The Pocket Wife by Susan Crawford Page B

somewhere.
    â€œNo,” he says. “I didn’t. So what was life-and-death?” Jack chews on the end of the pencil.
    Dana shrugs. “She was—Celia was—a little tipsy. More than a little.”
    â€œWhy was that?”
    â€œWho knows?” Dana inches back a tad on her chair. “She’d had quite a bit of sangria.”
    â€œWas it some sort of occasion?”
    â€œI don’t know. Maybe. There’s always an occasion if you want one, isn’t there? I mean, there’s always a reason for sangria if you teach Hispanics,” Dana says, and Detective Moss looks up. “Wait. That didn’t sound right,” she says, but she has no idea how to fix it. She focuses on the wall directly behind his desk. She wants to tell him all she knows about her neighbor’s death, to spread the moments of that day like cards across a table, to hand over the guilt hanging like an albatross around her neck. She wants to tell him that together—with his knowledge of the case and her energy they could surely solve—
    â€œDid you two argue?”
    â€œWe . . . I had some sangria, too. I actually had quite a bit, too. I can’t really remember what we talked about. Mostly about the pictures. Particularly the one picture. Whether it was Peter or not.”
    â€œAnd did you argue?”
    â€œPeople do all sorts of things when they’re drunk,” Dana says. “But I don’t specifically remember arguing. I mean, we weren’t exactly on the same page that day. . . .”
    â€œHow’s that?”
    â€œShe’d had quite a head start,” Dana says. “She was a good half bottle in when I arrived.”
    Jack Moss sits forward as if he’s suddenly realized he’s late for a meeting. “Was she alive when you left?” he says, and Dana nods.
    â€œI was completely shocked,” she says, and she reminds herself that this, at least, is untainted truth. If Moss insists on a lie-detector test, she’ll be fine on this particular question. “I was completely shocked,” she says again, “when I saw her lying on the floor. Absolutely blown away.”
    â€œIs there anything you’d like to add?” Detective Moss takes his glasses off and taps them against the palm of his hand. “Anything that might shed some light on your friend’s death?” His eyes are far more sensual without the glasses—softer, even in the harsh glare beaming down from the ceiling.
    â€œWe weren’t all that close, really,” Dana says. “We went to yard sales together, that sort of thing.”
    â€œNoted. Did you happen to go back to the Steinhausers’ the night Celia was killed?”
    â€œNo.” Dana leans over to pick up her purse that’s fallen on its side on the dirty linoleum floor. “Why?”
    â€œYou had a key? Have a key?”
    â€œUmm . . .” Dana looks above her right eyebrow as if this is the toughest question yet. “I did. Yes. From watching the—”
    â€œBut you weren’t in their house the night of the killing?”
    â€œNo. And I gave it back to Ronald. I ran into him at the market the other day and I gave him the key.”
    â€œDid anyone else have access to the key when you had it? Your husband? Any family members? Friends?”
    â€œWell,” Dana says. “Not that I can . . . Peter—my husband—actually had access, but he didn’t . . . actually go anywhere that night. He got home late and went straight to bed.”
    Jack Moss nods, looks back at his notes. “Anything you’d like to add?”
    â€œNo,” Dana says, and again she can say this with all honesty.She looks Jack straight in the eye and says it again. “No. Nothing.” He jots down something she can’t see and stands up. Dana gets up, too, extending her now slightly trembling hand.
    â€œIf you remember anything,” he says, “even if it