Suspects by Thomas Berger Page A

the murder was committed—the murders, that is.”
    She had a lot of self-possession. Moody knew he had no taste (having heard it said often enough by women), but he was sure he could identify someone who did, and this person was definitely of superior quality. She wore a pearl-gray blouse of some silken material that might well actually have been pure silk, and on it a necklace of pearls that just about matched the blouse. She looked close to the same age as Howland, as opposed to his late, much younger wife. Her hair was what Moody would have called dark blond or, again, light brown with golden highlights. She was small and slender but had all the body she needed. The obvious question was what she could see in Larry Howland, but Moody was aware the same could be asked with regard to the male intimates of any attractive woman since the dawn of humankind, and after all, his own second wife had been considered by many, including himself, to have been a knockout in a bathing suit.
    Mrs. Bissonette led the detectives to a living room that was much larger than you would have guessed from the exterior of the house. It did not take long to realize that it had nothing in common with Dennis’ home.
    The furniture seemed several inches lower than the standard. She offered them the sofa, but they could never accept being manipulated by those they questioned, even when on the latter’s property without a warrant, so Moody seated her in one of the low-slung leather chairs, while LeBeau perched on a wicker-and-wire rig nearby. Moody stayed on his feet, which kept him twice as high as anything in the room except for the pictures on the walls, which were either stark black-and-white or, if in color, distorted when the image was at all recognizable.
    â€œLet me just check the spellings.” Dennis read her name aloud, letter by letter, from his pocket notebook.
    â€œThat’s correct,” she said, her blue-gray eyes seeking out Moody. “If ‘Bissonette’ gives you trouble, the easy way to remember is that every second consonant is doubled.” She raised her eyebrows to see if he got it, which after a moment he believed he did. He knew what a consonant was, but he had never heard the spoken word for it his life long except maybe in school so very long ago. She had the better of him thus far, notwithstanding that he remained on his feet.
    LeBeau put on the grave expression in which his eyes grew larger. He said, as if apologetically, “I’ll make this easy on you as I can, but I’ve got to ask you some questions.”
    â€œDon’t mind about me,” said Mrs. Bissonette. “Vm okay. I’m just concerned about Larry. I haven’t been able to get hold of him by phone. How is he taking it?”
    â€œWe can’t comment on things like that,” LeBeau said. “Now, you do know Lawrence Howland?”
    â€œOf course,” she said, with a soft laugh that sounded to Moody like the sifting of sand. “I never go to bed with strangers.”
    Dennis looked down. It was possible that he was actually embarrassed, but more likely that he was pretending. There was a kind of woman who enjoyed being outspoken with cops, because she knew that they themselves could never be when speaking to her. Some of the most ladylike in appearance had the foulest mouths.
    â€œYou are presendy married to”—LeBeau checked his notebook—“Paul Bissonette, and living with him on these premises?”
    â€œLet me help you get through this quickly,” said Mrs. Bissonette, crossing her slender legs under the dark drape of long skirt. “I am happily married to Paul. One of the things that make us happy, maybe even one of the minor things, is that we each go our own way in sexual matters.”
    Moody finally sat down with a haunch on the edge of the sofa, but he still just listened for a while.
    â€œYes, ma’am,” LeBeau said impassively. “You are