many eavesdroppers. How about the sandwich shop right next door to me? He’s featuring a tomato-basil soup that’s very good.”
“All right. Twelve-thirty okay? I’ll meet you there.”
8
T here were two other shops in Betsy’s building, a used-book store called Isbn’s on her right and Sol’s Delicatessen (though the owner’s name was Jack Knutson) on her left. Betsy went into the deli. It looked as if it were original to the building and never redecorated, with a potted palm partly blocking the front window, large black and white tiles on the floor, and a long, white-enamel case faced with slanted panes of glass behind which were displayed cold cuts, cheeses, smoked salmon, salads, and a tray of enormous dill pickles. The stamped-tin ceiling was high.
The deli was mostly a carry-out place—there was a line of customers waiting to buy Sol’s (or Jack’s) wonderful thick sandwiches—but the owner had set up a couple of small, round, marble-topped tables and wire-backed chairs for the few who chose to eat in.
Betsy picked a chair that faced the door. She had barely sat down when the door opened and Alice came in. Tall for a woman in her sixties, and broad-shouldered, Alice wore a man’s raincoat and sensible lace-up oxfords. Her eyeglasses had unstylish plastic rims. Her face was set with grim determination, an expression that did not change when she saw Betsy and came to her table.
She sat down stiffly and said, “I know what you want to ask me. And I’m glad to tell you, get it off my chest. This is all my fault.”
“What is?” asked Betsy.
But Alice’s answer was forestalled by Jack’s appearance at their table. He was a tall, bald man with tired eyes and a paunch that sagged into his white apron. His hands were covered with clear plastic gloves. “What can I get you ladies?” he asked, with a special nod to Betsy, his landlady.
“I’d like a mixed green salad with strips of smoked turkey on top, ranch dressing on the side,” said Betsy. “Water to drink.”
Alice consulted the menu handwritten on a whiteboard behind the white enamel case and said, “A cup of coffee, black, and a mixed meat sandwich with mayonnaise on an onion roll, please.” Mixed meat meant ham, smoked turkey, thuringer, salami, and roast beef, sliced thin but piled high. Alice was not afraid of cholesterol.
When the man had walked away, Alice said to Betsy, in a low, shamed voice, “It’s my fault Foster is suspected of murder.”
“How can that be? You were saying he was innocent only yesterday.”
Alice replied, “I mean it’s my fault he’s suspected, not my fault he did it—which I’m not convinced he did.”
“I still don’t understand.”
Alice frowned and shifted around on her chair. “Maybe I should start at the beginning, which was when I realized Angela was afraid of her husband.”
“What?”
“I said, when I realized Angela was afraid of her husband. Paul was a bully and a brute. And she wasn’t timid, she was intimidated. I told her once that if she wanted to get away, she could come hide in my house. But she didn’t even thank me, much less take me up on the offer.”
“I don’t understand. Why—how did you get involved?”
“My late husband was a pastor, you know that. Well, we both heard a lot of sad stories. After a while, you learn to look at people, and I could very plainly see that Angela lived in fear of her husband.”
“If that was true, why didn’t she leave him? After all, she had Foster to go to.”
“True. But women stay in abusive relationships for a number of reasons. Fear of what he might do if she leaves is near the top of the list.”
“So he really didn’t love her.”
“What he felt was nothing like love, it had nothing to do with wanting the best for the beloved, it had everything to do with control.”
“How long were you aware of this situation?”
“I first saw it about eight or ten months before her murder. But Paul’s smile had never
“All right. Twelve-thirty okay? I’ll meet you there.”
8
T here were two other shops in Betsy’s building, a used-book store called Isbn’s on her right and Sol’s Delicatessen (though the owner’s name was Jack Knutson) on her left. Betsy went into the deli. It looked as if it were original to the building and never redecorated, with a potted palm partly blocking the front window, large black and white tiles on the floor, and a long, white-enamel case faced with slanted panes of glass behind which were displayed cold cuts, cheeses, smoked salmon, salads, and a tray of enormous dill pickles. The stamped-tin ceiling was high.
The deli was mostly a carry-out place—there was a line of customers waiting to buy Sol’s (or Jack’s) wonderful thick sandwiches—but the owner had set up a couple of small, round, marble-topped tables and wire-backed chairs for the few who chose to eat in.
Betsy picked a chair that faced the door. She had barely sat down when the door opened and Alice came in. Tall for a woman in her sixties, and broad-shouldered, Alice wore a man’s raincoat and sensible lace-up oxfords. Her eyeglasses had unstylish plastic rims. Her face was set with grim determination, an expression that did not change when she saw Betsy and came to her table.
She sat down stiffly and said, “I know what you want to ask me. And I’m glad to tell you, get it off my chest. This is all my fault.”
“What is?” asked Betsy.
But Alice’s answer was forestalled by Jack’s appearance at their table. He was a tall, bald man with tired eyes and a paunch that sagged into his white apron. His hands were covered with clear plastic gloves. “What can I get you ladies?” he asked, with a special nod to Betsy, his landlady.
“I’d like a mixed green salad with strips of smoked turkey on top, ranch dressing on the side,” said Betsy. “Water to drink.”
Alice consulted the menu handwritten on a whiteboard behind the white enamel case and said, “A cup of coffee, black, and a mixed meat sandwich with mayonnaise on an onion roll, please.” Mixed meat meant ham, smoked turkey, thuringer, salami, and roast beef, sliced thin but piled high. Alice was not afraid of cholesterol.
When the man had walked away, Alice said to Betsy, in a low, shamed voice, “It’s my fault Foster is suspected of murder.”
“How can that be? You were saying he was innocent only yesterday.”
Alice replied, “I mean it’s my fault he’s suspected, not my fault he did it—which I’m not convinced he did.”
“I still don’t understand.”
Alice frowned and shifted around on her chair. “Maybe I should start at the beginning, which was when I realized Angela was afraid of her husband.”
“What?”
“I said, when I realized Angela was afraid of her husband. Paul was a bully and a brute. And she wasn’t timid, she was intimidated. I told her once that if she wanted to get away, she could come hide in my house. But she didn’t even thank me, much less take me up on the offer.”
“I don’t understand. Why—how did you get involved?”
“My late husband was a pastor, you know that. Well, we both heard a lot of sad stories. After a while, you learn to look at people, and I could very plainly see that Angela lived in fear of her husband.”
“If that was true, why didn’t she leave him? After all, she had Foster to go to.”
“True. But women stay in abusive relationships for a number of reasons. Fear of what he might do if she leaves is near the top of the list.”
“So he really didn’t love her.”
“What he felt was nothing like love, it had nothing to do with wanting the best for the beloved, it had everything to do with control.”
“How long were you aware of this situation?”
“I first saw it about eight or ten months before her murder. But Paul’s smile had never
Similar Books
