Two days later, Yates was at her door again. And just as before, he was leaning in toward the side window, one hand trying to shade his eyes as he peered through the midday reflection from a guiltless sun. When he spotted her moving slowly up the hallway, he gave a small wave and a non-committal grin.
At the sight of him, Doreen’s first thought was to kill him. If he had bad news, that is. If he denied her the benefits she deserved. It wouldn’t be hard to get rid of the body, she thought. Just bury him in the basement, or something. Or in the crawl space. She could ask him downstairs under the pretense of helping her move an old dresser — the one Michael had used up until he’d graduated from high school — and then, when Yates’s back was turned, kill him. With an aluminum bat. Or a golf club. Or a two-by-four. Or a hatchet. Whatever was close at hand. Just the thought of it gave her a sense of hope.
She opened the door. Propped up a welcoming smile. “Hello, Mr. Yates.”
“Please, Mrs. Martin. Call me Bill.”
“What can I do for you, Bill?”
He held up his thin, company-logoed briefcase. “I have the autopsy report. The medical examiner goes to my church. He always gives me an advance copy. Even before he gives one to the police.”
Her hope suddenly vanished. She felt faint, as if her soul was trying to leave her body. “What does it say?”
“May I come in?”
She tried to swallow. That couldn’t be good news. Why wouldn’t he just tell her? “Certainly.”
He followed her toward the kitchen. She looked back over her shoulder at him. “I was down in the basement trying to move an old dresser. But it’s just too heavy. Couldn’t get it to budge.”
He set his briefcase next to the kitchen table and looked at her with that same maddening, insincere smile. “I can help you with that.”
She smiled back and pointed toward the door to the basement stairs. “It won’t take but a minute.”
“No time like the present,” he said.
As they trudged down the wooden stairs — Doreen in front — she felt her blood rise, expand in her veins, pound in her ears. At the bottom she quickly scanned for a weapon. There had to be something amid all the old boxes and furniture, mattresses and couches, tools and electronics. Something that would be quick and decisive.
She hadn’t noticed him talking. Hadn’t heard it through the rush of noise in her ears.
“...quite interesting reading. I honestly don’t know how they can figure out so much stuff after the fact, but they do.”
“It’s that one over there,” she said, pointing to the yellowing dresser in the corner. “I need it moved over—” She looked for a spot, then pointed to an open space between a cluttered bookcase and the washing machine. “— there.”
Yates assessed the dresser as if it were a puzzle. “I think we can walk it.”
“I can’t help. I have a bad back.”
Again, the smile. “No problem. I can do it myself.” He spread his legs around one end of the dresser and slid it out a couple of feet. Then switched sides and moved the other end out twice as far. “As I was saying. Those medical examiners can really determine a lot about someone’s life...”
Doreen had drifted away in her search for the right weapon. Drifted toward the workbench.
“...what they ate...”
She spotted it. The hatchet. The one that Tom had used years ago to split kindling for the fireplace.
“...how much alcohol they drank...”
When his back was turned, she picked up the hatchet from the workbench and held it behind her back.
“...what pills they took...”
She watched his back as he faced toward the dresser. Waited for her moment.
“...how much they smoked...”
He was switching sides. She moved up behind him. Squeezed the handle of the hatchet. Raised it.
The doorbell rang upstairs. Doreen hesitated.
Yates looked up toward the ceiling. “I think you have company.”
Doreen quickly lowered the hatchet behind her and backed away from him.
“Anyway,” he said, turning toward her, “it turns out that, as you said, Tom hadn’t resumed smoking.”
Doreen froze. “What?”
Yates stared at her, unsure what she meant. “I said you have company.” He said it like a question.
“No. After that.”
“Oh. The autopsy report confirmed that Tom hadn’t shown signs of recent smoking. There was some discoloration in his lungs, some signs of damage, but the M.E. attributed that to secondhand smoke from you.”
“What about suicide?”
He shook his head. “The M.E. just said it was a bullet wound at close range. It’s up to the police to determine if it was suicide or not.”
She shook her head, trying to clear it. Trying to understand the implications of what Yates had just said. “So I’ll get my money?”
“You sure will. As long as it wasn’t suicide.”
The doorbell rang again.
“If you want to get that,” Yates said, “I can finish up down here. It will only take a minute.” Then he noticed her awkward posture, one arm behind her as she began to back toward the workbench. His eyes narrowed and the ever-present smile dimmed.
She stopped at the workbench, still facing Yates, and without looking let the hatchet fall from her hand onto the workbench. It slipped off the edge and clattered on the floor. Without looking at him she moved quickly to the stairs. “I’ll see who it is.”
Sweat was forming on her upper lip. She couldn’t seem to draw a full breath. Couldn’t focus, her vision splintering. Struggled between elation and fear. Elation that she was about to collect; fear that Yates had deduced that she was going to kill him.
And I would have killed him, she thought, if the doorbell hadn’t rung. And I’d never have heard the good news. I might’ve killed him for no reason.
She shuddered at the thought.
The doorbell rang again.
Elation began to win out. “I’m coming,” she yelled.
She reached the top of the stairs and moved quickly down the hallway. Through the side window of the door she spotted a navy blue shoulder. Noticed a patch on it. A police officer.
She opened the door to two cops and the detective with the bad haircut — Jenkins, that was his name — all standing with their hands behind their backs.
Jenkins stepped forward. “Mrs. Martin?”
Doreen gave a half smile. “Yes, Detective?”
“May we come in?”
“Certainly.” She moved back as the men stepped inside. The two uniformed cops stood closer to her, one on each side, as Jenkins faced her. His eyes were narrow. Hard. Harder than she’d thought he’d had in him.
“Are you Doreen Martin?”
That was funny. “Yes?”
“Doreen Martin, you’re under the arrest for the murder of Thomas Martin. You have the right to remain silent...”
A rush of panic blurred her vision, filled her ears. “What?”
“You’re under arrest for the murder of Thomas Martin.”
A white heat surged inside her veins. Made her dizzy. Breathless. “That’s impossible.”
He took a step toward her, handcuffs suddenly appearing in front of him. “You faked the break-in to cover up that fact that you murdered him.” She put a hand against the wall for balance. “No, no, no. Someone... someone killed him.”
The two officers spun her around. She would have fallen if they hadn’t each grabbed an arm. She could feel Jenkins move in close behind her. Felt the cold steel of the handcuffs bite into her wrists as they locked shut. His breath was hot against her neck. “You killed him.”