The Widower's Wife: A Thriller (10 page)

The aide grimaced at his hand on the door. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Why couldn’t people just invite him in for once? It was cold, damn it.

“Mrs. Bacon had a large insurance policy, and I am trying to figure out if there were any contributing factors to her accident.”

The woman stopped trying to shut the door in his face, though she didn’t remove her hand from the knob. “If they get this insurance policy, do they have to use it to pay debts?”

Part of the appeal of life insurance was that creditors couldn’t easily claim the payments. Owed parties could sue for a portion of benefits if the recipient was a spouse that shared the deceased’s debts. But the Bacons had avoided that by designating Sophia as the beneficiary. Ryan scratched the hair at the nape of his neck. “In some cases.”

The aide identified herself as Ms. Donna. She stepped out onto the stairs, closing the door behind her. “Mrs. Bacon pulled Sophia midyear. You can’t just do that when you sign up for twelve months. You still gotta pay the remainder.”

“Were the Bacons good about paying?”

“Well, they paid each month. But like I said, they still owe us for the rest of the year, even if they don’t send their kid. We hire aides based on the expected number of children. We can’t just fire them when someone drops out, even if there’s a tragedy. And they pulled Sophia before anything happened to her mom.”

Ryan feigned sympathy. “Seems like the Bacons didn’t get the costs involved in running a daycare. I heard that they were often late picking up Sophia as well.”

Ms. Donna chewed at her bottom lip. “I only charged them the once. So you think I could apply for some relief if the policy goes through?”

“They were only charged once? I thought Mrs. Bacon was late all the time.”

Ms. Donna shook her head. “I don’t know where you’re getting your information, but that’s not right. Usually it was Mr. Bacon who picked up Sophia. Mrs. Bacon just picked her up the one time, the day I had to charge her because she was ninety minutes overdue. Few days later, she called to say she wouldn’t send Sophia anymore.”

Ryan couldn’t see a motive for Ms. Donna not to tell the truth. But he could imagine Michael lying about Ana leaving work early to obscure the fact that he’d fired her after their relationship went sour.

“When did she stop sending Sophia exactly?”

The answer was important. If Fernanda was right and the human resource department hadn’t known that Ana had quit, then her old job wouldn’t have an accurate date for her departure. Whatever had caused Ana to stop working had happened earlier than the late August day her firm had provided. Ryan needed the
when
to figure out
what
. Whatever had made Ana stop working just might have started her downward spiral to suicide.

Ms. Donna rubbed her reddening nose. Ryan bet she regretted not inviting him in. “August eighteenth. I know because she sent in a check with a note that said ‘final daycare payment’ through that Tuesday. I haven’t cashed it. I don’t want Mr. Bacon thinking I’m giving up my claim to the outstanding bill, you know?”

Ryan nodded. “Could I see the check?”

The aide opened the door and stepped back inside. “I got all these kids, I’m not gonna go look for it now. Gimme your number. I’ll call with it.”

Ryan’s numb fingers fumbled with his wallet. He pulled out a business card and slipped it into Ms. Donna’s hand. “My fax is on the bottom.”

She inspected the print and then waved the card in the air. “All right, I’ll call you. Maybe I can get back some of what she owed. It takes months to get kids into an open spot. It’s not like we have a wait list.”

The door shut. Ryan hustled back up the steps as fast as he could hop, using his good leg and the railing for support. Excitement made him forget his throbbing thigh. Lies were leads, and Ryan had just found one.

12

August 13

I
tiptoed down the back stairs, a thief in my own house, careful to avoid the guest room that I’d heard Tom stumble into around two
AM
. The refrigerator’s hum masked the sound of my movements as I crept into the kitchen. I scurried across the first floor to the basement stairs and then descended into enemy territory: Tom’s bar.

My husband’s wine collection was the only semiliquid possession we had left. I prayed that Tom’s liquor store would repurchase the bottles at a discount.

A small duffle scratched at my side. The bag was Christmas party swag: flimsy vinyl stamped with the name of Tom’s old firm. It would hold between six and eight bottles. As I approached the back room, I whispered my justifications for planning to fill the sack: Tom’s drinking had become a problem. He needed to stop boozing and my parents needed money. Like a stiff drink, the alcohol could make my problems vanish—at least temporarily.

