Blameless

by B. A. Shapiro

  The next day, despite Craig’s protests, Diana took him to the airport. As they drove through the exhaust-filled tunnel, Craig was the perfect robot of a concerned husband and she of the dutiful wife. He reminded her to take her vitamins and lock the door, and promised he would phone every evening. She agreed to all he suggested, only requesting that he call early so she could get a good night’s sleep.

  But she was too smooth. And his eyes were too hard. He was so distracted that he misstated his airline, first telling her to go to Delta, then changing to American. She made a wrong turn leaving the airport and found herself stuck on a highway with few exits, driving away from Boston, headed north toward Saugus.

  As she had planned, Diana went straight to Ken’s after dropping Craig off. She knew Marcel had seen her when she walked into the restaurant, that he was just pretending he hadn’t. She noticed his eyes flicker toward the door as her own were adjusting to the dimness. Then he turned his back and put a drink before his lone customer.

  The hostess seated Diana at a tiny corner table at the far end of the service bar. Whenever the waiter came up with a drink order, Marcel would place the filled glass diagonally on the counter so that he could avoid looking over the waiter’s shoulder and right into Diana’s face.

  While Marcel ignored her, Diana tried to eat. She ordered a chef’s salad and a glass of milk, but found she could do little more than move the meat and vegetables around in the bowl. She knew that worrying about Craig wasn’t going to help, but she couldn’t stop herself. His anger terrified her, her complicity in his anguish tormented her, but the thought of her life without him was something she couldn’t even begin to contemplate.

  She chewed on a piece of turkey for what seemed an inordinately long time, finally forcing it down with a large gulp of milk. She had to get rid of Levine and his allegations; she had to get him out of her house and out of her life before he tore apart everything she had. If she cleared herself, Craig would be able to forgive her. If she cleared herself, they could still be a family.

  Diana stood up. While Marcel was at the cash register making change for a waiter, she positioned herself behind the man so Marcel would have no choice but to look in her direction when the waiter stepped away. “Hi,” she said as soon as she caught his eye.

  Marcel grunted.

  “I never did find Ethan,” she continued, as if he had actually greeted her. “I went to talk to his landlady, like you suggested.” She flashed Marcel what she hoped was a sympathy-elicting smile and shrugged. “But she hadn’t seen him either.”

  “Must’ve split town,” Marcel mumbled, picking up his rag.

  Encouraged by the fact that he had spoken, Diana leaned against the bar. “Now I’m looking for James Hutchins’s sister—the tall one with the curly red hair?”

  “Maybe you should stop looking for so many folks.” He turned and headed toward the other end of the bar.

  Without conscious awareness of what she was doing, Diana thrust out her hand and grabbed Marcel’s upper arm. Caught completely off-guard, he grew rigid. He turned his head slightly and stared at her. “I can’t stop.” Diana’s voice was soft but firm. “If I don’t find these people, I’m going to be arrested.” She dropped her hand and felt her eyes filling. In that split second, she decided to let Marcel see the tears. “I don’t want my baby to be born in prison,” she added.

  He looked at her coldly for a long moment, and Diana was sure she had lost him, that she had overplayed her part. But then his shoulders dropped and his eyes visibly softened. “They’re a fucked-up bunch,” he said. “Every last one of them.”

  “I know,” Diana said, smiling slightly. “I’m their therapist.”

  Marcel snorted. “Guess I’m not telling you anything new.” Noticing the waving hand of his customer, he nodded and poured a Scotch on the rocks. After he had delivered the drink, he returned to Diana. “That professor one of your patients?” he asked.

  “Professor?”

  “Boyfriend of the one you’re looking for—what’s her name, Jane?”

  “Jill,” Diana corrected. “Jill Hutchins.”

  “The professor’s the one acting like he’s headed for the loony bin.”

  “Has Jill been acting strange too?” Diana pressed, not the least bit interested in Jill’s professor. “Has she been in lately?”

  “Don’t think so.” Marcel shrugged. “But the professor’s been in a lot. Crying in his beer, so to speak. Romance is on the skids. And someone told me he’s having money troubles.”

