Sandrine's Case (9780802193520) by Thomas H. Cook Page B

fight.”
    â€œWhat fight?”
    â€œThe last one,” I answered. “The one I told you about, the one we had that night.”
    I recalled again the fury of our final exchange, how raw and hurtful it had been, with what ferocity Sandrine had attacked me and with what terrible final statement I had struck back.
    â€œI can’t imagine why Singleton would ask anything about that candle,” I added. “It was just a cheap souvenir. Like everything else on that trip, I bought it with a little money I got after my aunt died.”
    I saw something catch in Morty’s brain. “How did your aunt die, by the way?” he asked.
    â€œAfter a long illness.”
    â€œWere you there when she died?”
    â€œYou mean, in the room?”
    â€œIn the vicinity.”
    I gazed at him bleakly. “For Christ’s sake, Morty, do you think I killed my aunt too?”
    Morty stared at me silently.
    â€œNo, not in the vicinity,” I said flatly. “My aunt was in Minneapolis. I was in New York.” I glared at him. “If you need any further proof that I didn’t murder my aunt, I’ll try to provide it.”
    â€œI don’t think that will be necessary,” Morty said. He smiled but it was a cold dead smile. “I was just checking, Sam. There is nothing more damning than innuendo, or worse than a surprise.”
    â€œThere won’t be any surprises,” I told him. “You know everything there is to know.”
    And it was already far too much, as I’d learned by then, far, far more than I would have thought possible before my trial, though I also suspected that Mr. Singleton’s little paws were still at work.
    When I looked back at Morty, he had a curious and uncharacteristically troubled look on his face.
    â€œThe time line, Sam. When did you leave your wife? The day she died, I mean.”
    â€œI left her twice that day. Once for my afternoon class and, later, for my evening class.”
    â€œThe second time you left, that was after you had that fight, correct? When she threw that cup at you?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhere was Alexandria at that point?” Morty asked.
    â€œWhy does it matter?”
    â€œIt matters because if Singleton got desperate he could call her as a witness.” He saw how surprised I was by this. “You have no constitutional protection against your daughter, Sam,” he reminded me.
    â€œAlexandria would never testify against me,” I said. “Besides, there’s nothing she could testify about.”
    Morty’s gaze remained steady. “What about that last fight you and your wife had?”
    For some reason, the image that returned to me was of Alexandria making lunch that day, standing in the kitchen, cutting bread. She hadn’t turned when I called to tell her that I was headed for my noon class but only given a short jerk of the knife.
    â€œShe wasn’t in the house when that happened,” I told Morty. “She’d gone into town.”
    â€œBut she came back after that fight, didn’t she?” Morty asked pointedly. “After you’d already left, I mean.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd so she no doubt said goodbye to your wife,” Morty said.
    â€œOf course,” I said. “But Sandrine would never have told her about that terrible last argument.”
    â€œShe might not have had to tell her.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œWell, there’s that cup.”
    I felt a cold dread. “Yes, the cup.”
    â€œYour wife didn’t clean that up,” Morty reminded me. “You did, remember? You did it after your wife’s death.”
    I nodded.
    â€œSo Alexandria might have seen it.”
    â€œIf Sandrine was still in the bedroom, yes.”
    â€œDid you ever ask Alexandria what she and your wife talked about that last evening?”
    â€œNo.”
    Morty started to add something else but suddenly glanced back