A Circle of Wives by Alice Laplante Page A

I hope she can’t see how tightly my hands are clutching each other under the table.
    The detective nods.
    She then begins asking me questions again, but mostly they are the ones I’ve already answered. I slowly begin to relax, even begin to feel a little bored. Some water would be nice, but she doesn’t offer me any. No two-way mirror, unlike all the cop shows I’ve watched. Just the cinder block walls. And the chair is comfy. Where did they get it, from someone’s living room via the Salvation Army? It’s so out of place here.
    And this detective is very young. I know it’s hot outside, but hair in pigtails? I’ve never seen a grown woman wear them before. But they somehow suit her. And there has been nothing ridiculous about her manner. She’s very professional. Surely, though, she already knows everything about my marriage and life with John to write her report. And I’ve missed half a day’s work. I look at my watch and take a series of deep breaths. In and out, in and out, that’s what my shrink recommends in times of stress. Or clenching my fists, then releasing them—first one hand, then the other. It does something to both sides of your brain to help you relax. I do that, but it doesn’t help.
    The detective tells me to take a break. I go to the bathroom, grab a drink of water from the fountain in the big open room filled with desks. I notice that the officers stare at me. Even to them I’m an object of curiosity. I return to the examining room before the detective does, feeling acutely the strange mixture of boredom and anxiety that has plagued me since John’s death.
    Then, “Ready?” the detective asks after coming back in and seating herself. Really, she’s young! She has a habit of fiddling with her little finger, twisting it around as though winding up her hand like some sort of child’s toy.
    “When was the last time you saw Dr. Taylor? John?”
    “I’ve told you this. Several times. It was Thursday morning. He’d gotten up early as usual to make his rounds”—I stop briefly before I’m able to go on—“and left a bit after 5 AM . All as usual. Why don’t you ask Deborah? According to her, that’s where he headed every morning, their deal was supposedly sacrosanct.” My voice betrays my bitterness. Resentful that Deborah had deprived me of the kind of lazy mornings in bed with John that I had always cherished as the sweetest part of a relationship.
    “But you heard from him later in the day.” The detective consults her notes.
    “Sometime late in the morning. Here, I’ll tell you the exact time.” I pull out my cell phone and scroll down the calls. “At 11:07 AM precisely. I was at work.”
    The detective nods. She really hadn’t needed to ask that question. She applied for—and received—a subpoena to vet my phone records and emails. I think of the dancing cats and poop jokes and other things I share with friends, and am resigned to looking like a fool in front of everyone assigned to the case.
    “Your office is in. . . . Santa Clara.”
    “Yes. At WebSys. On Tasman Drive.”
    “Tell me again what he said in that phone call.”
    I sigh impatiently. And I can feel another hot flash coming on.
    “Just that he had an emergency case in LA. That he was flying down that evening. He thought he’d be back on Friday, but he wasn’t sure.”
    “And this was unusual?”
    “Very. But not that he was going to LA, since he had an adjunct appointment at UCLA for the academic year and was there twice a month for a few days at a time.”
    “So what was unusual?”
    “The disruption to our routine. He was very regular, and hated any disorder in his schedule. I wasn’t allowed . . . well, he preferred . . . that I didn’t surprise him with social events, or spontaneously suggest outings. That sort of thing made him extraordinarily anxious. He thrived on routine. He did travel, but everything was always meticulously planned ahead of time.”
    “What did he consider