“So you can verify the time, that way.”
“Yes we can.”
Pierce felt a rustling at his feet; glancing down, he saw the damned thing, sitting under the desk, at his feet, staring up at him with those spooky unblinking blue eyes.
Sniffling, he reached for a tissue from a box on the desktop. Blew his nose, dried his eyes, and said, “Sorry, gentlemen.”
“We know this is difficult for you,” March said.
“Terribly difficult,” Pierce said, and withdrew another tissue.
The statement was brief — what was there to tell? — but once the tape recorder had been clicked off, Anderson said, “We’d like you to authorize an autopsy, Mr. Hartwell.”
“Why is that necessary?”
“I think you know.”
There was something nasty about Anderson’s tone, and Pierce said, huffily, “What are you implying, sir?”
March frowned at his partner, then, smiling at Pierce, sat forward. “Pierce, I’d like to be candid, if I might.”
“Certainly.”
“When a wealthy elderly woman — who has recently married a relatively younger man — dies under circumstances that are even remotely questionable, it’s incumbent upon the police to investigate.”
What did he mean, “relatively younger?”
“An autopsy,” March continued, “should establish your wife’s death by natural causes, and we can all go on with our lives.”
“Bill,” Pierce said, invoking the lieutenant’s first name, “considering the fact that many people in our fair community have accused you of marrying for money, you’re hardly anyone toБ”
“Mrs. March isn’t dead,” Anderson interrupted.
“Gentlemen,” March said, holding out two palms. “Please. This is an unfortunate situation... a tragic situation. Let’s not get into name-calling or personalities.”
Eyes burning, Pierce said, “Of course I’ll authorize an autopsy, distasteful though a debasement of my dear late wife’s remains are to me. Just tell me what you need me to do.”
When Pierce had seen the detectives out, he returned to his study, hoping the cat would still be in the well of the desk. Pierce’s intention was to trap the cat, perhaps cage it up in a wastebasket and hurl the creature into the cold late afternoon air, where it could either fend for itself or freeze itself to death — preferably the latter.
But there was no sign of the cat. He looked everywhere, irritated but relatively calm, not allowing himself the indignity of turning the house topsy-turvy again, which would only require him to set it aright. Clearly the cat had finally sensed the obvious: that Pierce meant Clarence harm.
Sooner or later it would come out, to its water and food dishes.
So Pierce set out fresh water and food for the animal — the cat food liberally laced with rat poison — and, whistling, dressed for dinner.
Since they had no cook (Esther had enjoyed preparing breakfasts and lunches herself), the couple’s habit was to dine out. In a town the size of Ferndale, only a handful of suitable restaurants presented themselves — the country club and the hotel, chiefly. Pierce chose the latter, not wanting to chance running into March and his wife at the former.
He was famished and hoped the staff at the hotel restaurant — who went out of their way to express their sympathy, to stop by and comment about how much they would miss the sweet, kind Esther — did not consider him callous, to eat so heavily and drink so heartily. He hoped they would consider him to be drowning his sorrows, as opposed to what he was really doing, which was celebrating.
At home, mildly tipsy and extremely drowsy, his stomach warm and full, Pierce lumbered up the curving stairs. When he found himself in the bedroom — the bedroom he and Esther had shared — a chill passed through the room, and him. Winter wind rattled frost-decorated windows. Telling himself he wanted to get away from the draft, he stumbled down the hall into one of the guest bedrooms.
Clothed in the Armani suit he’d worn to dinner, taking time only to step out of his Italian loafers, he flopped onto the bed, on his back. Had his conscience sent him into this bedroom? Did he feel guilty about what he’d done to Esther? These thoughts were worthy only of his laughter, with which he filled the room, laughing until his tiredness took over and sent him almost immediately into a deep sleep.
He awoke, not with a start, but gradually, groggily, with the growing sensation of pressure on his chest. He reached for the nightstand lamp, clicked it on, and stared into the blue unblinking eyes of the brown animal sitting on top of him.
Staring at him.
Staring into him.
The accusatory stare of the witness to the murder he’d committed...
Screaming, Pierce sat up, flinging the cat off him. The beast rolled and came up running, scurrying out, claws clicking on the varnished wood of the hallway.
And Pierce was after the animal, chasing it down the winding stairs, darkness relieved only by moonlight filtering in through frosted windows. This time there would be no frantic search of the house. This time he would prevail.
As the cat headed into the living room, Pierce dove, and in a careening tackle that took over an end table and sent a lamp clattering, crashing, to the floor, Pierce scooped the animal in his arms and held it tight. Clarence fought, but its claws were facing outward as Pierce hugged it around the belly.
The nearest door was the front one, and, lugging the squirming beast, Pierce made his way there, holding tight around the cat’s belly with one arm and with the other reaching to open the door, swinging it open, flinging the beast into the deadly cold night.
Slamming the door behind it.
No sounds came from beyond the closed door: that cat didn’t want back inside, no matter how cold it was. For the longest time, Pierce sat on the floor with his back to the door, folding his arms tight, laughing, laughing, laughing, until tears were rolling down his cheeks, never aware exactly when the glee gave way to weeping.
At some point he found his way back to the bedroom, where, exhausted, he quickly fell to sleep. He had nightmares but on waking didn’t remember them — they just clung to his mind the way the taste of sleep coated his mouth. But he was able to brush his teeth and deal with the latter; the taste of the unremembered dreams stuck with him.
Nonetheless, the morning passed uneventfully, without any particular stress. Noting that the poisoned cat food had not been touched, he emptied the bowl into the sink and down the garbage disposal. He washed his hands thoroughly before preparing himself an English muffin and coffee. He showered, shaved, and was feeling fairly refreshed, wearing the same silk robe he’d killed his wife in, when the phone rang.
“Could you come down here, to the Public Safety Building?” Lt. March asked.
“Am I needed?”
“We have the results of your wife’s autopsy, and we’d like to discuss them with you... if it’s not inconvenient.”
At one o’clock, wearing a Pierre Cardin sports jacket and no tie, Pierce Hartwell walked to March’s office on the first floor of the modern Ferndale Public Safety Building. The door to the modest office was open and March was seated behind his desk, with Anderson in a chair by a cement block wall.
And on top of the desk, seated off to the left like an oversize paperweight, was the cat.
Clarence.
Sitting and staring with its terrible blue eyes — right at Pierce.
“Have a seat,” March said.
Swallowing, Pierce pulled a chair up, opposite March and as far away as possible from the brown beast. The goddamn thing looked none the worse for wear: no sign that it had spent a terrible frostbitten night, perfectly groomed, even purring, as it stared accusingly at Pierce.
March said, “Mr. Hartwell, there is a disturbing aspect that’s turned up, in the autopsy.”