“Laura’s sister said Morgan was the one who drank.”

  “I’m sure Morgan probably told her that to save face for Laura. If you want my opinion, Dotty Mulloy is an old prune. I think she was born that way. Laura loved her, but she didn’t like her. That was one big reason why she jumped at the chance to put some distance between them. That way, her sister couldn’t pop over whenever she felt like it. As time went on, Laura’s drinking got so bad she couldn’t even hold a part-time job. Staying home depressed her, so she started hitching rides with friends to bars. I’m not positive, but I think she started sleeping around. She already hated herself for so many reasons, it was just one more thing to add to the list. She was down in the dumps if Morgan was home, then back in the dumps when he left. Today, she could have gone to a therapist and gotten some help; but back then, if you suffered from depression, you were out of luck. She drank to deaden the pain, but in the end, it didn’t help.”

  “So you’re saying she really did commit suicide?”

  “I’m positive of it.”

  “Why?”

  “Let me give you a little background. First, you should know that I’ve investigated dozens of suicides over the years. Very often, families of suicides find it impossible to believe that their loved one could have done something so horrible. It makes them feel impotent, like they should have seen it coming, should have been able to prevent it. It’s especially true if the person who dies doesn’t leave a note. Laura didn’t. It becomes easier on family members if they convince themselves that their loved one was the victim of foul play. And when it comes to suicide, the family has an uphill struggle if they want the police to investigate the death.”

  “But don’t all suicides have to be investigated?”

  “Yes, any unnatural or unattended death, which includes suicides, homicides, and accidents. But I’m talking about investigating a death as if it were a homicide. Dotty was treated fairly by the police, although I’m sure she didn’t think so. Most suicides are just that—suicides. When there’s no evidence to the contrary, and there wasn’t in Laura’s case, then the police don’t want to waste their time investigating a dead end.”

  “Sure, I understand, but—”

  “Sometimes Laura would call me late at night when she was drunk and Morgan was on the road. She’d tell me she was no good, that Morgan deserved so much better. By the fourth year of their marriage, he was urging her to take classes at the local junior college. She loved to read, even wrote a little poetry, so he thought she might like to take some writing courses. I offered to drive her, show her the ropes, but she just never got around to it. Morgan was so frustrated with her. We’d talk about her sometimes, although he didn’t like to admit Laura was as sick as she was, even to himself. He desperately wanted to help, but she’d begun to shut him out. I think he wondered if she was seeing someone else when he wasn’t around, and of course, that hurt him terribly.

  “One hot summer night, a few months before she took her life, Laura and I were sitting on her front porch. Somehow or other the subject of suicide came up. Laura asked me if I’d ever thought about it. I told her I hadn’t. She said she’d wanted to do it many times, but in her saner—or more sober—moments, she was glad she hadn’t gone through with it. She knew her drinking made her depression worse. That’s when she felt most like ending her life. The worst time for her was the dead of night. Everything was so painful then. I still remember the look on her face when she talked about it. In my entire life, I’ve never seen such . . . such utter desolation. But she said that she’d made herself a promise. If she was going to kill herself, it would have to be on a bright sunny morning, with the birds singing and sun shining. She couldn’t have a hangover. She’d have to be completely straight. That way she’d know her feelings were real, that it wasn’t just a passing mood, but a decision.” Leaning forward, Rebecca continued, “Laura killed herself on a bright sunny morning. She waited until she knew it was what she really wanted, that for her, there was no other way.”

  The silence in the room closed in around them.

  “Morgan may have been a bigamist, Ms. Greenway, but he wasn’t a murderer.”

  June, 1974

  Dear Gilbert:

  Thanks for your note. Yes, you’re right. This is a horrible time for me. It was almost nine years ago that Laura died. And now Bliss. It’s enough to make a guy turn his back on the people who count on him and just run for his life.

  Between you and me, I’m pretty sure the chief of police thinks I did it. Can you fathom that? He believes I murdered Bliss and then covered it up by making it look like a robbery. When he interrogated me last week, he said that in his experience, nobody got murdered so violently unless there was a huge amount of emotion involved. To him, that meant the victim knew her killer. There was no forced entry, no sign of a struggle, so in his mind, I was the most likely suspect. I feel like we’re playing some kind of chess game. Thank God I found a guy in La Crosse, Wisconsin, who’d vouch for me. He gave the police a statement yesterday, said I’d been in town the night it happened. With him for a witness, I don’t think there’s much they can do to me. And I got at least one cop on my side. He’s a neighbor, been a friend for years. He used to know my wife when she was a kid. He’s seen firsthand how much I loved her, and how much she loved me.

  It’s love that’s important, Gil, not the other crap that happens. I’ve got to keep my eye on the ball, not let my wife’s death break my spirit.

  J. D.

  34

  Sunlight flooded Byron Jenny’s office, where Plato now sat, his feet up on the desk. He was making a paper airplane, something he often did when the world overwhelmed him. He found that mindless activity helped him to focus his thoughts. “Simplify,” he whispered, knowing that his life was anything but simple. Folding the paper wings into place, he wondered idly if thinking could be carcinogenic. He supposed it could be, although that notion probably put him in the same health-obsessed camp as his father.

