Page 36 of Not a Word

“The pharmaceutical company? The one that got in trouble over—”

“Yes. That one. They made Oxy-Mirac before they were forced to pull it off the market. It was very unfair. It was an excellent pain reliever. But people abused it, just like with other drugs, or alcohol, but you don’t see them banning vodka, do you? All that trouble happened after my husband left.”

“What did he do for them? Was he a researcher, a scientist?”

“Sales. He was very good at it.” She said it with some pride. “He traveled all over Canada and the United States. But he decided he’d had enough. He could see what was coming. All the legal problems.”

“You tried to reach your husband while you were out?”

“I wanted him to check something in my datebook,” Catherine said. “I tried his cell and then the home phone. And texted him. I couldn’t raise him so I asked Reece to go by the house but he was already here.”

A pause, and then, “Did she look like me?”

There you go, McCabe thought. Sometimes I hear something I’m not expecting.

“What do you mean, Mrs. Chartwell?”

“This woman. Did she look anything at all like me?”

“That . . . seems like an odd question, Mrs. Chartwell.”

“I’m sorry. I was just . . . wondering.”

“What?” McCabe walked on eggshells as she asked, “That maybe your husband, even when unfaithful, wanted to be with someone who resembled you?”

“Something like that, I suppose.”

McCabe pondered whether that would be flattering in some strange way. She said, “Her hair color, maybe. And it was about the same length.” She waited a beat, then asked, “You’re not suggesting Ms. Kennard was shot by someone thinking she was you? Your husband could hardly have made that mistake.”

“No, I’m sorry, it was a ridiculous question,” Catherine said. “Do you have any more questions or can I go tell my other son what’s happened before there’s a news crew at his door?”

Fourteen

Reece had departed, so Catherine accepted McCabe’s offer of a ride to her older son’s residence.

McCabe said, “Tell me about Holden.”

“I’m worried how he’ll take this,” Catherine said.

“Reece appears to be handling it as best as can be expected.”

“Holden is not Reece.”

“What makes them different?”

“Holden has had a more difficult time. We support— My husband and I have supported him as best we can, but as I’m sure you’re aware, there are no easy solutions to addiction.”

McCabe’s eyebrows rose a notch. “No, there aren’t.”

“He’s more fragile than Reece, more unpredictable. I don’t want him to end up back in rehab, but if he needs it, I hope he won’t fight me when I urge him to go there.” She paused, then said, “Don’t misunderstand. He’s a good son. He has a good heart.”

“Does he have a job?”

“Occasionally. He’s been helping someone with house construction lately. Up here, on the right. That little blue SUV in the drive.”

McCabe slowed the car, brought it to a stop. “Thank you,” Catherine said, got out, and went to the front door. She glanced back, said, “Do you have to talk to him?” She had a pleading look in her eyes.

“At some point, but not right now,” McCabe said.