Стив Хокенсмит - Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 51, No. 6, June 2006

“I just could not stand it,” she muttered.

As for Faith, her long face behind her heavy black glasses was a mix of sadness and anger. “How dare she say those things,” she whispered shakily. “First she made his life a hell on earth all those years. Then she drove him out. And now she wants to hurt him and me further — by claiming he cheated on me, with her as the other woman.”

Micki took her arm reassuringly. “Hang in there,” she said quietly.

“ ‘Matrimonial technicalities.’ ”

“Yes.”

“ ‘Putative wife.’ ”

“I know, I know.”

Faith looked at me. “Didn’t I hear you used to beat people up for a living?”

“Just her? Or Arnie too?”

“Now stop it,” Micki said. “And be patient. It’s our turn at bat.”

“But what can you do? ” Faith asked. “It’s... it’s my word against—”

“Just relax. It’ll be okay.”

Faith sat back down. Micki glanced at me. We had argued about how much to tell Faith. In the end, over Micki’s misgivings, we’d decided to keep our gal pretty much in the dark. We wanted her reactions during the deposition to be absolutely natural, so that no one would be tipped off. Now I was glad. Arnie, with his tin ear and eyes blinded in the glare of his own ego, was no problem. But not everyone on his team was so clueless. “The spike-hair,” I murmured to Micki.

“Right.” She remained standing at our end of the table, slight and resolute in her bright red suit, tiny oval glasses perched halfway down her nose. A manila folder of papers sat in front of her. People returned to the table, the spike-haired man closed the conference room doors, and Maren Bickers resumed her place behind the steno machine. I sat in my chair, trying not to fidget or yawn. I’m an action kind of guy, born and bred. For me, nothing was more dreary than sitting around a conference table for what seemed like hours and hours. And — though I’d spent a ton of weekend hours sorting this out with Micki, my work here was pretty much done.

But, though I really didn’t know for sure how it would all play out, I was, of course, staying. If there was a kill to be in on, I wanted in.

Maren Bickers said: “We’re back on the record. Counselor?”

“Thank you,” Micki said. “Ms. Joy Monrho: Good morning.”

“Hello,” Joy replied. “Please address me as Missus Monrho.”

“I am Micheline A. Quick, counsel for the plaintiff.” She glanced at Bickers. “P—827320.”

“So noted,” Bickers murmured.

“And I’d like to take you back, if you please, to the sailboat you told us about.”

“Yes.”

“And the picture you showed us. Defense three, I believe? Ms. Bickers?” The reporter flipped through the marked exhibits and leaned the picture on a little tabletop easel so we could all see it. “Thank you,” Micki said. “This picture was taken when, Ms. Monrho?”

“I’m not positive.”

“Well, you seemed quite positive during your direct questioning.”

Joy shrugged. “I can’t be sure.”

“Please read back the deponent’s earlier response,” Micki said to the reporter. Bickers, after a pause, said, “ ‘Summer of 2003.’ ”

“Can you be more specific?” Micki asked Joy.

“I don’t keep minute by minute track of things.”

“Well, then. Perhaps this will help.” Micki took a sheet of paper out of the folder and handed it to Bickers. “Plaintiff’s Exhibit One, please.”

“So noted.” Bickers slid the paper down the table. Arnie Bumpps, scowling, pawed it over to himself.

“This is a bill of sale,” Micki said. “By means of which J. J. Monrho sold the boat to one Zaneta Rozalska. Would you please read the date on the bill of sale, Ms. Monrho?”

Joy squinted at the paper. “June 8, 2000.” She shrugged. “Obviously I was off by a bit.”

“And as long as we’re talking dates,” Micki said, “would you remind us please— When did you and J. J. divorce?”

“Ninety-nine,” she said shortly. “September.”

“Thank you.”

“And I object to this entire exchange,” Arnie blared. He waved the bill of sale disdainfully. “This could have been trumped up on any word processor. It utterly lacks credibility.”

“So noted,” Bickers said, typing.

“Ms. Rozalska is available to testify,” Micki said, “if it comes to that. Which I doubt. Let’s move on.” I noticed that Arnie was sitting a bit closer to Joy now, looming, protective, grinning like he’d won something. Spikes, over by the door, was watching Micki speculatively. He knew that the bill of sale had been nothing but a soft lob. “Now. These Thursday night dates,” Micki said, “that you described in such lascivious detail.”

“I object to the characterization,” Arnie said.

“So noted.”

“Oh, all right, withdrawn,” Micki said. “In any event, Ms. Monrho — isn’t it a fact that your late ex-husband was a recovering alcoholic?”

Joy’s eyes averted. “No,” she said. “Not really.”

“Didn’t he join Alcoholics Anonymous? Two years before you and he divorced?”

“No!” Joy said, indignant now. “He wasn’t a drunk. He liked to drink, but—”

“And these Thursday nights of his— Wasn’t that when he attended regular meetings of his AA home group?”

Spikes, by the door, said, with an annoyed glance at Arnie, “We object. No basis for this line of questioning in our direct.”

“On the contrary,” Micki said. “Deponent, under the guidance of Brother Bumpps, dwelled at considerable length on the deceased Mr. Monrho’s personality traits.”

“So noted.”

From her folder Micki took out a small brown envelope and slid it over to Bickers. “Plaintiff’s Two. Ms. Monrho, if you would, please examine these.” Bickers slid the envelope down. Joy opened it and out clanked several heavy brass, half-dollar-sized medallions. Micki said, “Tell us what those are?”

With gingerly fingers, Joy arrayed them on the gleaming table-top. “I don’t know.”

“Would it surprise you to learn they are gifts from J. J.’s AA group? They commemorate his years of sobriety. What’s the Roman numeral on the darkest one there?”

“X.”

“Ten years,” Micki said. “Isn’t it a fact that, prior to your divorce, your husband kept these coins on the top of his dresser in your bedroom?”

Joy snorted. “I never saw them.”

“And this,” Arnie sputtered, “none of this... I object. I sincerely object. These ‘coins’ could have come from anywhere. And even if they were his, they are still not evidence that J. J. Monrho was not with my client on all those Thursday nights.”

“Your witness, ” Bickers murmured.

“Pardon me?”

“Ted,” Spikes said, shaking his head.

“Ms. Joy Monrho is your witness,” Maren Bickers said to Arnie. “Not your client.”

Impossible to embarrass, Arnie just shrugged. “Strike that. I misspoke.”

With a short dismissive gesture, Joy pushed the coins and envelope back toward Bickers, who secured them. Micki remained in place, watching Joy with a look of, well, call it curiosity. I would not have wanted to be Joy at that moment. It was impossible, though, to tell what she was thinking, or how she was feeling. She was that good.

Micki addressed Bickers. “Could you display Defense Five?” Bickers set the picture on the easel. It was the group shot of party revelers that Joy had shown me at her house. “Ms. Monrho,” Micki said: “Please remind us of the occasion on which this picture was taken?”

“New Year’s Eve.”

“December 31, then?”

“That’s when New Year’s Eve usually falls.”

Micki smiled. “What year?”