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I spent the next two nights at Motel 6 tossing and turning. I hate sleeping in unfamiliar beds. Whenever I shut my eyes, I saw Ed’s body and the knife. And all that blood.
I returned to my house, stumbling in and collapsing on the couch. Not for all the money in the world would I enter the bedroom. Even if a cleaning crew had rendered the crime scene spotless. I couldn’t face it. I kept worrying that the statement I gave police might not have made sense. Restless and fretful, I called my husband’s office. Brant answered. I asked if Ed had shown up for work the morning he’d been murdered, and when he’d left.
“Yes, he was here,” Brant said, in his condescending nasal way. “But he le
ft around nine-thirty-ish for a meeting. I told the cops.”
“But you didn’t go with him? Any reason?”
“No,” Brant snapped. “He said it was personal. I have no idea where he went, if that’s your next question.”
“So you were there all morning?”
There was a long pause. “No,” he said. Wariness had crept into his voice. “I got a phone call and had to leave for a while.”
My head was spinning, but I pressed on. “When was that? What time.”
“Right after your husband left.” His words were strained, as if spoken through clenched teeth. “And it’s none of your beeswax where I went and what I did.”
“Okay.” I hung up on him. Rude, but who did he think he was?
The doorbell rang. I checked the peephole. It was Roz. In all the excitement, I’d forgotten about her.
I opened the door. She rushed in and squeezed me in a viselike hug. “Are you okay, sweetie?” she asked. “Is there anything I can do?”
“I’ll be okay, Roz.” My voice was small and flat. Roz shut the door and, arm around me, walked me to the sofa. “Sit, sit,” she said. “Tell me what happened.”
I recounted it the best I could—the parts the police said I could tell, anyway—about finding Ed’s body, the knife, the blood, the photos—while images of Ed kissing those men flashed through my mind. She went “tsk” and drew her breath in with a gasp at the appropriate moments. When I was finished, she said, “Oh, sweetie. I had no idea. I mean, who would, you know? But seeing those photos with men in them”—she made a face—”that must have been quite a shock.” She looked pained.
I was on my last legs and excused myself. I desperately needed to get some sleep. Together we walked to the door, and she left. Returning to the sofa, I stretched out. Despite something gnawing at me, I fell into a deep sleep. I awoke with a start from nightmares of Ed, the knife, the photos ... Racing to the bathroom, I got there in time to throw up.
*****
Mr. Greeley called that evening. “I’ve been to see Brant, Mrs. Hastings.” He mumbled the words. I visualized him pressing one of his foul cigars between his lips. “Pay dirt. Man’s so light in da’ loafers, he should be levitatin’ when he walks.”
“Light in the loafers? You mean he’s gay?”
“Is da Pope Cat’lic? What surprises me is that you couldn’t see that for yourself. You said they were close, right?” He must have removed the cigar. His words were clear.
“Well, yes, but I thought it was all business.”
There was dead air. “You sure you’re not trying to make a sap outta me?”
“I can absolutely assure you that isn’t my intent, Mr. Greeley.”
“I’m glad to hear that. I wangled a bit of info out of Brant. He left the office not long after your husband. He said he got a phone call from someone who wouldn’t give his or her name—couldn’t tell whether it was a man or woman. When he figured out I wasn’t police, he wouldn’t tell me squat. His exact quote was ‘It’s none of your beeswax.’ Man, that’s a cute one. Anyway, he has no alibi for the time when your husband was probably killed. So maybe he found out your hubby was hittin’ the escort service for a little on the side, got jealous and made up the call to draw your husband home. Brant could have followed Ed home, got him in the bedroom for a little slap n’ tickle, complete with drinks, grabbed the knife and plunged it into his chest in a jealous rage.”
I tried to remember the last time I’d heard anyone use the expression “slap n’ tickle.”
“Unless ...” Mr. Greeley used my silence as an opportunity to present another theory. “Unless you had the photos all along. And you knew about your husband’s relationship with Brant. You didn’t want to do the dirty work. No, you sent Brant copies of those photos. You wanted your husband dead, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do the deed.
“So, knowing he’d be jealous anyway, you had him come to the house, worm his way in and kill your husband for you. You wanted it to look like someone else did it, and told Brant that it would get you both off the hook. Maybe you set it up to happen while you were in my office, talking to me about some mystery woman you thought your husband was seeing. Then you went home, found the body and left the photos. With me as your alibi, you could get away with the perfect murder and blame it all on Brant.” He paused for effect. “So, maybe you set it up for Brant to take the fall. Is that how it played out, sugar?”
“First of all, I have no desire to see Brant suffer a fall, Mr. Greeley, even if he is mean to me,” I said. “And, second, it is not appropriate for you to call me ‘sugar’—especially under the circumstances.”
“So the question is, what circumstances are those, Mrs. Hastings? Why did you come to my office? The truth, lady, because so help me, I won’t play—”
“I know, I know!” I said. “Stop saying that! Besides, the killer ... well, it’s not Brant.”
