seemed well turned out for one. The suit-at least to my untrained eye-looked expensive, and his black leather shoes were polished to a high gleam. His silk tie probably cost more than everything I had on, and that included my shockproof watch. Despite his fashion sense, he had a small paunch and bags under his eyes. Well turned out, but weary.
“Yeah, okay,” I said. “Come in.”
“Sorry to drop in unannounced.”
“No, that’s okay. I mean, I suppose I should have been expecting you.”
He blinked. “Oh?”
Kelly, evidently curious about who’d come to the door, had ended her self-imposed exile and come downstairs. She poked her head into the foyer.
“Honey, this is a detective, Arthur…” I’d already forgotten his last name.
“Twain,” he said.
“Hi,” Kelly said, pointedly not even looking at me.
“What’s your name?”
“Kelly.”
“Nice to meet you, Kelly.”
I said, “Did you want to talk to Kelly first, or me, or both of us? I mean, she was there. Or should I be calling my lawyer?” That, I suddenly realized, would be the smartest course of action.
Arthur Twain said, cautiously, “I think I’ll talk to you, Mr. Garber.”
“Okay, honey,” I said to Kelly, “we’ll call you if we need you.” Still managing not to look at me, she went back to her room.
I showed Twain into the living room. I wasn’t sure whether I was to call him Mister, Officer, or Detective.
“Have a seat, uh… Is it Officer?”
“Arthur’s fine,” he said, sitting down. That struck me as pretty informal for a police detective.
“You want some coffee or something?” I was naive enough to think that being a good host might get me out of an assault charge.
“No, thanks. First of all, I’d just like to say, I’m very sorry about Mrs. Garber.”
“Oh,” I said, taken aback. I wasn’t expecting the detective to know, or ask, about Sheila. “Thank you.”
“When did she pass away?”
“Nearly three weeks ago.”
“A car accident.” Not a question. I supposed that if Rona Wedmore could know about it, I shouldn’t be surprised that Twain was up to speed.
“Yes. I guess the different forces all share information.”
“No, I’ve just done some checking.”
That seemed odd to me, but I let it go. “You’re here about the incident this afternoon.”
Arthur cocked his head slightly. “What incident would that be, Mr. Garber?”
I laughed. “I’m sorry, what? I mean, if you don’t know about it, I’m hardly going to tell you.”
“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage here, Mr. Garber.”
“You did say you’re a detective, right?”
“That’s right.”
“With the Milford police.”
“No,” Arthur said. “I’m with Stapleton Investigations. I’m not a police detective, I’m a private detective.”
“What’s Stapleton? A private investigation company?”
“That’s right.”
“Why’s someone like that give a damn about my decking a Milford cop?”
“I don’t know anything about that,” Twain said. “I’m here about your wife.”
“About Sheila? What do you want to know about Sheila?” Then I figured it out. “You’re with that law firm, the one that’s suing me, aren’t you? Well, you can get the hell out of here, you son of a bitch.”
“Mr. Garber, I’m not working for a law firm, and I’m not representing anyone who’s launched any sort of action against you.”
“Then, what are you here for?”
“I’m here to ask you about your wife’s possible connection to criminal activity. I’m here to ask about her involvement in selling counterfeit purses.”
TWENTY-THREE
“Get out,” I said, moving toward the door.
“Mr. Garber, please,” Arthur Twain said, rising reluctantly off the chair.
“I said get out. No one comes in here and says things like that about Sheila. I’ve listened to all the shit I want to about what my wife may or may not have done. I’m not listening to any more.” I opened the door.
When Twain didn’t move, I said, “I can pick you up and throw you out on your ass if that’s how you’d rather do it.”
Twain looked nervous, but he held his ground. “Mr. Garber, if you think you know everything there is to know about what your wife may have been involved in before she died, if you don’t have a single question left unanswered, then fine, I’ll go.”
I got ready to throw him out on his ass.
“But if you have any doubts, any questions at all, about your wife’s activities before she died, then maybe it would be worth your while to listen to what I have to say, maybe even answer a couple of my questions.”
I still had my hand on the door. I was aware of my own breathing, the coursing of blood through my temples.
I pushed the door closed. “Five minutes.”