  “Who isn’t these days?” Diana said in an attempt to change the subject. “But what about Jill? Has she been upset also?”

  “Like I told you, she hasn’t been in much.” He shook his head and picked up his rag again. “Way I figure it, you should be more concerned about the guy.”

  “Why do you say that?” Diana demanded as Marcel turned away. “Why should I be more concerned about him than about Jill or Ethan?”

  “Don’t really know,” he answered. “But I’m telling you he’s on the edge. Looks to me like he’s the kind likely to do just about anything.” He picked up his rag and walked to the other end of the bar. Clearly the conversation was over.

  Deflated, Diana returned to her table and sat down. She watched Marcel from her shadowy corner as he signaled the hostess to replace him and slipped out from under the bar. He walked into the kitchen without even a nod in her direction. So Jill had a crazy boyfriend. If Jill had a boyfriend who wasn’t crazy, Diana would have been surprised.

  She took a last sip of milk and pushed the salad bowl toward the middle of the table. She and Mitch were just going to have to go to Levine with what they had on Jill: a strong motive and a criminal background. If it weren’t for the damn alibi, Jill would be a far better suspect than Diana. Molly was the connection that needed to be broken. Molly was Diana’s only hope. It was time to get in touch with Adam Arell. Time to go back to Norwich. She would call Mitch and regroup. Diana signaled for her check.

  As she waited for her change, Diana stared at the leaded panes of the heavy wooden entrance door. She watched the door swing open and admit two men in wrinkled business suits. Absently she followed their progress as they walked to the far end of the bar and sat down. When one offered the other a cigarette, she turned her eyes back toward the entrance. The door swung open a second time and a couple emerged from the shadows: a tall woman with wild curly hair, followed by a much older man about the same height. It was Jill. And behind her was Adrian Arnold.

  Jill and Adrian didn’t see Diana in her dimly lit corner. They waved to the hostess and seated themselves at what was apparently their usual spot, a small table kitty-corner to the front door. They began talking immediately, gesturing and touching each other.

  Diana stared at them, unable to believe what she was seeing. Jill and Adrian couldn’t possibly know each other, let alone be lovers. She was their only connection, and she had certainly never introduced them. They were so different: in age, in education, in temperament. It wasn’t possible. But there it was.

  She nodded her thanks to the waiter, but didn’t move from her seat. Could this have anything to do with James’s death? Were they plotting against her? She closed her eyes and reminded herself that everything didn’t have to do with her. Her paranoia was just running amok. There was some logical explanation. Some explanation that had nothing to do with either James or herself.

  Then she remembered. When Jill had come north to find James a therapist, she had interviewed a number of people in the Boston area—and Adrian had been one of them. Could Jill and Adrian have been having an affair all these years? It didn’t seem possible, but that would explain why Adrian had been at James’s funeral. And how Jill had known the baby was a girl. In its own bizarre way, the whole thing made sense.

  As Diana stared, another thought crossed her mind. Between the two of them, there was plenty of motive, and with another person in the picture, Levine might be convinced that there was opportunity,
that Jill and Adrian had killed James together. Diana’s palms began to sweat.

  The scenario would have to have been premeditated murder: Jill and Adrian killed James and set up the fake suicide so that Jill would inherit the money. Then, when it turned out that Diana was the beneficiary, they decided to ruin Diana so that the money would revert to Jill—and as an added bonus, save Adrian’s career by keeping Diana’s research from being published. But would Levine buy that? It had possibilities, but also seemed rather farfetched. Then Diana remembered what Mitch had told her. All she had to do was convince the police that it was possible. Reasonable doubt was on her side.

  Marcel’s words echoed through her brain: Looks to me like he’s the kind likely to do just about anything. Gail would attest to Adrian’s financial difficulties, Marcel to his instability, someone else in their peer group would explain how discrediting Diana would save Adrian’s future book royalties. Combined with Jill’s own money problems, her ambivalent and sometimes violent relationship with James, her criminal record …

  Watching them from her corner, Diana realized that Jill and Adrian were having some kind of disagreement. Jill was sitting back in her chair with her arms crossed, a petulant look on her face. Adrian leaned toward her, talking and gesturing rather frantically. Jill remained impassive.

