“What did you eat?”
“Scrambled eggs. Cantaloupe and blueberries.”
“Okay, so she’s back in bed by 8:00. What about you; what were you doing?”
“I was getting ready to leave ...”
“Packing?”
“I hadalreadypacked. I sat on the edge of the bed, told her she should call me if she didn’t feel better, or for any other reason. Then I told her I loved her and kissed her goodbye.”
“Why don’t you remember if she was gardening?” Reid asked, hammering the point.
Pete sat there drumming his fingers on the table and frowning, as if deciding what to say next.
“I was Skyping with Nicola. Okay?”
Reid could just imagine how that had gone over with Beth. No wonder she’d wanted to get outside, needed her friend Scotty for support.
“Did you and Beth fight about it?” Reid asked.
“Absolutely not.”
“Any physical altercation at all?”
“No.”
“Pete, will you roll up your sleeves and show me your arms?”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Is that a yes or a no?”
“It’s an intrusion,” Pete said. “It’s a complete insult. I’ve already told you—there was noaltercation.”
“Then why have you been wearing long sleeves, on the boat trip and every time I’ve seen you, in the middle of the summer?”
“I believe I recall telling you that these are sunproof shirts—bought for me by Beth. I had a couple of skin cancers removed last year, and she wanted me to be careful so I didn’t get more.”
“So then, what’s the problem with letting me see? You said you wanted to clear things up so the investigation can progress. One of the surest ways is to show me your arms. And pull down the collar so I can see your neck and chest,” Reid said.
“It makes me sick that you’re treating me this way. Like a common criminal,” Pete said. “I’ve just lost mywife.”
“You going to show me or not?”
Pete let out what started as a sigh but turned into a guttural groan. His face turned red, and his gray-blue eyes narrowed. He stood up fast, unbuttoned his left cuff, and pulled so hard on the right that he ripped the button off. Reid saw him go from controlled to rage in two seconds, and that told him a lot.
Composing himself, Pete rolled both sleeves up to his elbows and displayed his arms. Without touching him, Reid examined the backs of his hands and arms and saw no scratches.
“Other side, please,” Reid said.
Pete rolled his arms and showed him the pale insides of his wrists and arms. Two long scratches, nearly healed, ran the length of his left forearm, from his wrist to the crook of his elbow. Reid leaned closer.
“Those are from thorns. I helped Beth prune the rose bushes in June,” Pete offered, even though Reid hadn’t asked.
The scratches were pink and looked as if the scabs had healed. Could they have happened in June, possibly over a month ago? He would take a photo.
“Will you take off the shirt, please?” Reid asked.
