بخش 01 - فصل 17

17

That crucial first interview, only hours after the crime. Coffee and cookies while the mangled bodies of the dead were still being identified. Somewhere relatives were weeping and rending their garments. Mrs. Trelawney walking into the condo’s front hall, where her handbag sat on an occasional table. She brought

the bag back, rummaging, starting to frown, still rummaging, starting to be a little worried. Then smiling. “Here it is,” she said, and handed it over. The detectives looked at the smart key, Hodges thinking how ordinary it was for something that went with such an expensive car. It was basically a black plastic stick

with a lump on the end of it. The lump was stamped with the Mercedes logo on one side. On the other were three buttons. One showed a padlock with its shackle down. On the button beside it, the padlock’s shackle was up. The third button was labeled PANIC. Presumably if a mugger attacked you as you were unlocking your car, you could

push that one and the car would start screaming for help. “I can see why you had a little trouble locating it in your purse,” Pete remarked in his best just-passing-the-timeof-day voice. “Most people put a fob on their keys. My wife has hers on a big plastic daisy.” He smiled fondly as if Maureen were still his wife, and as if that perfectly turned-out

fashion plate would ever have been caught dead hauling a plastic daisy out of her purse. “How nice for her,” Mrs. Trelawney said. “When may I have my car back?” “That’s not up to us, ma’am,” Hodges said. She sighed and straightened the boatneck top of her dress. It was the first of dozens of times they saw her do it. “I’ll

have to sell it, of course. I’d never be able to drive it after this. It’s so upsetting. To think my car . . .” Now that she had her purse in hand, she prospected again and brought out a wad of pastel Kleenex. She dabbed at her eyes with them. “It’s very upsetting.” “I’d like you to take us through it one more time,” Pete said.

She rolled her eyes, which were red-rimmed and bloodshot. “Is that really necessary? I’m exhausted. I was up most of the night with my mother. She couldn’t go to sleep until four. She’s in such pain. I’d like a nap before Mrs. Greene comes in. She’s the nurse.” Hodges thought, Your car was just used to kill eight

people, and only eight if all the others live, and you want a nap. Later he would not be sure if that was when he started to dislike Mrs. Trelawney, but it probably was. When some people were in distress, you wanted to enfold them and say there-there as you patted them on the back. With others you wanted to slap them a hard one across the chops and tell them

to man up. Or, in Mrs. T.’s case, to woman up. “We’ll be as quick as we can,” Pete promised. He didn’t tell her that this would be the first of many interviews. By the time they were done with her, she would hear herself telling her story in her sleep. “Oh, very well, then. I arrived here at my mother’s

shortly after seven o’clock on Thursday evening . . .” She visited at least four times a week, she said, but Thursdays were her night to stay over. She always stopped at B’hai, a very nice vegetarian restaurant located in Birch Hill Mall, and got their dinners, which she warmed up in the oven. (“Although Mother eats very little now, of course.

Because of the pain.”) She told them she always scheduled her Thursday trips so she arrived after seven, because that was when the all-night parking began, and most of the streetside spaces were empty. “I won’t parallel park. I simply can’t do it.” “What about the garage down the block?” Hodges asked.

She looked at him as though he were crazy. “It costs sixteen dollars to park there overnight. The streetside spaces are free.” Pete was still holding the key, although he hadn’t yet told Mrs. Trelawney they would be taking it with them. “You stopped at Birch Hill and ordered takeout for you and your mother at–” He

consulted his notebook. “B’hai.” “No, I ordered ahead. From my house on Lilac Drive. They are always glad to hear from me. I am an old and valued customer. Last night it was kookoo sabzi for Mother– that’s an herbal omelet with spinach and cilantro–and gheymeh for me. Gheymeh is a lovely stew with peas, potatoes,

and mushrooms. Very easy on the stomach.” She straightened her boatneck. “I’ve had terrible acid reflux ever since I was in my teens. One learns to live with it.” “I assume your order was –” Hodges began. “And sholeh zard for dessert,” she added. “That’s rice pudding with cinnamon. And saffron.” She flashed her

strangely troubled smile. Like the compulsive straightening of her boatneck tops, the smile was a Trelawneyism with which they would become very familiar. “It’s the saffron that makes it special. Even Mother always eats the sholeh zard.” “Sounds tasty,” Hodges said. “And your order, was it boxed and ready to go when you got there?”