  It just might work, Diana thought. She had heard of much weaker motives for murder. Jill and Adrian might be the alternative plausible suspects she had been searching for. They did it together to get out from under, to start a new life. James and Jill had had a huge row right before his death. And hadn’t Levine just told her that Mrs. Manfredi claimed to have seen Jill’s boyfriend at James’s apartment?

  The waiter stopped by and asked if she wanted anything else, blocking her view of Adrian and Jill. Diana shook her head, and, as he stepped from her line of vision, she peered once again at the small table by the door. But now Jill and Adrian were not looking at each other. They were both looking straight at her.

  28

  TRANSFIXED, DIANA STARED ACROSS THE DIMLY LIT RESTAURANT. It seemed to her that the tables and the chairs and the few other scattered patrons didn’t exist; there were only she and Adrian and Jill, locked together by the intensity of their fixed gazes. Then Adrian blinked, his expression of abashed surprise taking on even stronger shades of guilt. Jill’s gaze remained unwavering. At the first moment of recognition, a gleam of hatred, almost a physical aversion, seemed to flash from her eyes, supplanted swiftly by a look Diana could only describe as cordial. Jill smiled slightly and nodded. She waved and motioned for Diana to come over to their table.

  Diana hesitated, her brain function returning slowly after the shock of eye contact. She remembered Jill’s rages in her office, at the funeral, at Jill’s apartment. She remembered James’s stories of slashed tires and dead tropical fish—and the police report of assault with a deadly weapon. We’ve got to watch this woman, Mitch had said. She was a real hothead, Adam Arell had told her. No way to figure what she was going to do next. Diana knew a friendly little chat was hardly what Jill had in mind.

  Diana’s stomach squeezed as she placed her change in her wallet. What were her options? Either she pretended she hadn’t seen them, and stayed in her corner until they decided to leave, or she went over for a moment to say a quick hello. She supposed she could leave without speaking to them, but, given their proximity to the door, this seemed a rather difficult feat to pull off. She rummaged through her purse for her car keys. The last thing she wanted right now was to have a friendly chitchat with Adrian and Jill.

  A sharp knock on her table jolted her from her reverie. Startled, she dropped her purse on the floor. Her wallet skidded across the tiles; her lipstick and a small prescription bottle rolled under the next table. The remainder of the contents of her purse lay in a messy pile at her feet.

  “You lucked out,” Marcel said, knocking on the table again. He pointed across the restaurant at Jill, who was still smiling and waving. “Your friend and the professor are here.”

  Diana crouched on the floor, grabbing for her wayward possessions. “Thanks,” she managed to mutter. “I sure lucked out.”

  “Yoo-hoo, Diana!” Jill called.

  Marcel grunted and slipped back under the bar. Diana stood and gathered her things. She walked resolutely toward their table.

  “Adrian,” Diana said, slipping on her coat and throwing her purse over her shoulder so as to leave no doubt as to the imminence of her departure. “Jill.”

  “It’s so great to see you,” Jill said, as if she really meant it. She reached out and grasped Diana’s hands, as if they were old chums. “You must sit down with us for at least a few minutes. You must!”

  Before Diana could answer, Adrian said, “I don’t mean to be rude, but maybe some other time would be better.” Although ostensibly speaking to Diana, he was looking at Jill.

  “I can’t right now, thanks,” Diana said, detaching her hands from Jill’s. “I really have—”

  “Nonsense,” Jill interrupted, smiling warmly up at Diana. “We won’t take no for an answer.” She removed her jacket from the extra chair and hung it on the back of her own.

  Diana looked to Adrian for help. Jill wasn’t a bad actress, although the clipped preciseness of her words told Diana that this facade of friendly cordiality was all too thin. Adrian met Diana’s eyes for a moment, but his expression was inscrutable. He shrugged in defeat. Jill pointed to the empty chair and tugged on Diana’s sleeve. Diana sat.

