She picked at another chocolate chip but didn’t eat it. “Agatha saw something in him and she encouraged his love of cooking. Kind of melodramatic to say it, but it is true that she changed his life.”
She was stalling, dancing around whatever it was she felt she needed to tell me. She flicked the chocolate chip around the plate like a little hockey puck.
I got up and refilled both our cups, trying to give Susan the time she needed.
“Eric hasn’t had a drink in a long time. He goes to meetings.” Abruptly she straightened. “The thing is, Kathleen, the past few weeks he’s been helping someone, I don’t know who, but someone he acted as a sponsor for in the past. Whoever it was had started drinking, and had the idea he could control it.” She shook her head. “It doesn’t work that way, believe me.”
“You don’t know who it was?” I asked.
“No. Eric said he couldn’t tell me. But I know he was worried. I told him if he couldn’t tell me, he should talk to his own sponsor.”
The silence stretched between us. I wasn’t sure if she was going to say it, so I asked, “Susan, did Eric have a drink?”
Her left eyelid began to twitch. She nodded. “The night Agatha was killed. The person, whoever it was, called Eric on his cell. He hadn’t been home a half hour. I got the feeling from Eric’s side of the conversation that they’d talked earlier in the evening. Anyway, this guy was in a bar; at least I’m pretty sure he was. I was standing right beside Eric when the phone rang and I could hear the background noise. Eric said he had to go.” She laced her fingers together and stretched her arms in front of her. “He came home after two in the morning. His coat and hat were all snowy. He’d obviously walked, I don’t know how far. And he was drunk.”
I reached across the table and laid one of my hands on hers. “I’m sorry,” I said.
“I put him to bed,” she continued. “In the morning he didn’t remember coming home or where he’d been.”
“He had a blackout?”
“Yes. I don’t know what scared him the most: taking the first drink or the fact that he doesn’t remember it.”
I wasn’t sure how to ask what I needed to ask. “Susan, does Eric know anything about . . . about Agatha’s death?”
“No.” Her mouth moved, then she said, “I’m not sure. Eric would never hurt anyone, especially Agatha . . . but there’s all that time he can’t remember.”
“And he still won’t tell you who he went to meet?”
She shook her head. “No, and believe me, we’ve been back and forth about it over the past few days. He says the whole program falls apart if you can’t trust your sponsor. I don’t even know if he’s told his own sponsor.”
I pushed a stray bit of hair away from my face and tried not to let my frustration show. “Do you have any idea, any hint, who it was?”
“I don’t. I’m sorry. I don’t. All I can tell you is that it’s someone Eric used to know a long time ago when he first stopped drinking.” She looked at me, tight lines of anxiety around her mouth. “You believe me, don’t you?”
“I do,” I said. It was true. I did. Susan was a lousy liar, as I’d seen in the past few days.
“Eric didn’t hurt Agatha,” she said. “Even if he was having a blackout, he wouldn’t hurt another person.”
I thought about the news story I’d read. Eric had left the scene of an accident back then. But that hadn’t been a person, and Eric had been a kid in a car full of other kids. I could remember what peer pressure was like. “I don’t think Eric hurt Agatha, either,” I said. “I think Eric would always be Eric even if he couldn’t remember.”
Susan searched my face and she must’ve liked what she saw, because she smiled as she stood up. I got to my feet, as well. “Susan, do you remember seeing Agatha with a brown envelope any time before her death? I think it was a report-card envelope at one time.”
She thought for a moment. “Yeah, I do. Why?”
I couldn’t betray Harry’s confidence and I didn’t want to tell her that Eric had argued with Agatha over the envelope. “It might be nothing, but Agatha was hanging on to it pretty tightly, and it’s disappeared.”
“You want me to ask Eric about it? He’s really worried about Ruby, you know.”
Maybe she’d get further than I had. “Please,” I said. “Tell him it’s important.” At least for Old Harry, I added silently.
She nodded and looked at her watch. “I’ll go down. It’s almost time to open.”
“I’ll be right there,” I said, gathering the dishes and setting them in the sink. I leaned against the counter.
Eric had had a blackout. I’d meant what I said to Susan. Blackout or not, I didn’t believe Eric had killed Agatha. Eric would always be Eric. But the fact was, he’d been drinking. He’d had a blackout. And Agatha was dead.
I needed to know who Eric had been with in the missing time and where they’d gone. The question was, How was I going to find out?
22
The smell of chicken soup filled the house, thanks to the slow cooker. I sent a mental thank-you to whomever had invented the pot.
“We were right.” I told Hercules, who’d kept me company while I changed into my tai chi clothes and got myself a bowl of soup. Owen had wandered in and out with a loopy expression that told me he’d been into funky-chicken parts again.
“Eric was drinking the night Agatha was killed.” I set down my spoon. “We have to find out who he was with and where they were. Eric’s in that what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas mode. You know, kind of like we do with your little superpower.” I whispered the last word.
Hercules suddenly got interested in the back door. I picked up my spoon again. “I’m thinking Eric and his friend wouldn’t do their drinking here. Someone would have said something by now.” I slipped him a piece of chicken. “Susan said it was noisy, so I’m guessing a bar, like she did.”
Hercules looked at me and bobbed his head. Which might have meant he agreed. Or he didn’t. Or he wanted more chicken. After all, I was talking to a cat. But I did know a real person who could help me.
“Hi, Katydid,” my mom said when she picked up.
“Hi, Mom,” I said. “I don’t have a lot of time, but I’m hoping you can help me with something.”
“Sure. What do you need?”
“Do you remember that choreographer you worked with in Guys and Dolls?”
“Chloe Westin,” Mom said at once.
“She, uh . . .” I hesitated.
“Was an alcoholic,” my mother said bluntly.
“That’s the one.” Now, how was I going to explain why I wanted to know what I wanted to know? “One of my staff, her husband—”
“Say no more, sweetie,” she interjected. “You think he has a drinking problem.”
“How do you know for sure?”
“Can you smell it on him?”
“No.” I leaned back against the arm of the chair.
“Doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” she said. “I never smelled alcohol on Chloe’s breath. She always smelled like Juicy Fruit gum, which, of course, explains why I didn’t smell alcohol on her breath.”
“So how did you figure it out?”
“Aside from her showing up drunk at a rehearsal and doing a grand jeté into the orchestra pit?” Mom asked dryly. “She was sneaky, evasive. She disappeared for long stretches of time and no one knew where she was. She used to go to this little hole-in-the-wall bar to drink, where no one in her real life would catch her. She’d lie and then tell a lie to cover the first lie. And on and on.”
My head ached. I rubbed my temples with the heel of my hand.
“I remember one time Chloe missed rehearsal. Then she tried to tell me she’d been out researching urban street dancing and lost track of time.”