Mrs. Boring gasped. “David Goldfinch? How dreadful. His mother, Gertrude, is on the Brustkrebs Ball board.”
“So you’re friends?” said Andreas.
Mrs. Boring paused, pondering her words. “Nothing of the sort. Anyone who claims to be friends with the Frau Doktor Doktor is lying. Gertrude’s only there for tax write-offs and to criticize my event plans. Now, I’ve wished a lot of things on that woman, but never this. Losing her son, how awful.”
“So you didn’t get along,” said Beate.
“Gertrude doesn’tget along; she gets what she wants. This is my final year organizing the ball, thanks to her. When my cancer recurred, she suggested I step down. I refused. Last month, she called and said rumors of my husband’sbehaviorhad reached the board, and they were concerned about their image. She claimed it was a group decision, but I know it was all her.”
“Were you aware of your husband’s affairs before then?” asked Sterling.
“Of course,” said Mrs. Boring, her face a refined mask of suppressed emotion, the sort taught in Swiss finishing school. Sterling caught hints of sorrow in her tone beneath the bitterness.
“I’m guessing you started chemo about two years ago?” asked Sterling.
Mrs. Boring self-consciously patted her black wig. “Yes. How can you tell?”
Sterling flicked her wrist reassuringly. “Not that. It’s perfect. Don’t worry, you’re stunning. I guessed because two years ago was when your husband started coming to the Orient.”
Andreas let out an involuntaryoof.Beate made a disapprovingtsk, shaking her head.
“Why would he bring you here?” asked Andreas.
“Our couples therapist suggested it,” said Mrs. Boring breathily. The heat was getting to her. She removed the bolero over her peach-colored gown, revealing an elastic compression sleeve on her bloated right arm.
“It’s refreshing to hear the truth. People treat me as if a tumor in my breast addled my mind. I imagine several friends knew of his exploits, though none told me. ButsomehowGertrude Goldfinch found out,” she said, fanning her face with her hand. The heat seemedto exacerbate her awareness of her lymphedema. She raised her arm to massage it, but the tight tailoring of her gown made it difficult. The scratchy beading at the edges of the sleeves left lumpy mottling on her swollen skin. It looked painful.
Sterling couldn’t take it. She excused herself for a moment, ran to the office, and grabbed a bottle of Fernando’s Formula Tres, the multipurpose massage oil they offered guests. She returned, and presented the bottle, now cooling in an ice bucket, and asked, “May I?”
Mrs. Boring, made desperate by the swelter, consented with a high-pitchedhmm, offering her arm. Sterling unrolled the compression sleeve gently. She cooled her hands with ice, applied oil, and began massaging at her shoulder. The gentle brushing strokes helped relieve the swelling. As her arm shrank, fitting better into the dress, Mrs. Boring sighed with relief. Sterling’s mother used to do the same.
Andreas and Beate watched quietly with a mixture of surprise and admiration.
“How many women were there?” asked Mrs. Boring, eyes closed, posture relaxed.
“Too many to count. We specialize in discretion, but he wasn’t a master of the art. They were all professionals.”
Mrs. Boring succumbed to the truth serum of Sterling’s touch. “Naturally.Who’d want to spend time with him? God, I should have left him before my diagnosis. Afterwards, he felt obligated to stay.” She moaned as Sterling stroked her right biceps. “My goodness, your hands aremarvelouslysoft.”
Sterling eyed the detectives as she took her opportunity to dig deeper. “The second murder victim worked for the escort service your husband used. Maybe he’d hired her in the past? Did you recognize anyone while you were here?”
“No. The only other guest we saw was that man who tried to get into our room.”
“But now your husband’s in Russia. It seems convenient, if not suspicious,” said Andreas.
“It’s gauche to admit, Detective, but if the solution was as simple as framing my husband for murder, I would. Unfortunately, the bastard was with me all night. We checked in. We made love. Or we tried to. We made some version of the love we used to. Mostly, we quarreled.”
“What about?”
“His tastes had changed. He wanted, no,expectedme to do awful things—I’d rather not go into detail. But it wasn’t how the man I married touched me. Nor how you touch someone you love. Then again, I don’t know if we’d been in love for a long time.”
Beate leaned forward, her voice determined, and said, “If he did anything violent or unwanted, we’ll arrest him.” Andreas concurred.
“No, nothing like that. It was… cold. Rough. It felt like he didn’t want to look at me. Does that make sense?” said Mrs. Boring.
“Mm-hmm,” said Beate and Sterling, both nodding empathetically. Andreas pursed his lips in slight confusion, then shook it away.
“You deserve better. There’s no shame in leaving,” said Sterling.