  For a few moments, the silence was thick and uncomfortable, the tension between them almost palatable. Jill smiled brightly, clinking her ice with a stirrer, while Adrian stared into his drink and Diana fidgeted with the strap of her purse.

  Diana took a deep breath and looked right at Adrian. “So how long have you two known each other?” she asked, tipping her head and trying to smile. Although she and Adrian had had their problems of late, they had been close at one time; the two of them had spent many a lunch discussing Adrian’s marital difficulties.

  Adrian had the grace to blush slightly and shrugged again. Before he could speak, Jill answered Diana’s question for him. “We’ve known each other since I first moved to Boston.” She smiled wickedly. “But if you’re speaking of the biblical sense, it’s been just over a year.”

  “We ran into each other again at Quincy Market last summer,” Adrian added.

  “And as they say”—Jill pinched his cheek—“the rest is history.”

  Adrain twisted his face away from Jill’s hand and shot her a look that clearly told her he was not happy with the conversation.

  Jill tossed her head and turned to Diana. “So,” she said with the overly festive voice of a hostess attempting to liven up a dull dinner party. “It seems to me that the last time we met, we were talking about drinking and bartender liability.” She chuckled. “And here you find me in a bar with a drink,” she raised her glass as if in toast to Diana, “in the middle of a Wednesday afternoon.”

  Diana looked at her in confusion, then, just as Jill had desired, she went cold at the memory. Once again she was in Jill’s apartment watching Jill’s charm disintegrate into fury. Once again she was on her knees, a poker being held to her stomach.

  “Diana stopped by for a little chat,” Jill was explaining to Adrian. “We had coffee and a bit of girl talk.” She flashed Diana a playful smile, as if intimate secrets had been shared between the two women that no man could ever be expected to understand. Then she turned back to Adrian. “It seems to me, we were discussing responsibility …”

  “Don’t do this,” Adrian hissed at Jill, slamming his drink down on the table. “How’s your research going?” he asked Diana. “Still having those sampling problems?”

  Although she would have loved to rub her latest data in his face, Diana controlled herself. Now was not the time to antagonize him, not when she needed him as an ally against Jill, not when she wanted to get information out of him on his own possible alibi—or, she hoped, lack the
reof. “Oh,” she sighed, figuring two could play the actress game, “you know how difficult it is to achieve statistical significance with such small samples.” She shook her head and frowned. “Sometimes I wonder if it’s ever going to happen.”

  Adrian’s grin contradicted his words. “Too bad,” he said. “I know how tough that can be. How disappointing.”

  “That’s enough shop talk about your silly statistics,” Jill declared, patting Adrian’s hand and shaking her head. “I’d much rather just gossip.” She took a sip of her drink and leaned closer to Diana. “Let’s talk about our mutual friends.”

  “I didn’t know we had any,” Diana said, wondering what Jill was getting at.

  “Why, but of course we do.” Jill’s voice was perky and cheerful. “There’s Adrian, here.” She tilted her head and looked at him with the amused smile of an overindulgent mother. “And then there’s Ethan and Sandy—and of course there was James.” As she pronounced her brother’s name, Jill’s voice wavered and her face lost its polite veneer, but she recovered quickly. “Poor Sandy seems to be having quite a difficult time these days,” she said with great sincerity. “I do worry about her.”

  It struck Diana that Jill’s smile was taking on a touch of shrewdness, that her eyes were slightly glazed. Diana wished she too had a drink. “I’m hopeful that Sandy’s going to be just fine,” she said carefully.

  “It’s this whole alibi thing that she’s doing for you.” Jill sighed and put her drink down on the table with a resounding clank.

  “What are you talking about?” Diana was completely confused by this turn of conversation. “I don’t have an alibi.”

  “Yeah, right,” Jill said, looking directly at Diana. “As if you didn’t know Sandy was planning on going to the police to tell them she had an appointment with you that afternoon.”