Peter Abrahams - A Perfect Crime

His eyes went to the sculpture, were still on it when he said,“What was Anne like, Mrs. Cullingwood?”

“She…” Francie got a grip on her emotions; if she was going to get through this, whatever this was and whatever getting through it meant, she would have to keep them well capped. “She was wonderful, Mr. Savard.”

He gave her a sharp glance. “Do you want to sit down?” he said. “A glass of water?”

“I’m fine. Anne was… good. There was no meanness in her, if you’re thinking about enemies, or something like that. She was good.” Francie, realizing she had raised her voice, lowered it, went on: “She was talented, she was loving.”

“In what way talented?”

“She was a fine tennis player, for one thing. And a very good painter.”

“Painter?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Do you mean an artist? The kind you evaluate in your job?”

How did he know about her job? Roger, of course. “I didn’t evaluate Anne. She was my friend.”

“I’m just making sure I understood what you meant by painting, that’s all,” Savard said. “The fact that she painted could be important.”

“Why?”

“Let’s sit down.”

“I told you I’m fine.”

“Whatever you say,” Savard said, but he returned to the window seat. Francie followed, leaned again on the armchair, feeling manipulated in some way. “It doesn’t surprise me to learn she was an athlete, Mrs. Cullingwood.”

“Why not?”

“There’s evidence of a tremendous struggle last night.”

Francie felt faint, might have fallen had it not been for the chair; had he foreseen that? Savard’s image began to dissolve, almost did, then slowly returned to normal, as though some director had changed his mind about ending a scene. Savard was watching her closely.

“Go on,” she said, her fingers digging into the fabric of the chair.

He folded his massive hands in his lap, a gesture that seemed ceremonial to her, even religious. “Before she died, she managed to write a word on the floor. Very small. She must have changed her position slightly after that, because it was covered by her arm and we didn’t see it at first. The word she wrote was painting.”

“Painting?”

“Yes. Do you have any idea what she could have meant by that?”

“No.”

“But you must know something about her work-in order to have made the judgment that she was good.”

“I’ve seen some of her paintings.”

“Do any stand out in your mind?”

That was easy: the portrait of Ned. But nothing about you and me. “No one more than another,” Francie said.

“Do you know of any painting she might have been working on recently?”

“No.”

“Or something she wanted to try in the future?”

“No,” Francie said. “Do you think she meant to… to tell us who killed her?”

“Perhaps not the actual attacker.”

“The actual attacker? I don’t understand.”

Savard unfolded his hands, rubbed them together slowly. “How would you characterize her marriage, Mrs. Cullingwood?”

“In what way?”

“Were they happy together?”

“I rarely saw them together.”

“Meaning you saw them separately?”

He was so quick; didn’t look like he would be, but was. “Meaning I didn’t see them together enough to form an opinion about something like that,” Francie said as calmly as she could.

“Did Anne ever say anything that led you to believe they had problems?”

Yes, in the locker room. “No,” Francie said. A lie: total, direct, inescapable.

“How would you describe her self-confidence?”

“That’s a strange question.”

“There’s not much to go on, Mrs. Cullingwood, as I mentioned. Getting a picture of her in my head will help.”

“Self-confidence. It’s not easy to know something like that about a person.”

“I disagree,” Savard said. “In my experience, it’s one of the first things you notice.”

They looked at each other. He was right, of course. Quick, and there was more to him than that. “Not as high as it should have been,” Francie said.

“On a scale of ten,” Savard said.

“Isn’t that a rather brutal method for measuring something as abstract as self-confidence?” Francie said.

“No,” Savard replied. “Brutal was what happened to her in your friend’s cottage.”

It finally hit her. “What did she use to write with-the word painting?”

“I think you’ve figured that out.”

Francie didn’t speak; for a moment she couldn’t even breathe.

Savard rose, came closer. “I need your help,” he said. “And so does she, if you accept that rationale.”

“Three,” Francie told him. “The answer to your question is three.”

“Any reason a woman of such qualities would have a self-confidence level like that?”

“I don’t know.”

“You must have thought about it.”

“Why do you say that?”

He opened his mouth, said, “You’re,” then stopped. “I’ll withdraw the question.” A beeper went off. Savard took it from his pocket, read something on its screen, put it and his notebook away. He moved toward the door, then stopped and turned. “Sometimes women unhappy in their marriages have affairs,” he said.

Francie again felt the upsurge of blood in her neck and face.

“If she was,” Savard continued, “what’s to be gained by hiding that now?”

“What are you saying?”

“When a wife is murdered, we always check the husband first, Mrs. Cullingwood.”

“I thought you said there was no suspect.”

“I misspoke. We have no evidence pointing to a specific suspect. But Mr. Demarco has no alibi for last night.”

“No alibi?”

“No convincing explanation of his whereabouts during the period when his wife was killed.” He handed her a card. “Call if you can help.”

He went into the hall; Francie followed. “But there was a struggle, you said.”

“I did.”

“Then wouldn’t there be signs of that on the attacker?”

“There would. On the actual attacker.”

Savard opened the door. Roger was outside, sprinkling a handful of salt crystals on the walk. He looked up. “Safety first, Chief,” he said.

“You’re so right,” Savard said. “I meant to ask if you’ve ever been to Brenda’s cottage, Mr. Cullingwood.”

“Never. The fact is, I’d forgotten all about it, if I ever knew in the first place. Did you ever mention it, Francie?”

“I don’t think so.”

Roger spread his hands. “It was Francie’s baby, Chief.”

Savard glanced back at Francie, then got in his car, not an official police cruiser but an old Bronco, and drove away. Francie and Roger looked at each other. “Close the door, Francie,” he said. “You’re letting in all the cold.”

Roger went inside a few minutes later. He didn’t see Francie in the kitchen, the hall, the living room. He walked over to the plant in the corner, a dieffenbachia. Pausing to pick a few dead leaves from the base of it as he went out! Who could compete with brilliance of that magnitude? He plucked the digital recorder that Francie had given him from behind the stem and dropped it in his pocket.

Francie had no distance from what she was doing, no inner watchfulness, no control. This, life after Anne, or at least in the first few hours after Anne, had all the intensity of loving Ned, an inverse intensity that now served to heighten pain, not pleasure. From her bedroom, Francie dialed Ned’s number, heard his mother’s voice on the machine: “You have reached the Demarco residence. Please leave a message at the tone.”

She had to see him. Francie hung up, realizing as she did that he might not be home yet-might still be in New Hampshire, or on his way back. Had to see him. On his way back: she was thinking car keys, coat, Dedham, was turning from the phone-had to see him-when it rang. She snatched it up.