A Circle of Wives (32 page)

I put my hand on my belly and shuddered to think of what I might have done to this child if John had lived. Then, I place my hand over the woman’s, and said, “I’m so very sorry. But you must think of the child first.”

I suppose the case of John’s murder is now closed. Well, thank God for that.

You seem like a sweet girl, Samantha Adams, but I am happy to see the back of you.

67
Deborah

RELIEF
.
THAT
’
S WHAT I WAS
feeling as I got up this morning, showered, ate my breakfast fruit. MJ gone is a problem solved. The last big one, really.

It’s a misty day outside, so thick a mist that you actually get wet stepping outdoors as I do at 10
AM
to do my grocery shopping. I take my cloth shopping bags and walk over to Whole Foods, two blocks away, ignore the large homeless man who always positions himself at the entrance, holding up what he considers are clever signs.
Only $100,000 gets me a meal and a Mercedes,
and
I take my cappuccino dry
,
and
Please no filet mignon, I’m a vegetarian.
I’ve never seen anyone give him anything, but it must be a productive post or he wouldn’t be stationed there at all hours.

I walk through the aisles, picking out one avocado, three tomatoes, a can of soup. I tend to shop for only one or at most two days at a time. The structure of my life is gone without John around, and I’ve almost stopped expecting him to come home every morning. But I find myself still purchasing his favorite fruit, raspberries, and other treats that I’d pack for him to take to work in case he didn’t have time for lunch. These chores punctuated my life, gave it shape. Now there’s an amorphous stretch of time, bookended by sunrise in the morning—I still wake early—and sunset in the evening. I rarely stay up after ten. I look at my watch a lot.

Not all my friends have deserted me. Not all were appalled at the lies I had told them over the years. So I have lunch two or three times a week with these loyal women. I’m looking for something new, to fill the hours. Knitting won’t do it. Perhaps animal rescue or another satisfying charitable activity that involves working with your hands and body, not just organizing ladies for meetings and dinners and luncheons.

I go to the computer, surf the latest news. It’s only 1
PM
. The day stretches out in front of me, but now the hours aren’t full of anxious dread, rather they hold promise. I am resourceful. I will find my way, again. Thank goodness money isn’t a problem.

I’ve just started scanning the headlines when the doorbell rings. I’m not expecting anyone, and when I peek through the curtains I see with horror that it’s the young police detective again. I arrange my face in an appropriate smile for greeting her and open the door. She is not smiling.

“May I come in?” she asks.

I am not happy, but I don’t let it show. I usher her into the living room, gesture to one of the chairs, and sit myself down on the adjoining sofa. She starts talking without preamble.

“So I was going through the telephone records of MJ Taylor’s cell phone for the week leading up to her death.” She pauses and looks at me, as if waiting for a comment.

I merely incline my head and say, “Go on.”

“The day of her death, she first phoned Helen Richter, then yourself.” She pauses again, but I don’t give anything away. “The call to Helen was short, less than a minute. But the call to you stretched for twenty minutes. That was at approximately 5:15 in the evening. We estimate she died shortly after that, as early as 6:30
PM
, or at the very latest, 9
PM
.”

I say nothing.

“What did you talk about?” the detective asks. “Helen Richter says that MJ just wanted to chat, but that she, Helen, didn’t want to be embroiled in any of MJ’s messy emotional stuff, so she politely but promptly got off the phone. Then MJ tried you. What did she want?”

“To blather on,” I finally say. “About John, about how sorry she was, about how much she missed him.”

“Did she actually confess to you?”

“Not in so many words. But amidst all the
I’m sorries
and
how can I live with myselfs
I gathered that she was trying to,” I say.

“And you didn’t contact me?” The color is high in the detective’s cheeks. She has stopped taking notes. “You seem to be taking it all very lightly.”

“I didn’t have anything definite of use,” I say. “As Helen correctly predicted, it was quite messy. I listened for a while . . .”

“Twenty minutes,” she interrupts.

“Yes, twenty minutes. Then I said goodbye and hung up.”

“Did you get the sense that she was in a desperate state?”

I pause while calculating what to say.

“Deborah, did she tell you she was going to commit suicide?” Her voice is louder.

“Yes,” I say finally. “She mentioned she was thinking about that. In fact.”

“And what did you tell her?”

“I’m not a suicide hotline. I haven’t been trained or coached in what to do in such situations. I didn’t offer her any false comfort, if that’s what you’re asking. I told her, yes, John is dead and he isn’t coming back. I told her that if she had anything to do with his death it made sense that she was experiencing despair.”

“Cutting words,” the detective says. She isn’t looking at me, but is fiddling with her hands the way I’ve seen her do before. A nervous habit.

“I wasn’t patient or encouraging, that’s true,” I say. “But I wasn’t sure she meant it. I thought it was just her hysteria.”

“People do rash things when they’re emotionally out of control.”

“I truly thought she was bluffing. A way to get sympathy.”

“And so you presented a hard front.” Her voice is cold.

“I told her to go ahead and do it if she felt that way,” I finally erupt.

The silence in the room is absolute.

“I think that’s all for now,” the detective says, still not looking at me. She gets up to leave.

“Wait a minute,” I say. She stops.

“Why are you continuing to hassle me about this case?” I ask. “I understand from my friends in Palo Alto City Hall that the precinct is satisfied with the outcome.”

The girl appears to be calculating something. She decides, clearly, to not play straight with me. You can always tell when people with these open, honest faces are trying to lie.

