The two cops exchanged a look.
“Routine checkup,” said Boyd. “How’d you know?”
“Sunglasses,” I said. But I felt gloom descend again. So? He’d been able to see me across the room, he’d walked over, talked, walked back out to his car . . .
“What did he have to eat at the breakfast?” asked Armstrong.
I ran through that again and added, “His sister gave him some sausage cake. Just a bite, and I saw her do it. Nothing sinister.”
“You made the sausage cake?”
I nodded slowly.
“Miller and his sister seem to get along to you?”
“Of course. He helped her out with that health-food store—”
“He helped her out,” Boyd repeated.
“So what?” I said.
No response. I said, “Look, I can probably help you more if you tell me more. We’re not exactly talking state secrets here. I knew Philip was helping Elizabeth financially, I just don’t know how much.”
Boyd wrote in his notebook, stopped, then bit the inside of his cheek. He said, “The other two hippie-food stores in this town went out of business over five years ago. Hers was the only one left, because her rich brother had bailed her out with a six-figure business loan.”
“Elizabeth was devoted to him. She worried about him,” I said. “How many siblings in their thirties can you say that for?”
He sniffed, then said, “She gave him something to eat. Did she have some, too?”
“She’s a vegetarian.” I left out the high-performance part. “Forensic pathology’s not my field. What does the autopsy say about the contents of his stomach?”
“Who prepared the rest of the food?” asked Armstrong, brushing aside my question.
“Except for the nut cakes, I did. But no one—including Philip—got sick.” Annoyance bristled in my voice. “Your insinuation is unappreciated.”
They ignored me. Then came a barrage of questions: Did Philip have an argument with anyone at the brunch? Was anyone else in the parking lot? Did his car start right away? Was there anything hanging underneath the car? Did the brakes appear to work? I answered as best I could: nothing suspicious with the car or the person.
“You were going out with Philip Miller, weren’t you?” asked Armstrong.
For the second time that day unexpected tears stung my eyes. The last thing I wanted to do was fall apart in front of these two.
I cleared my throat and said, “I was very fond of him.”
Armstrong pressed on. “Anyone jealous of that relationship? Your ex-husband? Miller’s ex-wife lives in Hawaii, but what do you know about any former girlfriends of his?”
“I don’t know about his former girlfriends,” I said with some sharpness. The only thing I knew about Philip’s ex-wife was that she existed. For heaven’s sake, we’d only been going out for a month. To my relief the brink of tears passed. I drew myself up and said, “I try to have as little to do with my ex-husband as possible.”
“We have several reports on file, Ms. Bear. All from you.”
I said evenly, “He wasn’t at the brunch.”
“Did Philip have anything to drink?” asked Boyd. “Coffee? Juice?” He stared at me. “Champagne?”
I said, “I didn’t see him drink anything.”
“But twenty minutes later he’s driving like he’s drunk.”
I put my hands flat down on the island, then leaned toward their impassive faces. “Then why wouldn’t he pull over?”
Boyd said, “Macho guy, he’s not going to pull over and ask a woman for help. Maybe.”
I shook my head, then said, “Look, why don’t you see what the eye doctor says? Maybe he was on some medication or something—”
“Thank you, Ms. Bear,” said Boyd. He nodded to Armstrong to indicate the interview was over. “We need to talk to you, we’ll call.”
I grated cheddar and jack, beat eggs and swirled in flour and cream, drained chiles, then mounded the cheese into pale hillocks on the pie plates. The cream mixture made a wonderful glug-glug noise as I poured it over the cheese. I spooned the chiles on top and then artfully sloshed picante sauce over each. As I put the pies into the Farquhars’ oven the security gate buzzed. Not the police again already. This time I was going to cook whether they liked it or not.
It was not the police.
It was my ex-husband.
He gave me a broad smile in the closed-circuit camera. He lifted up his hands to show he was unarmed.
I let his car through and felt sick. In my state of confusion over the accident and the work for the dinner party, I had forgotten to call up to Arch and make sure he was ready. I stared at the intercom. If I could mince with a Cuisinart, I could master this. I pressed buttons and called hopefully throughout the house. No answer. I made my way out to the front porch. There was no way I was letting him into the house.
“Heard you lost your boyfriend,” he said once I came through the door.
I looked around for neighbors, the general, Julian, anybody. The only thing I saw were the little marble and clay pots that the general was supposed to fill with geraniums and impatiens sometime during the weekend.
I said, “News travels fast.”
“I need to talk to you.”
“I’m listening,” I said as I sidled away from him, moved a couple of unpotted plants aside, and tentatively sat.
“I didn’t say I wanted to go to bed with you. I just said I wanted to talk.”
“I can hear you just fine. And if you want to talk, you’re going to have to watch your mouth.”
He rolled his eyes and shook his head, then smiled at me indulgently.
John Richard Korman’s extraordinary handsomeness, his boyish sensitive face, brown hair, and light blue eyes, always made me feel light-headed. He also played his doctor aura to good effect. He did this not just with me but with all manner of women, I came to find out after we were married. It was this type of man Henry Kissinger had been talking about when he said that power was the great aphrodisiac.
This was the man I used to love, the man who had slapped me when he was drunk, the man who did not love me. I knew to guard against his disarming good looks by keeping the conversation short. Kissinger, I reasoned, was probably talking about himself.
I pressed my fingers down into the dirt around one of the geraniums waiting to be planted. It needed water. Then I brought out a paring knife I had slipped into my apron pocket and put it down next to the plant, where John Richard couldn’t see it. Just in case.
He said, “A female friend of mine is going to teach Arch a few magic tricks.”
I said, “Oh, please. Your last girlfriend tried to teach him geometry and he’s gotten D’s ever since.”
“Maybe that’s because someone’s too busy catering to help him with his homework.”
I closed my eyes. I did not want to get into a fight. When I opened my eyes, John Richard was giving me his toothy innocent smile.
He said, “So where are Marla’s sister and her famous husband? What’s his name—Rommel?”
“Don’t.”
He looked at the sky, then said, “Well, let me ask you this. Who’re you cooking for tonight?”
“The Harringtons.”
He laughed. He guffawed, started to say something, and then snickered and wouldn’t quit. I was not going to give him the satisfaction of asking what the joke was. He said, “This is just ironic as hell.”
“Why’s that?” This conversation was strange, but familiar. One subject, then another, laughing one minute, then. . . my neck snapped up involuntarily. Too late.
John Richard picked up a clay pot and threw it at the front door. The crack of the shatter reverberated in my ears. Then a second pot smashed against the house.
“Stop it, stop it,” I squealed and buried my face in my hands. My throat was raw, like in those nightmares when you call for help but have no voice. I looked up in time to see him kick a third pot. Fragments went spinning away from the porch steps.