  Plato wasn’t depressed. If anything, he walked with a certain spring in his step these days. His father was no longer high atop the family pedestal, and that made Plato feel vindicated. As far as he was concerned, no matter what everyone said out loud, each family member knew in his or her heart that John Washburn had done something very, very, very bad. Plato remembered reading once that suicide rates always went down during wars. Perhaps that was why he was in such good spirits. His family was at war—with the anarchy of town gossip, with Cora Runbeck’s evil threats, and with a police department intent on putting a not-so-innocent man behind bars. The whole situation inspired barrels of overwrought emotions. High drama. But the final outcome didn’t matter all that much. In the end, everything turned to dust. The only question was, how long would it take?

  In the midst of his nihilistic meditations came a knock on the door.

  “Enter at your own risk,” he called, waiting for the door to open. When it did, he propelled the airplane into the blue. It took an immediate nose dive and landed at Gloria Applebaum’s feet. Gloria had been Byron Jenny’s personal assistant. Now she was the temporary managing editor.

  “Nice touch,” she said, picking up the fatally flawed piece of origami and undulating toward his desk.

  For the past few weeks, Plato had begun to experience certain moments in his day in a kind of weird slow motion. He closed his eyes and shook the wheels in his head, hoping to rearrange them. When he opened his eyes, Gloria was standing at his desk. She wants something, he thought silently. He hoped he wouldn’t have to play twenty questions to find out what it was. Everybody had to be someplace, so that’s why he’d come to the paper this morning. He had no intention of working, though it was important to look busy; otherwise people talked. All he really wanted was to be left alone.

  Dropping the airplane on the desk, Gloria smiled. “What do you want?” He frowned in an effort to look substantial.

  “I’m hoping I can help you.” She swiveled her hips into a chair.

  “Oh God.”

  “Look, Mr. Washburn, the newspaper’s in a bad way. Decisions are being left unmade. Our creditors are starting to get nervous. We need a leader, someone to part the Red Sea for us, like Byron used to do.”

  “Speak English.”

  “I want his job. Permanently. I need you to make the official announcement today. Without your backing, your clear and unequivocally stipulated confidence in my considerable, substantial, and weighty abilities, we’re just spinning our wheels around here.”

  “How long did it take for you to memorize that?”

  “Excuse me?”

  She’d spent too many years with her nose in a thesaurus. Probably majored in adjectives in college. For all he knew, she couldn’t even spell. “What the hell? Sure, you can have the job.” Nobody else was beating down his door.

  She seemed at a momentary loss. “Is that it?”

  “Is what it?”

  “I don’t have to, you know, sell you on the idea a little more?”

  “No, you made your point.”

  “Oh. Well, then, can we talk about salary?”

  “Same as Byron was getting. How’s that sound?”

  “Really!” She shot out of her chair. “You’re nothing like people say, Mr. Washburn. You’re just an old pussycat.”

  Plato was growing more dyspeptic by the moment. “Have someone type up an interoffice memo and I’ll sign it. You can put the announcement in the paper on Saturday.”

  “You won’t regret this, Mr. Washburn. I’ll work like a viper!”

  “Do you know what a viper is, Ms. Applebaum?”

  “Something strong and courageous and purposeful,” she said, her eyes crinkling as she looked off in the distance. She was a walking B movie.

  Plato noticed now that she was holding a small white envelope. “What’s that in your hand?”

  She looked down. “Oh, this. Somebody slipped it under the door this morning before we got in. It’s addressed to you.”

  He plucked it from her hand. “Thanks.”

  “About my office—”

  “We’ll discuss it later.”

  “Yes, Mr. Washburn. Whatever you say, Mr. Washburn.”

  After she’d gone, Plato took Byron’s letter opener and sliced open the top of the envelope. Inside was a folded sheet of typing paper with three short lines printed in capital letters:

  I KNOW WHAT YOU DID.

  IF YOU DON’T STOP, I’LL MAKE YOU REGRET IT.

  VERY TRULY YOURS,

  A CONCERNED FAMILY MEMBER

  “What the hell?” Plato whispered. He examined the page, both front and back, then returned his attention to the envelope. His first name was printed on the front. That was it. No other marking. After staring at the message for a few more seconds, he refolded the page and placed it carefully inside the vest pocket of his wrinkled linen suit. He tossed the paper airplane in the trash on his way out.

  Mary waited as Milton opened the front door for her. She felt devilish. They’d just returned from an afternoon movie. She was ashamed to admit she’d been off having fun while John was in the hospital struggling his way through another round of physical therapy. Even in the best of times, John didn’t enjoy movies much, but Mary did. And so did Milton. Unfortunately, they’d made the mistake of going to a romantic weeper. When Mary thought of the ill-fated couple in the story, she started to cry. She cried so easily these days. It was as if all the walls she’d built over the years to help her cope with the stresses and strains of life had suddenly dissolved, baring her vulnerable soul for all the world to see. Except, the only person who ever looked was Milton. He saw her for who she really was.

