While this was going on, he glanced at the far end of the room, where a color studio photo of the Woll family, taken perhaps five years ago, hung above a spinet piano. In the picture, Mrs. Woll looked heavier, sadder; an older daughter, about fifteen in this picture, wore a lot of makeup and wasn’t quite as pretty as the younger daughter (who was just a kid, here) was turning out to be. Mr. Woll was a jowly redheaded man, whose smile seemed forced even for a studio portrait.
Mrs. Woll came back and sat down next to Crane. “Now. You said you wanted to talk to me.”
“It’s very considerate of you to see me, Mrs. Woll. To agree to talk with me.”
“Mr. Crane, I understand what you’re going through, losing someone you love. If I can be of any help to you, in such a difficult time, I’m more than happy.”
“Your husband’s... death. Did it come as a shock to you?”
“My husband’s suicide, Mr. Crane. It’s important not to evade reality. You can use euphemisms, if you like, but I’ve found they’re not really helpful. The sooner you face up to your fiancée’s death as suicide, and deal with it honestly, the sooner you can get back about the business of your life.”
“Yes. But did it come as a shock to you? By that I mean, did it happen out of left field, or was Mr. Woll suffering from depression in the weeks preceding his... suicide?”
“I can’t really say. My guess would be, yes, he was depressed.”
“Your guess?”
“Mr. Woll and I were separated at the time of his suicide. We might have gone on to get a divorce; it’s hard to say.”
“What was the problem, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“His moods. He’d always been a moody individual, but it had gotten worse lately. At times, he even hit me. His daughters, as well. We have two girls, Jenifer you’ve met, Angie, who’s nineteen, moved out and got her own apartment when she turned eighteen.”
“Was that before or after Mr. Woll died?”
“Killed himself. Before. Harry couldn’t handle the changes I was going through.”
“Changes?”
“Mr. Crane, for nineteen years of marriage I worked, just like he worked. In fact, I brought in only a few dollars a month less than he did. But in addition to my job, I was supposed to be a full-time housewife, as well — do all the cleaning, cooking, laundry. What extra effort did Harry make to help out around the house? Nothing. Not a thing. I put up with it for years. Years. Then finally I guess my consciousness got raised, like with a lot of women, and I put an end to it. I told Harry we could afford a cleaning woman. He blew up! But I hired her anyway. I told him he could either learn to cook, or start taking us out for meals. He laughed at that, but it didn’t strike him so funny when he started coming home from work to no supper prepared, every other night. And so we started going out to eat a few nights each week. Our life-style changed — but Harry didn’t, not really. I thought sharing the work load fifty-fifty was only fair, but he didn’t see it that way. He said he was old-fashioned, like that explained it. And he drank, he drank too much. I tried to get him to enroll in AA, and that made him furious. We had some very unpleasant months around here.”
“I see.”
“Harry and the girls weren’t getting along too well, either. He and Angie were always going at it, because he felt she had loose morals. He accused Jenifer of the same thing, and she was only thirteen. Why, she’s still a baby! Can you imagine?”
“No.”
“So Harry took an apartment over the hardware store. That’s where he took his pills and Scotch.”
Crane sat there and tried to absorb what he’d just heard. Make some sense of it.
“Mrs. Woll, I need to ask you something that may seem a little... off the wall...”
“All right. Ask.”
“Was there anything at all suspicious about Mr. Woll’s death?”
“Suicide. No. I think he hoped someone would stop him. I don’t think he really meant to do it.”
“No, I suppose not. What I mean to say is, did you at the time — or do you now — have any suspicions, whether based on fact or just a feeling you might have, that Mr. Woll’s death might have been something other than suicide?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Mrs. Woll, there have been five suicides in Greenwood in a little over one year. Mr. Woll was one; my fiancée, Mary Beth, was another. All five worked for Kemco.”
“I still don’t understand what you’re driving at.”
“Five suicides in a town the size of Greenwood is about ten times the national average. That strikes me as odd. And all five suicide victims worked for Kemco. That seems odd to me, too.”
She smiled; she really was a beautiful woman. “Now I understand. Mr. Crane, accept your fiancée’s death for what it was: suicide. It sounds harsh, but the truth often does. Just because Harry and I were separated when he killed himself doesn’t mean I’d stopped loving him. We weren’t divorced, after all. We might’ve gotten back together. It was a crushing blow to me. I cried and cried. But I learned to accept it. Live with it. Life goes on.”
“Uh, right. But that doesn’t make the coincidences I mentioned any less odd.”
“It also doesn’t make them anything more than coincidences.”
“Perhaps.”
She touched his leg. “It’s only natural that you find it hard to accept the fact that your fiancée took her own life. It’s normal for you to try to make it be something else. Accept her suicide as her suicide, and not an accident or some conspiracy or other such nonsense — and get on with your own life.” She leaned forward and, with a smile, lifted her hand from his leg and wagged a motherly finger at him. “Just because someone else threw their life away, doesn’t mean you have to. More coffee?”
“No, no thanks.”
“It’s no trouble...”
“No, really,” he said, rising. “Listen, it was really very nice of you to see me. Talk to me.”
“My pleasure.”
He moved toward the door. “Well, anyway, thank you. I know it must’ve seemed strange, getting a phone call from somebody you never heard of...”
“Don’t be silly. I knew who you were.”
“You did?”
“Of course. I knew Mary Beth. Isn’t that why you came? Because you needed to talk to someone who’d known Mary Beth? Someone who’d been through what you’re going through now, which I have, with my husband’s suicide?”
“Uh, well. I didn’t know how well you knew her.”
“I didn’t know her well, but I knew her. She was a wonderful person. It’s a tragic loss.”
“Did she talk to you about me?”
“Not really. She mentioned you. The girl was crazy about you, I’d judge. And I didn’t blame her.” She gave him an openly flirty look; her mouth was her daughter’s. “I’d seen your picture, after all.”
“She showed it to you?”
“No, it was on her desk.”
“You worked with her?”
“Yes. I’m in charge of the secretarial pool at the Kemco plant. You knew that, certainly?”
“Uh. Certainly.”
“Well, good night, Mr. Crane.”
“Good night.”
Just as the door was closing, the volume on the TV went up; he could hear the canned laughter.
Chapter Eleven
The barrels were stacked four high, and everywhere. Toxic Tootsie Rolls, standing on end, more rows deep than Crane dared guess. In their midst was a sprawling warehouse, faded red brick with black windows, its loading-dock area clear, but otherwise surrounded by fifty-five-gallon barrels.