Tom’s wine cellar reminded me of a glass shower enclosure. Chrome wine racks attached to metal scaffolding inside. Swan-necked bottles had once graced each grooved space between the metal bars. Now the majority of the unit was empty.

The fridge could lock, but Tom drank far too often to bother turning the key each night. I pulled back the sliding glass door. Cold air pricked my arm. Goosebumps spread on my skin,
spurred by fear as much as the change in temperature. How would Tom react if he caught me?

The best vintages rested on the top shelf. I stood on the pads of my feet and tipped a bottle from its cradle with my fingertips. It landed in my palm. Near black glass obscured the wine inside. A stamp, reminiscent of the wax seal royalty used to shut envelopes, caught the glow of the wine shelves’ embedded LEDs. A white-and-black label spread across the front of the bottle: Gaja Barbaresco. Italy. 1990.

I knew little about alcohol, other than to trust my husband’s recommendations. Wine was Tom’s hobby, and he didn’t enjoy anything inexpensive. The bottles in the cellar wouldn’t warrant storage space if they’d cost less than one hundred dollars. The stuff at the top of the cabinet would be hundreds of dollars.

I placed the Gaja in the duffle and then tipped another bottle into my waiting hand. Silver foil decorated this one’s cap. The label showcased two concentric circles that resembled a star in Van Gogh’s famous painting. Any label appropriating famous artwork had to be pricey. I scanned the top shelf for another reachable bottle. There was one with a silver etching of a stallion. I stretched. My fingertips grazed the neck. The bottle jostled in the cradle but couldn’t be coaxed into my open palm. Without a boost, I risked breaking it, and there was no way I could cart the stepladder from the garage and down the stairs without making a racket loud enough to wake Tom.

The rest of the top shelf remained out of reach. I grabbed half a dozen bottles scattered around the giant fridge, hoping my husband would be less likely to notice random missing bottles than a raided shelf.

Tom hadn’t rearmed the alarm when he’d come home. That was good, since turning it off made a steady beeping noise for several seconds. I opened the door and carried the duffle into the garage. The lot went into my Camry’s trunk. I’d sell them first thing in the morning, before Tom sauntered into the basement for whatever liquid passed as his breakfast these days.

I crept back up the rear stairs to my bedroom. Tom’s snoring echoed from the guest room down the hallway. I slipped beneath the covers and watched the time on my cell change from three thirty to four
AM
. Sleep remained a dream.

*

The wine store beckoned from behind refurbished factory windows. The modern, industrial look reminded me of Tom’s bar/theater room, only five times the size. No wonder he loved this place.

A pleasant ding signaled that customers had arrived. Sophia looked for the source of the sound as I led her into the store. A bewildered expression crossed her face as she undoubtedly tried to understand why I’d told her father that we would run to Payless after dinner to get her measured for new sneakers and then taken her to a liquor store.

“Mommy just needs to run a quick errand,” I explained. “It’s a surprise for daddy, though, so we can’t tell him.” Her eyes lit up, excited to be included in a secret—especially one that she believed would make her father happy.

I disliked lying, and I hated myself for involving my daughter in my alibi. But the shoe excuse had been the easiest way to duck out without Tom asking questions. He knew that Sophia needed sneakers. Her toe had made an impression on the roof of her old Stride Rites from bending to fit inside the shoe.

The duffle was squeezed between us, helping silence the clang of bottles brushing against one another. We stepped into a foyer with a little table, where patrons must taste wines. I hovered around it, looking for the owner.

Legs culminating in a push up bra and copper dye job appeared from within a hallway of Napa Valley reds. “Looking for anything in particular today?” The saleswoman gargled her
r
sounds as though her first language was French. She flashed a large, fake smile at my daughter before frowning at the duffle.

“Actually, yes. I’m looking for the owner. Vincent.”

Her smile softened at her boss’s name. She could peg me now: wife of a key client seeking to impress her husband with something special, maybe for an anniversary or birthday, stopping by on the way back from her daughter’s kiddie soccer practice or, maybe, the gym. The bag and the need to bring my child into a fancy liquor store no longer sounded the alarm.

