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Well, that would explain his distant attitude and lack of interest in sex. The men were attractive and younger than Ed. Younger than me, for that matter.
“A lot of married men are, Mrs. H,” Greeley continued. “Some of them remain in denial all their lives. Others get their rocks off the only way they can, through secret liaisons while maintaining the illusion of so-called normality.”
I gulped. This was an awful lot to deal with in one morning. “I ... I never saw these photos before. I think—”
“Allow me to do the thinking, Mrs. H.” I wanted him to stop calling me that—it seemed disrespectful, but I was too cowed by the whole business to make a peep.
“Anyone can see this body is fresh kill,” he continued. “This murder happened quite recently.”
“Ed had left for work before I came to see you. Obviously, he came back here for some reason. Someone—the murderer—came in while I was at your office.”
Greeley narrowed his eyes and rubbed his chin. “Or you arranged for him to be at home when you came back, because you had these photos all along. You took these yourself—they’re a poor enough quality to suggest they’re an amateur’s work. Or maybe you got them from another private eye—a cheap one, who couldn’t be bothered to get decent shots. Then you set up the meeting with me to give yourself an alibi. Afterward, you came home, poured yourself and hubby a couple of shots of Scotch”—he gestured toward a bedside table where two near-empty glasses held what looked like Scotch on the rocks—”and had a little discussion about the photos.” He paused. Shouting, he continued. “You got him drunk, ran into the kitchen, grabbed the knife and plunged it into your husband’s chest!”
“Mr. Greeley!” I squeaked with righteous indignation, like an angry Minnie Mouse. “Not only do I not drink, I do not drink Scotch. And I definitely would not drink Scotch before eleven A.M.”
“Really?” He sounded amused, in a sleazy way. “That wasn’t a bottle of milk you held when you answered the door.”
He had me there. Sputtering, I managed to say, “I was in shock at the time. Really.”
The private eye looked me over, then shrugged. “Okay, let’s say I believe you. But the cops may not when they look at the evidence. The photos, the knife, the bottle of Scotch. I suspect yours will be the only fingerprints on them. And if your husband had life insurance ...”
His mention of fingerprints triggered something in the back of my mind. I felt ill. “He worked in insurance,” I said in a meek voice. “I’m pretty sure he carried a policy.”
“They always suspect the widow, Mrs. Hastings. And under the circumstances ...”
He didn’t have to finish that sentence. The circumstances, along with any money I’d get from the insurance, would provide a motive for murder. Even I could see that. Even the fact that I’d gone to a PI about my husband’s infidelity might be revealed, unless that information was privileged.
“Is what I told you today confidential?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I can try to stonewall, but I might be forced to reveal what I know, since it involves a homicide investigation. If I withhold important evidence, they could yank my license faster than a magician pulling a tablecloth out from under a setting for four.” He looked me in the eye. “That’s why I won’t play the sap for you, Mrs. Hastings. I have to play it straight with the cops or my career’s at risk.”
I felt like I was caught in a mudslide, hurtling into a chasm. Sobbing, I threw my arms around the pudgy body, gagging on the cigar smell and B.O. “Please help me,” I said, in a shaky voice. “Please. Help me find out who really did this. Because I didn’t. I swear I didn’t. I just ... couldn’t.”
He reached up and slowly stroked my hair. The doorbell rang. Finally! The police. Mr. Greeley patted my back. “You should get that. And don’t worry, sugar. I’ll help you.”
*****
The police—a Detective White, in particular—asked many questions. I answered them honestly. People in uniforms and jumpsuits arrived and took lots of photos. After they had taken Ed away, Detective White asked me to come by headquarters later and make a statement. Because my house was a crime scene, I needed to stay elsewhere for a while.
I sighed and packed a small bag of essentials. I’d have to find a motel. I didn’t want to impose on Roz—and, frankly, I couldn’t endure her cigarette smoke.
Before I left, Mr. Greeley took me aside. “After I saw the body, I checked your husband’s cell phone for myself.”
“Won’t your fingerprints show up?” Something clicked as I spoke the words. “The photos. They won’t have my fingerprints on them. I never saw them before, and I never touched them.”
My joy was short-lived. He pulled a thin pair of gloves from his pocket. “For such occasions,” he said. “And, my guess is, the killer wore them, too. Mrs. Hastings, someone’s framed you like a van Gogh. I’m sure they took every precaution to keep themselves out of the picture.”
He chuckled at his pun and continued. “The outgoing calls included a couple I recognized, due to the sorry fact that they come up so often in my business. One was for a gay bar downtown. Another was for a male escort service called Just Four Men—the number four, as in the number of men who work as escorts. Pretty cute, huh? Anyway, I think your hubby was seeing someone—or ones—through this service. So that gives me a couple of leads.”
I nodded, mute and worn.
“I was also wondering about his business associates. Is there anyone he sees at work who might be more than just a friend?”
I told him what I told Detective White. “His assistant, Brant. He could be very ... protective of Ed. And he was outright hostile to me.”
“Think I’ll go do some poking around.” He paused and added, “Looks like the job you hired me for isn’t finished after all.”
*****
