She opened the door slowly and looked at Crane the same way. She was slender, about thirty, with short dark hair and piercing, pretty eyes as dark as her hair; her lips were a thin red line as she appraised him, tilting her head back a bit so she could look down on him, a hand poised at the base of her neck, around which hung a thin gold chain, which settled comfortably in the soft folds of silk of her cream-colored blouse.
The glass of the storm door still separating them, she said, “Yes?” and he told her who he was and she gave him a small twitch of a smile and let him in.
This split-level house was built from the same plans as Mary Beth’s family’s home, and it was disturbing to be in a living room so much like the one he sat in with Mary Beth’s mother a few days ago. Even the furniture was similarly arranged — the couch was opposite the front door as you came in — but on a closer look it began to look quite different. The furniture, here, was antique: walnut, mostly. Expensive. Tasteful.
Like Mrs. Meyer, who stood in front of him with a glacially polite smile, one hand on a trim hip (she wore rather clingy black slacks), the other gesturing toward the brocade couch.
He sat. So did she. Across from him, in a love seat.
“I’m sorry about your fiancée, Mr. Crane,” she said.
You couldn’t tell it by her voice.
“Thank you,” he said. “I appreciate your willingness to see me.”
“I don’t understand why you want to talk to me, actually. I do understand that we have something in common.” She got up and walked to the coffee table between them, where she took a cigarette from a silver box and lit it. Pulled smoke into her lungs, let it out, sat down again. “My Paul killed himself. Your Mary Beth killed herself. Tragic. But not uncommon.”
Not in Greenwood, anyway, he thought.
“Could I ask you a few questions, Mrs. Meyer?”
“If you like.”
“When did your husband die?”
“Six months ago. He shot himself in the temple.” She smiled. “That’s a punch line you know.”
“Pardon me?”
“Punch line of an old ‘sick’ joke. One man says to the other man, did you hear about Jones? The other man says, no I didn’t. The first man says, killed himself. The second man says, no! how did it happen? The first man says, shot himself in the temple. And the second man says, that’s funny — he didn’t look Jewish.” She smiled again. A forced smile. Her eyes were a little wet.
“I shouldn’t be intruding. I can go...”
“You can go if you like. That little story is as close to coming unglued as I’m going to get. So you don’t have to worry, Mr. Crane.”
“Mrs. Meyer, you and I have more in common than just having someone we loved commit suicide.”
“You presume quite a bit.”
“Pardon?”
“You presume I loved Paul.”
“Didn’t you?”
“Yes. But what does that have to do with you?”
“I better go.”
“If you like. I don’t mean to be rude. Really. I’ve invited you into my home. I’ve agreed to talk with you. It’s just that I want to make clear that I’m not a person to turn to in your hour of grief. I have no free advice for you on how to handle this situation. Just because I happen to be somebody else whose... loved one died of self-inflicted wounds, doesn’t mean...” She stopped herself. Her eyes were getting wet again. She waved some smoke from her cigarette away from her face.
“Mrs. Meyer. I’m not here for that. I’m not here for... group therapy, or something.”
She looked surprised for a moment. “Why are you here, then?”
“As I started to say, we have more in common than just the suicides of Mary Beth and your husband. Or rather I should say that they had more in common than suicide.”
“What do you mean?” The words were clipped.
“They both worked at Kemco.”
“So?”
“Are you aware that there have been five suicides in Greenwood, in not much more than a year? And that all five victims worked for Kemco?”
“A lot of people around here work for Kemco.”
“Five suicides, Mrs. Meyer. Ten times the national average.”
She thought about that a moment. “That’s an interesting random statistic. But I don’t see your point.”
“It just seems suspicious to me, is all. My fiancée was not the type of person who would commit suicide. I doubt she did commit suicide. I think it was something else.”
“Such as what?”
“Something else.”
She got up, put her cigarette out in an ashtray on the coffee table. She sat back down. She and the empty side of the love seat stared at him. “What do you want from me?” she asked.
“I want to ask you a few questions.”
“Ask, then.”
“Did your husband know Mary Beth?”
“I really don’t know.”
“He never mentioned her? She was working out of the secretarial pool.”
“I never heard him mention her. I never heard of her at all, until a friend told me a young woman down the street killed herself. Where is this heading?”
“Do you have any suspicions about your husband’s suicide? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“No, I haven’t any suspicions, and yes I mind.”
“Mrs. Meyer, I have reason to believe Kemco is and has been involved in some illegal practices. I think it’s possible that Mary Beth and possibly your husband and others among those ‘suicides’ may have been well aware of those practices, and... well, now you should be able to see where I’m headed.”
She stood. “There,” she said. She was pointing at the front door. “That’s where you’re headed.”
He got up. “I’ll be glad to leave. I know I’m intruding. Please excuse me and I’ll go.”
“You’ll go, but not till I’ve had my say. My husband killed himself. There’s no doubt in my mind that he did. He had emotional problems, which I’d rather not discuss with a stranger. They were problems that ran deep. He had them before he met me. We tried to work them out together. We failed, or I failed, or maybe he failed. But one night he went in his study, where he sometimes slept, and in the morning I found him dead. By his own hand. By his own hand, Mr. Crane!”
“Please, Mrs. Meyer...”
“Kemco was one of the few things in Paul’s life that he was satisfied with. He was assistant plant manager, and he had a good future... this was just a first, small step for him with the company. I’ll tell you something about Kemco, Mr. Crane. Paul lied to them when he filled out his application forms; he withheld information, namely that he had been in a mental institution, and more than once. This came out, after Paul’s suicide, of course. But they are paying me the full pension due Paul. Which they have no legal obligation to do.”
“Doesn’t that seem suspicious to you?”
“Suspicious?” She raised a tiny fist as if to strike him, then quickly lowered it. “It seems humane. It seems very moral. It does not seem suspicious. Don’t bad-mouth Kemco around me, Mr. Crane. The Kemco people have been kind to me. Generous. I think your suspicions, your accusations, are as irresponsible as they are unfounded.”
“I do have suspicions. But I’m not making any accusations.”
“By implication you are. Mr. Crane. I don’t mean to fly off the handle at you. I’m not a cold person, really. I, if anyone, can understand how you feel. What you’re going through. You can say you didn’t come here for advice, and I said I wouldn’t give you any if you asked. But I do have some. Let go of her. Your fiancée. Let her die. Let her be dead. Accept it. Go on living. Stop this vain attempt to place the blame for what happened on somebody or some thing. Even if someone was to blame, she’d still be dead.”