“Yes.” “One box?” “Oh no, three.” “In a bag?” “No, just the boxes.” “Must have been quite a struggle, getting all that out of your car,” Pete said. “Three boxes of takeout, your purse . . .” “And the key,” Hodges said. “Don’t forget that, Pete.”

“Also, you’d want to get it all upstairs as fast as possible,” Pete said. “Cold food’s no fun.” “I see where you’re going with this,” Mrs. Trelawney said, “and I assure you . . .” A slight pause. “. . . you gentlemen that you are barking up the wrong path. I put my key in my purse as soon as I turned off the engine, it’s the first thing I always do. As for the boxes,

they were tied together in a stack . . .” She held her hands about eighteen inches apart to demonstrate. “. . . and that made them very easy to handle. I had my purse over my arm. Look.” She crooked her arm, hung her purse on it, and marched around the big living room, holding a stack of invisible boxes from B’hai. “See?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Hodges said. He thought he saw something else as well. “As for hurrying–no. There was no need, since the dinners need to be heated up, anyway.” She paused. “Not the sholeh zard, of course. No need to heat up rice pudding.” She uttered a small laugh. Not a giggle, Hodges thought, but a titter. Given that her husband

was dead, he supposed you could even call it a widdertitter. His dislike added another layer–almost thin enough to be invisible, but not quite. No, not quite. “So let me review your actions once you got here to Lake Avenue,” Hodges said. “Where you arrived at a little past seven.”

“Yes. Five past, perhaps a little more.” “Uh-huh. You parked . . . what? Three or four doors down?” “Four at most. All I need are two empty spaces, so I can pull in without backing. I hate to back. I always turn the wrong way.” “Yes, ma’am, my wife has exactly the same problem. You

turned off the engine. You removed the key from the ignition and put it in your purse. You put your purse over your arm and picked up the boxes with the food in them –” “The stack of boxes. Tied together with good stout string.” “The stack, right. Then what?”

She looked at him as though he were, of all the idiots in a generally idiotic world, the greatest. “Then I went to my mother’s building. Mrs. Harris–the housekeeper, you know–buzzed me in. On Thursdays, she leaves as soon as I arrive. I took the elevator up to the nineteenth floor. Where you are now asking me questions instead of telling me

when I can deal with my car. My stolen car.” Hodges made a mental note to ask the housekeeper if she had noticed Mrs. T.’s Mercedes when she left. Pete asked, “At what point did you take your key from your purse again, Mrs. Trelawney?” “Again? Why would I–”

He held the key up– Exhibit A. “To lock your car before you entered the building. You did lock it, didn’t you?” A brief uncertainty flashed in her eyes. They both saw it. Then it was gone. “Of course I did.” Hodges pinned her gaze. It shifted away, toward the lake view out the big picture

window, and he caught it

again. “Think carefully, Mrs.

Trelawney. People are dead,

and this is important. Do you

specifically remember juggling

those boxes of food so you

could get your key out of your

purse and push the LOCK

button? And seeing the

headlights

flash

an

acknowledgement? They do

that, you know.”

“Of course I know.” She bit at her lower lip, realized she was doing it, stopped. “Do you remember that specifically?” For a moment all expression left her face. Then that superior smile burst forth in all its irritating glory. “Wait. Now I remember. I put the key in my purse after I gathered up my boxes and got out. And after I

pushed the button that locks the car.” “You’re sure,” Pete said. “Yes.” She was, and would remain so. They both knew that. The way a solid citizen who hit and ran would say, when he was finally tracked down, that of course it was a dog he’d hit. Pete flipped his notebook closed and stood up. Hodges

did likewise. Mrs. Trelawney looked more than eager to escort them to the door. “One more question,” Hodges said as they reached it. She raised carefully plucked eyebrows. “Yes?” “Where’s your spare key? We ought to take that one, too.” There was no blank look this time, no cutting away of

the eyes, no hesitation. She said, “I have no spare key, and no need of one. I’m very careful of my things, Officer. I’ve owned my Gray Lady–that’s what I call it–for five years, and the only key I’ve ever used is now in your partner’s pocket.”