“Of course. I’ll get him. What is your name?”

“Ana Bacon.”

“Bacon.” Her eyes narrowed, though her smile spread to each ear. “As in bringing home the. Got it.”

I recognized the joke as something Tom would say, or had said. He’d always liked that his surname was synonymous with a slang term for money. He brought home the bacon. I could imagine him, glass of wine in hand, casually flirting with this woman.
Yup, I bring home the bacon
.

Maybe she explained why he went so often to the wine store. Jealousy tightened my chest as I followed her to a back room. Sophia’s grip closed around my hand. She sensed my emotion again.

I knelt beside her, bottles jangling as I shifted position. “Hey, Mommy just has to give this man a few things and then we will leave, okay? Want to look for animals on the bottles with me?”

She brightened and swung my arm. We walked between ash-gray wooden racks filled with wine. I spotted a fat mallard on Duckhorn Cabernet. I recognized the bottle as one that had often graced the table during dinner. The eighty-dollar red stood just above Sophia’s head, not even near the top shelf. “There’s a duck.”

She followed my pointed finger to the bottle. “It looks like
Make Way for Ducklings
.”

The salesclerk returned with a man who barely met her chin line. He wore a gray suit open to reveal a blue shirt. His Roman nose combined with his black hair, long and gelled into small spikes, served as an ethnic calling card. The Italian smiled upon seeing me, just enough for his top lip to rise above his front teeth.

“You must be Tom’s wife.” He extended his hand as he approached. The redhead stood at his side, a doting wife, or mistress.

I shook. His grip was firm. He maintained eye contact. “I haven’t seen Tommy in a while. How is he doing?”

Tommy? My husband never went by anything so casual. He would have hated the familiarity.

“Fine. Thanks for asking. Could we chat a moment?” I glanced at the young woman. “In private?”

His open smile sank into the closed-mouth version. The girl’s toothy grin became even more strained than before.

“Maybe in your office?” I suggested. “I’d hoped you would be interested in purchasing some of Tom’s wine collection.”

Whatever remained of Vincent’s smile faded. “Well, it would depend on what you are selling and whether we already have it in stock, but I’m willing to give a listen.”

I held Sophia’s hand as we followed him into the back room. He chatted while we walked. “So Tom is getting out of collecting? That’s unfortunate. He was always so passionate.”

I scanned price tags as we walked: $80, $95, $100, $150, $200, $220. Either the selection here was extraordinary or this guy marked up bottles like a nightclub.

“I’ve truly missed him coming into the store. He really possessed a sophisticated palate.” Vincent didn’t need any response from me to keep filling the space between us with hot air. “Not many folks can recognize the difference between a fruit bomb and a wine with layers of flavors: raspberry, oak, blackberry, vanilla. You know, all the different notes. Like a symphony. Tom really had an ear for wine.”

I didn’t think Tom’s palate achieved the sophistication that Vincent applauded, but I had no doubt that my husband knew expensive. I nodded along. All Vincent’s praise had probably helped turn Tom into a wine connoisseur—that and the leggy salesclerk. I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing the thoughts from my mind.

Vincent opened the door to a small back room, just big enough for a stainless steel desk, three chairs, and several
bookcases stocked with wine. The room smelled like oak barrels, though I couldn’t see any.

Vincent settled into a tufted leather chair behind the desk. I put Sophia in a smaller club chair facing his seat and then placed the duffle bag on the table. I withdrew the two most expensive bottles first. With luck, their value would negotiate for me.

“I understand 1990 was a good year for Gaja. It sells for nearly four hundred dollars online. And I saw the Pingus for well over six hundred.”

The warmth wafting from Vincent dissipated. He grabbed the neck of the Pingus, tilted the bottle upside down, and rotated it, looking for something in the liquid. He examined the cap.

“The online price includes a significant retail markup.” He continued to examine the wine as he spoke. I figured he was checking for color and clarity, though I didn’t see how he could discern either through the near-black bottle. “When I buy wine like this, direct from the vineyards, I get dealer discounts that make it much less expensive. Plus, there’s the question of how well it’s been stored and cared for.”