“Yes,” she says. “We’re completely satisfied.” And she leaves. I don’t believe her for one minute.

68
Samantha

I
’
M STANDING IN FRONT OF
Susan in her office at the station house. Her face is stern. “We”—she doesn’t say who is included in that
we
—“have gotten complaints again from Mrs. Deborah Taylor that you continue to harass her. Samantha, what game are you playing? My ass is fried from the heat I’m getting from the mayor’s office. I gave you permission for one more interview. Yet I understand you went back to her again after that. For a surprise home visit, no less.”

“I’m not satisfied that we fully understand what happened,” I say with bravado, but I suspect Susan sees right through my loud voice, my upright posture.

“
You’re
not satisfied?” The sarcasm is palpable.

“No,” I say, more loudly. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“And it won’t make sense. It’s a frigging mystery what those people were up to. I’d be surprised if you
could
understand it,” Susan says. “That doesn’t mean you keep wasting time and resources on trying to work out the kinks in human nature, Sam. Sometimes you just accept that things are the way they are.”

“It’s not that I don’t understand the situation,” I say. “If anything, I understand it too well. Hell, if I’d known Dr. Taylor I probably would have been the fifth wife. ” Susan looks at me strangely, but I continue. “It’s the circumstances of the death that don’t add up. How could MJ both overpower John Taylor enough to manage to inject him with the potassium? Even if she had been able to get hold of the potassium herself?”

Susan’s voice is calmer now. “Sam, those might have been good questions before we got the statement from MJ’s brother. But the fact is, he
did
give us a statement making it obvious that MJ had both motive and opportunity.”

“No, he never directly asked MJ if she killed John Taylor, and she never directly admitted as much to him,” I say.

“But asking her brother to dress up! Isn’t that damning enough for you? Why would anyone bother to establish an alibi like that unless they were guilty?”

Something nags at me. “What did you just say?” I ask. “About establishing an alibi?”

“Sam. Enough. I want this to stop. For the next three days, you’re on administrative leave. I can’t have my detectives running amok on me.”

As I walk out of her office, my phone goes off. A text from Peter. Odd—he rarely texts me, preferring what he calls
old-fashioned conversations.
And I find the text makes no sense.
Tell Peter to call James.
Why would Peter text me such a thing? It’s not like he asks me to remind him to do things, the way some couples remind each other not to forget birthdays or parents’ anniversaries. So I give him a call on his cell.

“Hey,” I say, when he answers with an uncharacteristically abrupt
yeah?
“What’s up with the text?”

“Hi, Sam, it’s James,” says the voice, which I now recognize as belonging to Peter’s best friend. I just wanted Peter to know he left his cell phone at my house last night.”

“I didn’t know Peter was at your place yesterday,” I say. As usual, I’d stayed late at the station, and didn’t ask Peter about his day when I got home after 8:30
PM
. We haven’t been communicating all that well.

“Yeah, he stopped by for a few beers. But he forgot his phone. Just let him know in case he’s freaking out about it.”

After assuring James I would tell Peter, I hang up. Then, after thinking for a moment, I get in my car and head straight for Deborah Taylor’s home.

69
Samantha

“
I
’
D LIKE TO CONGRATULATE YOU
on a job well done,” I say. I’m sitting on the edge of a plush chair in Deborah Taylor’s living room, trying not to give in to its comfort. Deborah Taylor is standing in front of me. She does not look pleased. I interrupted her arranging a huge bunch of flowers for her dining-room table. Cut flowers—I am reminded of MJ and feel a pang of sadness. A muffled roar from a vacuum cleaner upstairs. The maids’ day. I’m actually shocked Deborah let me in to the house. But her manners are too good. She automatically stood aside as I pushed my way in.

“What job, exactly?” asks Deborah. She remains standing.

“The murder of your husband John Taylor,” I say. I wait. What will I get? Shock? Outrage? Cool denial? My bets are on the latter. Deborah is always cool.

But Deborah surprises me. She’s cool, yes. But no denial.

“You’ll never prove it,” she says. She is dressed as impeccably as always, a tailored red blazer over a white blouse and a long thin black skirt. The clothes show off the slimness of her figure.

She walks over to the stairs, looks up, and listens to the sound of the vacuum roaring in an upstairs room. “We don’t need this conversation to be overheard,” she says, coming back into the living room, but still not sitting down. “Especially since I gather you’re not exactly in step with the rest of your precinct. Have gone rogue, in fact?”

“Let me tell you how you did it,” I say. “And you correct me if I’m wrong.”

“No tape recorder,” Deborah says. “No notes. This conversation is not happening. And after this, no more visits to my house.”

“I just have to know,” I say. “I
must
know.” And, then, reluctantly, I add, “You were too good. This murder was almost too perfect. But you slipped up. Twice.”

“And how was that?” asks Deborah.

“First, when you took the room key with you when you left the Westin. And second, by involving MJ. She was too emotional—too unpredictable. You would have been better off with a simpler plan. Or using Helen as your dupe rather than MJ.”

“Helen would hardly have sufficed, given that she lives four hundred miles away,” Deborah says. She sits down, but slowly, without haste. If she is worried by what I’m saying she doesn’t show it.

“Go on,” says Deborah, after she’s smoothed her skirt. “Say your piece. But try to speed it up. I’m giving a dinner party this evening and need to prepare for my guests.”