  Milton busied himself in the kitchen making them a bite to eat as Mary opened a window in the living room to let in the breeze. For most of the past month, the weather felt as though someone had turned on a furnace full blast and forgotten to turn it off. But today was different. For the second time in two weeks, the humidity had dropped and so had the temperature. The house could be opened to receive the blessing of a late summer breeze. Mary felt opened, too, on a day like this. Open to life. Open to love. On those increasingly rare moments when she and Milton were alone together, she felt wrapped in a protective cocoon, adrift on a deserted island where only the two of them mattered. But when she emerged, as she would in a few short hours when she returned to the hospital for the night, the weight of the world dropped on her shoulders again, all the heavier because of the respite.

  Mary’s mother used to say that guilt was God’s way of telling you that you were doing something bad. Maybe loving Milton was wrong, but it seemed to Mary that marriage was an impossible situation. A man you might have loved when you were in your teens could hardly be expected to be the same man fifty years later. What if he changed into someone you didn’t even like? In Mary’s case, her love had been mixed with gratitude, an equally complex emotion. The minister at First Lutheran said that if married people had problems, they should try to work them out. And Mary had. But if she was forced to sit through one more conversation about organic strawberries versus conventionally grown fruit, she was going to scream.

  Mary thought of all the fiftieth anniversaries she and John had helped friends celebrate over the years. As far as she was concerned, people who stayed married that long were an odd bunch. Either they lacked courage or they lacked imagination. Maybe that was a cold thing to say, but it was how she felt. She wouldn’t fight her guilt or try to push it away. No, she deserved whatever judgment God chose to impose. And she’d pay the price gladly, if only Milton would stick around and not leave her all alone to care for a sick and aging man she’d long ago ceased to love. It was time to admit the truth. It wasn’t the way she’d intended her life to turn out; it’s just what had happened when she wasn’t looking.

  “Mary? Why don’t you see if the postman’s been here?” Milton called from the kitchen. “I’ll be out in a sec with our meat loaf sandwiches.”

  Feeling the breeze ruffle her hair as she passed the open window, Mary stepped out onto the front steps and collected the mail.

  “Anything for me?” asked Milton, setting a tray on the coffee table in front of the couch. “I poured you orange juice. I hope that’s okay.”

  “It’s wonderful,” she said, touched that he was so eager to care for her. She’d spent her life taking care of others. It was nice to be on the receiving end for a change. She sat down next to him and flipped through the letters. “Nothing for you but this.” She handed him a small white envelope. His first name had been printed in capital letters on the front. “It wasn’t mailed. See?” She pointed. “No stamp. Somebody must have come by and put it in the box.”

  Milton took a bite of his sandwich, then opened the letter. Peering through his bifocals, he read silently.

  “What’s it say?” asked Mary, taking a sip of her juice.

  He stopped chewing.

  “What is it?” His face had turned a deep, angry pink.

  “Nothing.” He crumpled the paper into a ball and jammed it into his pocket.

  “It most certainly was not nothing,” said Mary, searching his face for clues.

  “Eat your sandwich,” he replied, attempting a smile that fell flat.

  “You can confide in me, Milton. Is it about John?”

  “It’s junk. Let’s forget about it, okay? People should mind their own business.”

  She agreed with him, though she wasn’t entirely satisfied that he’d told her everything. But she let the matter drop. She had so little time to share with Milton these days, she didn’t want to spoil an otherwise perfect afternoon with unpleasantness.

  35

  Angelo promised he’d pick Bernice up outside the hospital. It had become their routine. He waited for her by the front doors, but when she didn’t show by threefifteen, he parked his rental car and headed up to John’s room. He found Papa Washburn all alone, sitting up in a chair.

  “Angel,” said John, one half of his face smiling broadly, the other half a little less enthusiastic.

  Angelo didn’t really mind that he called him Angel. He figured it was an affectionate kind of nickname.

  “You’re looking for Bernice,” said John. His speech had improved remarkably in the last few days. He still didn’t pronounce things quite right, especially words with an “L” or an “S” in them, and he talked deliberately and slowly, but he was completely understandable.

  “Is she here?” asked Angelo. “I was supposed to pick her up at three.”

  “Sit,” said John, his eyes dropping to a green plastic chair. “She was hungry. I told her to go eat. I would entertain you until she got back.”

  On the table in front of him was a glass of water with a straw, and a plastic bowl of applesauce.

  “My afternoon snack,” said John, nodding to the bowl. “Yum.”

  Angelo laughed. “Not your kind of cuisine, huh?”

  “I’ve mellowed. It’s keeping me alive.”

  “Yeah, that’s something.”

  “A miracle.” He rolled his eyes.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Better. Stronger. But this . . . is hard.”

  “I can only imagine.”

  “Did you pop the question to my daughter?”

  Angelo’s smile turned to a grin. “I did.”

  “She’s glowing. She must have said yes.”

  “We’re not telling anyone yet.”

  “But me.”

  “Right. Anyone but you.”

  Hesitating, John reached his right hand toward Angelo. “You be my angel, okay?”

  Angelo wasn’t sure what the old man was saying, but he took his hand and gave it a squeeze. “I will. I promise.”