A Circle of Wives (27 page)

Peter reluctantly puts it down when I speak. “And?” he asks. “‘Possessive’
is the word? I notice you didn’t say ‘in love with a man.’”

“You’re right, I didn’t.”

“So what’s the question?”

“You find out about these other women. You realize your existing life is basically over. Total wreckage. What do you do?”

“You’re asking, does this make a woman crazy enough to kill her husband?”

“I guess,” I say. “Yeah. Is it enough provocation? Forget about alibis, opportunity, whatever, for now. Just think in terms of motivation.”

Peter stretches. His long 6'2" body overhangs the cheap deck chairs we got from some garage sale. He’s taller than me by almost a foot and has a fairly massive amount of facial hair. I used to call him Sasquatch. We no longer have nicknames for each other, I think, sadly. Some phase of life has passed by while I wasn’t paying attention.

“Give me before and after pictures of these women’s lives, and I’ll tell you who killed him,” Peter says.

“Let start with Helen,” I say. “She’s the easiest, because she had the most independent marriage of the three. With John, she had the occasional companionship of a man she seemed to quite genuinely love. She sounded sincere when she described the relationship.”

“And if this sexpot young doctor takes Taylor away from her?” asks Peter.

“Well, she loses that companionship. And from things she’s said, I don’t think she’s had a lot of romantic attachments in her life. So that could be a real bummer for her.”

“Not to mention the whole woman-scorned aspect of things,” Peter says.

“Yeah, there’s that. Female rage and jealousy.” I say. “Bo-ring.”

“That’s the one who’s pregnant, right?” Peter asks. “Making this guy a father from the grave?”

“Yes. And he wouldn’t have been happy about being a father again,” I say.

“She wants the baby, though? She’s happy about it?”

“Absolutely,” I say, thinking of the transformed woman I saw in LA.

“But her financial position doesn’t change, does it? Presumably as a doctor she’s raking in some pretty big bucks on her own. Enough to support a kid.”

“She didn’t need him financially,” I say. “Not like MJ did.”

“This MJ, she had the most to lose, right?”

“It depends on your values,” I say. “She would certainly have suffered financially if Taylor left her to marry Snow White. She’s now in a tenuous legal situation regarding the house. Legally, Deborah could make the case that the house belongs to her. Leaving MJ with nothing.”

“Which brings us to my favorite wife, Deborah,” Peter says.

“Why is she your favorite? She’s the one that gives me hives,” I say. “I kinda get MJ. And I have a healthy respect for Helen. But Deborah?” I stop talking.

“I’m just teasing,” Peter says. “You stiffen up when talking about her, and your voice gets deeper. Unconscious mimicking.”

“Deborah had the most to lose in the case of a divorce as far as her social standing in the community. That seemed awfully precious to her.”

“What’s interesting about that?” Peter asks. I see him glance back at his phone. I’m losing him. And here I am, trying to engage in a conversation, spend some time together. Anything to dispel the heavy silence that we’ve had between us all day.

“She also had the most to gain from the death,” I say. “A ten-million-dollar life insurance policy. Hey,” I say, louder, as he continues to poke at his phone, “I’d shoot you in a heartbeat if you had that kind of bounty on your head.”

“I bet you would,” Peter says without looking up or smiling.

I smack my hand on the end table next to my chair. My glass shatters as it hits the brick pavement.

“Goddamn it, Peter,” I yell. A couple of crows that had been feeding on crumbs from our late lunch spun off into the air.

“What?” he asks. He finally looks up.

“You know
what
. You’ve been in such a mood. Out with it.”

He doesn’t speak for a moment. Then, “It’s just all the cracks you’ve been making about marriage. The disparaging remarks.”

I’m puzzled by this. My voice loses its heat. “Have I?”

“You’ve been pretty damn scornful of these women. You find something at fault in each of their . . . marital arrangements. Well, if there’s a perfect model for marriage, some ideal standard that none of these relationships meet, I’d like to know what it is.”

I have to think about this.

“I don’t think I’ve been scornful of Helen,” I say. “I even admire her for carving out happiness under such extraordinary circumstances.”

“Oh, great,” says Peter. “You admire the woman who saw her husband once a month for two days.”

“That was twice a month, for three days,” I say.

“Whatever
.
”

“And it isn’t the time aspect of their marriage that interests me,” I say. “It’s the intensity of the emotional engagement.”

“The passion thing again,” Peter says.

“Yes! The
passion thing.
Which has nothing to do with sex, by the way,” I say.

“So you’ve said.”

“Peter, what do you want from me?” I bend down and start picking up the shards of glass. As I should have predicted, the sharp edge from one piece slices into my finger. Great. Bloody hands just as I need to start prepping dinner.

“Sam, the question is what do
you
want from me? I’m apparently incapable of rousing passion.”

I stand there, my hands filled with broken glass. “Don’t step in your bare feet until I get it,” I say and go inside, discard the glass in the garbage, wrap a bandage around my hand, and return with the handheld vacuum cleaner.

Peter is again playing with his phone. He’s already over dealing with me. I stare off at the creek, at the manzanita trees that are darkening as the sun dips toward the horizon.

“Why don’t we get married?” Peter asks suddenly. I see that he’s sitting up straight. “Most of our friends have, and we’ve been together much longer than any of them. Last year, we went to so many weddings that rice got into the seams of my suit.”

“It was the approach of the dreaded thirty. Everyone thought they needed to get serious.”

“And don’t you?”

“Not really,” I say. “So much is still unknown. You have to finish your PhD. And find an academic job in a lousy hiring market. You know how that goes, Peter. You could be moving to Arkansas or Florida or Alaska. If you’re lucky enough to even snag one of those.”

