All the Dark Places(8)

“It’s a puzzle right now, Dr. Westmore. Would you walk us through last night?”

She grabs a tissue from a box next to the ashtray. “Of course. We arrived at the Bradleys’ house at around six-thirty. Kim and Josh were already there. Jay was Jay. Happy, pouring drinks.”

“What’d you have?”

She smiles. “Wine. Malbec. Jay has a wonderful wine cellar.”

I nod. A man after my own heart. “You guys do a lot of drinking?”

She tips her head. “Over the course of the evening, I suppose. Molly had a nice spread too, from André’s. The food was terrific.”

This I know. André is my neighbor, and he and his partner, Collin, provide me with dinner a few times a week from their café and catering business. They moved into the apartment above mine three years ago and gave me an expensive bottle of merlot as a get-to-know-you gesture. I hadn’t been much of a wine drinker, but they explained that red wine was heart-healthy, and that was enough for me, although I’m careful to limit myself to two glasses on a work night. I’m too old to get shit-faced and function the next day.

“Was anyone drinking too much?” I ask.

It takes her a minute. She reaches down to stroke the cat, who’s plopped down on her suede flats, licking its paws. “Maybe a little.”

“Who?”

“I couldn’t say, Detective. We were all just having a good time.”

“How long have you known Dr. Bradley?” I ask, pencil poised.

She whooshes out a breath. “Gee, well. We met in grad school, so a long time. I was older than Jay. I’d gone back to school. Fifteen years, I’d say.”

“You know anyone who would want to do him harm?”

She shakes her head firmly. “Absolutely not.”

“Not a disgruntled patient, maybe?”

“Not that he told me. And he would’ve if he’d been worried.”

“Does he confide in you, Dr. Westmore?”

She takes a minute, wipes away another tear. “Yes. He and I are close. He doesn’t have much family.”

“He didn’t say anything or anyone was bothering him lately?”

“No. I wish . . .” Her gaze shifts to the window.

“What?”

“He did seem a little preoccupied last week.”

“You didn’t ask what was on his mind?”

She shrugs. “I figured he’d tell me when he was ready.”

“Uh huh. So you have no idea what was bugging him?”

“ No.”

“What time did you and your husband leave?”

She picks up the cat and settles him on her lap. “I’m not positive. Before midnight, though. The floor clock was striking the hour when we got home.”

“When you left, did anyone stay behind?”

“No. We all left at the same time.” The cat’s purrs fill the room with a gentle, throbbing hum. “Detective, you’re not saying that one of us would’ve . . . hurt Jay?”

“Not saying that at all. Just trying to put together a timeline.”

A man appears in the arched doorway.

“Scott, these are the detectives who called.”

He’s tall, thin but well-muscled, wearing jeans and a faded work shirt. His big hands are dirt stained, his hair cut short and graying. “Let me get cleaned up. I was out back working.” He looks at his hands, then looks me in the eye. “I can’t believe it about Jay.” He turns on his heel and heads down the hall.

Dr. Westmore lowers her voice. “That’s how he copes. Scott works. Some people cry. Others rage. Everyone has his or her own way of grieving.”

“Uh huh. Kind of cold to be digging in the garden, isn’t it?”

“He’s a landscaper. He owns the business but likes to get his hands dirty. He doesn’t mind the cold, and I think he’s just been cleaning out the planters on the back porch.”

“Hmmm. So there was no tension last night between anybody?” I shoot a glance at Chase, who’s head down over his phone, taking notes.

“No. It was a delightful evening.” She draws a deep breath and dabs at her eyes with a tissue. “We’ll need to notify his patients,” she says to herself.

Mr. Westmore returns. He’s changed his clothes, washed his hands.

Dr. Westmore rises. “I’ll be out front if you need me,” she says, setting the cat on the floor and reaching for the cigarettes. The cat trots after her as she leaves the room. Her husband sits in the chair she vacated. He looks out of place in the fussy living room.

“Mr. Westmore,” I begin, “would you tell us about last night?” He gives us the quick and dirty version. No frills. He seems like that kind of guy. Nothing he says deviates from his wife’s account of the birthday party.

“How long have you known Dr. Bradley?” I ask.

He scratches the gray stubble on his chin with a callused finger. “As long as Elise has. She met him in grad school. We’d been married for a few years when she went back to school to finish her degree. He used to come over to the apartment sometimes.” He smiles slightly at the memory. “We had a tiny little place downtown.” He clasps his hands in front of him, rests his elbows on his knees, and drops his head. “Jay was a nice person.”