unattended.
Before he had the chance to criticize, I told him I regretted waiting so long to call the police. Admittedly, that should have been my very first action, but I wasn’t used to getting faxed help messages—only death threats.
Tommy was more concerned with what had gone on in the Wilkinses’ house, my sensations as I’d lost consciousness. He told me an officer had found the original help message on Steve’s scanner.
That gave me a frightening thought. “The killer probably sent that after Steve was dead to lure me over there. Maybe he was waiting for me and hit me in the head.”
Tommy showed no reaction to my suggestion. He asked me to describe the knife missing from my kitchen, which had a shiny black handle and a heavy, nine-inch blade.
“Sounds like the murder weapon, all right. Okay. So. Mind if we take your fingerprints?”
“They’ll be on the knife. I used it to cut up mushrooms for last night’s dinner.” There was a disquieting thought; last night’s dinner utensil, today’s murder weapon.
“Course your prints’ll be on the knife. That’s why we need to print you. So we can rule ‘em out and identify other prints on it.”
“Oh. That makes sense. I just don’t want—” I let my voice fade away. This was such a nightmare. My stomach lurched. I felt queasy. I might be accused of murdering my oldest friend’s husband!
“See anyone at the party use the knife?”
“Not that I can say for sure. It’s possible any of them could have. There was that time all of you were in the kitchen. But I really can’t remember anyone touching the knife. Before the party started I had washed it and put it in the butcher-block knife holder.
“Where’s that kept?”
“Right on the counter. Next to the sink.”
“Tell me how well you knew Steve.”
“Not very well.” This subject made me nervous. The only thing my relationship with Steve could indicate was whether or not I had a motive to kill him. “I met him for the first time almost four weeks ago, when my family first got here. Both families had dinner together twice that first week. We talked quite a bit then.”
“‘Bout what?”
“Just…trivial stuff. Small talk, mostly. Sports, computers. I told him about my starting Molly’s eCards. Then, for the next couple of weeks, I saw him only occasionally, coming or going from his home. The next time I saw him was when he came over and took a look at my threatening emails.”
“He helped you set up your website, right?”
“He advised me. And he helped install my software.”
“Did you show him the threats you got in your email?”
“Yes, but not the one I got last night that said, ‘Your husband is having an affair. If you—’” I paused, remembering the wording. “It serves you right. If you were any kind of a wife you’d be with him.’”
“Know how long the Wilkinses have been married?”
What a weird question to ask me now. I answered slowly, “Ten years.”
“Go to their wedding?”
The question brought back a sad memory. I shook my head. “I had plane reservations and everything. I was pregnant. The week of her wedding, I had a miscarriage. I canceled my trip.”
“Seems to me, she was pretty serious ‘n’ all ‘bout that captain of the Carlton football team. Remember? They announced their engagement at our graduation party.”
“Howie Brown.” I fidgeted with it torn cuticle, to disguise my growing agitation. This time I had no doubts: Tommy was playing dumb. He had known Howie well in school. Tommy had been the equipment manager for the football team. During time-outs he used to run out on the field and squirt Gatorade in everyone’s mouths. They’d reward him by spitting on his shoes.
“Why’d they break up?” Tommy asked.
I met his gaze. He was watching me, his expression blank, as if he didn’t already know the answer to this question, as if the answer were unimportant. I cleared my throat. My mouth was dry. “He was cheating
Before he had the chance to criticize, I told him I regretted waiting so long to call the police. Admittedly, that should have been my very first action, but I wasn’t used to getting faxed help messages—only death threats.
Tommy was more concerned with what had gone on in the Wilkinses’ house, my sensations as I’d lost consciousness. He told me an officer had found the original help message on Steve’s scanner.
That gave me a frightening thought. “The killer probably sent that after Steve was dead to lure me over there. Maybe he was waiting for me and hit me in the head.”
Tommy showed no reaction to my suggestion. He asked me to describe the knife missing from my kitchen, which had a shiny black handle and a heavy, nine-inch blade.
“Sounds like the murder weapon, all right. Okay. So. Mind if we take your fingerprints?”
“They’ll be on the knife. I used it to cut up mushrooms for last night’s dinner.” There was a disquieting thought; last night’s dinner utensil, today’s murder weapon.
“Course your prints’ll be on the knife. That’s why we need to print you. So we can rule ‘em out and identify other prints on it.”
“Oh. That makes sense. I just don’t want—” I let my voice fade away. This was such a nightmare. My stomach lurched. I felt queasy. I might be accused of murdering my oldest friend’s husband!
“See anyone at the party use the knife?”
“Not that I can say for sure. It’s possible any of them could have. There was that time all of you were in the kitchen. But I really can’t remember anyone touching the knife. Before the party started I had washed it and put it in the butcher-block knife holder.
“Where’s that kept?”
“Right on the counter. Next to the sink.”
“Tell me how well you knew Steve.”
“Not very well.” This subject made me nervous. The only thing my relationship with Steve could indicate was whether or not I had a motive to kill him. “I met him for the first time almost four weeks ago, when my family first got here. Both families had dinner together twice that first week. We talked quite a bit then.”
“‘Bout what?”
“Just…trivial stuff. Small talk, mostly. Sports, computers. I told him about my starting Molly’s eCards. Then, for the next couple of weeks, I saw him only occasionally, coming or going from his home. The next time I saw him was when he came over and took a look at my threatening emails.”
“He helped you set up your website, right?”
“He advised me. And he helped install my software.”
“Did you show him the threats you got in your email?”
“Yes, but not the one I got last night that said, ‘Your husband is having an affair. If you—’” I paused, remembering the wording. “It serves you right. If you were any kind of a wife you’d be with him.’”
“Know how long the Wilkinses have been married?”
What a weird question to ask me now. I answered slowly, “Ten years.”
“Go to their wedding?”
The question brought back a sad memory. I shook my head. “I had plane reservations and everything. I was pregnant. The week of her wedding, I had a miscarriage. I canceled my trip.”
“Seems to me, she was pretty serious ‘n’ all ‘bout that captain of the Carlton football team. Remember? They announced their engagement at our graduation party.”
“Howie Brown.” I fidgeted with it torn cuticle, to disguise my growing agitation. This time I had no doubts: Tommy was playing dumb. He had known Howie well in school. Tommy had been the equipment manager for the football team. During time-outs he used to run out on the field and squirt Gatorade in everyone’s mouths. They’d reward him by spitting on his shoes.
“Why’d they break up?” Tommy asked.
I met his gaze. He was watching me, his expression blank, as if he didn’t already know the answer to this question, as if the answer were unimportant. I cleared my throat. My mouth was dry. “He was cheating
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