“Are you saying you wouldn’t come with me? To Arkansas or Florida or wherever?”

“Definitely not Arkansas,” I say, “And Florida is plain weird.” I’m trying to make a joke out of it, but I can see that makes Peter angry. “Look, Peter, I just can’t commit to saying, ‘Yeah, I’ll follow wherever you lead.’”

“Your commitment problem. I know.” His voice is deeply sarcastic.

“Hey, dude, I don’t think it’s unreasonable for me to not commit to being a barnacle on your ship when I don’t even know if it won’t sink.” I surpass myself: a quadruple negative in one sentence. And as soon as I say this, I regret it. I’m well aware of Peter’s anxiety over his dissertation, over the job market for PhDs—the last thing I want to do is exacerbate it.

His face tightens.

“Sam,” he says, in a low voice, not looking at me. “What you don’t understand is that we’ve got what people hope to have after the passion and initial excitement have burned out. We’re best friends. It’s what you want when you’re fifty, sixty, and beyond. The marriages that last get
here
. After all the other stuff is finished. Where we were lucky enough to start.”

“So you’re saying we’re already done with that . . .
stuff
,” I say. “Shit, Peter!” I’m speechless for a moment, which is good, because bad things are coming, terrible things. “Do you think I want to go through life missing one of the most profound human experiences there is?”

“And what’s that, may I ask?” Peter says. I hate it when he gets sarcastic. It doesn’t suit him, and it just about sends me to the moon in rage.

“Falling in love,” I say. The cicadas have come out with the darkening sky, and now sound loudly in the silence that greets my words. I slap at a mosquito. More blood on my hands.

“Well!” Peter says, and stops. He seems too choked up to continue, but eventually manages to say, “That’s a pretty damning statement.”

I panic. “Peter, no, wait. Don’t take it the wrong way.”

“I don’t think I possibly could,” he says. “You were extraordinarily clear.”

50
Samantha

WHEN I GET TO THE
station house this morning, I can tell something has happened. Grady is sitting at my desk, talking to Mollie, who seems terribly excited. Susan is standing next to her, the inevitable Diet Coke in hand. She’s nodding and smiling.

“Way to go,” says Grady when he catches sight of me. “Good police work.”

I ask Mollie. “You got a hit?”

She is all smiles. “Yes! I was interviewing about the millionth person from that conference attendance list, and showing the photos, when this woman tells me, ‘Wait a minute, I know
him
.’ And pointed.” Mollie grins. “Guess who?” she asks.

Susan breaks in. “No time to be coy, Mollie, just tell Sam.” Mollie looks abashed for about three seconds, then says, “One of the doctors from the clinic. That Epstein guy.”

“Is the witness sure?” I ask. I’m getting excited. After a sleepless night with me in the bedroom and Peter on the couch, I can use the good news.

“Absolutely. She rode the elevator with him to the second floor. She remembers him because he was a relatively short man with what she called ‘wispy’ facial hair. Apparently she can’t stand small men with ineffectual beards. She was no lightweight herself, which is why I believed her. She probably could have eaten Epstein for breakfast.”

“And he got off on the second floor?”

“Better than that. She got off, too, and happened to be staying in room 225—which is directly across the hall from John Taylor’s. So they both ended up walking down the corridor in the same direction. Then, he fell behind her. She says she had the distinct impression he was dragging his feet on purpose.”

“So she didn’t actually see him go to John Taylor’s door?” I ask, disappointed.

“No, but after she closed her door, she heard a knock, close by.”

“Well, that’s something,” I say, and turn around to go right back out the door. I’ve got some questions for Dr. Epstein. “I’ll keep you posted,” I call to Susan.

“You do that,” she says, and I know she is smiling.

51
Samantha

THIS TIME I KNOW HOW
to find the entrance to the clinic. I nod to the security guard, but he still insists that I show him my badge. Must be bored. I certainly would be, doing nothing but sitting in a little booth, waiting for visitors. When I walk into reception, I’m told that Dr. Epstein is busy, so I settle down to wait in the plush waiting room. After an hour goes by, I approach Ms. Perfection at the reception desk. She lifts the phone and whispers into it. No, she tells me. Not yet. I go back to my comfy seat in the warm room.

Some time later I jerk awake. I’d been drooling while I slept, and my chin must be glistening with saliva. Embarrassed, I wipe it off with my hand and look at my watch. I was asleep for nearly twenty minutes. Enough is enough. I march up to the receptionist again.

“I must see Dr. Epstein
now
,” I say, and flash my badge. “This is important business.” She obeys me with such alacrity that I’m embarrassed, only this time at having meekly accepted her earlier statement that the
doctor couldn’t see me yet.
She pushes a buzzer and waves me through the double doors. I know the way to Dr. Epstein’s office. He’s sitting in an easy chair to one side of his desk, reading a medical magazine. I curse myself again for not insisting on seeing him right away.

“Ah yes, Detective,” he says, and reaches out to shake my hand. He doesn’t bother getting up. I know it’s petty, but I don’t extend my hand in return. Instead, I let his hover awkwardly for two or three seconds.

There’s a chair in front of his desk, but I remain standing.

“Dr. Epstein, why were you at the Westin in Palo Alto the evening of Friday, May 10?” I ask.

He keeps a smile on his face, and I remember what the witness had said about his beard. As a petite woman, I don’t mind the fact that he is rather small himself. But coupled with facial hair that seems to be nine-tenths air and his general aura of complacency, I could see why the witness remembered him with contempt. He
is
annoying. You want to kick him just to jar the smile from those thin lips.

“You told me the first time we talked that you’d been at home that evening. Your wife backed up your statement.”