Eight Perfect Murders(27)
The article went on to mention that Atwell was a renowned philanthropist, someone with a keen interest in the local arts scene, who frequently hosted gatherings and fund-raisers at his restored farm in Southwell. The article didn’t mention drugs, or extortion, or anything about Atwell’s role in the vehicular death of Claire Mallory. For that, I was glad. A week passed, and I had begun to believe that no one had made any connection between me and Atwell. Then, on a Sunday afternoon, nursing a cold, I was surprised by the sound of the door buzzer. Before I even answered it, I was sure it was the police, come to take me away. I braced myself. And it was the police—a tall, sorrowful-looking detective named James—but she did not have the look of a police officer preparing to make an arrest. She said she had a few quick questions. I let her in, and she explained to me that she was a Boston Police detective following up on some leads on an unsolved homicide in Southwell.
“Did you know Eric Atwell?” she asked, after she’d taken a seat on the edge of the sofa.
“I didn’t, but my wife knew him. Unfortunately.”
“Why unfortunately?”
“I’m sure you know this already, because it’s why you’re here. My wife produced a video for Eric Atwell, and after that they became friends. She . . . Claire . . . my wife died in a car accident coming home from his house in Southwell.”
“And did you blame Eric Atwell for this accident?”
“I did, partly, at least. I know that my wife started doing drugs again after she met him.”
The detective nodded slowly. “Did he provide those drugs?”
“He did. Look, I know where this is going. I hate . . . hated . . . Eric Atwell. But I didn’t have anything to do with his death. The truth is, my wife had on-again, off-again problems with drugs and alcohol. He didn’t force her to start taking drugs. He didn’t introduce her to them. Ultimately, it was my wife’s decision. I forgave him. It took a lot, but after what happened, I did finally make a decision to forgive him.”
“So how do you feel now that you know he’s been murdered?”
I stared at the ceiling, as though I were thinking. “Honestly, I don’t really know. I’m telling the truth when I say that I forgave him, but that doesn’t mean that I liked him. I’m not sad, and I’m not exactly happy. It is what it is. If I’m honest about it, I think he probably got what was coming to him.”
“So you think he was murdered by someone from a sense of . . . out of revenge, maybe?”
“You mean do I think he was intentionally murdered . . . as opposed to just being mugged?”
“Right, that’s what I mean.” The detective was very still, barely moving in the sofa.
“It occurred to me. Sure. I can’t imagine that my wife is the only one he gave drugs to. And she probably wasn’t the only one he started charging after she became addicted. He must have done that to other people.” As soon as I spoke the words, I realized it was more than I had wanted to tell the detective. There was something about her calm presence that was making me want to talk.
She was nodding again, and when she realized that I had stopped speaking, she said, “Did your wife end up giving a lot of money to Atwell? Money you didn’t have?”
“My wife and I had separate accounts so I wasn’t aware of it at the time. But, yes, she started giving money to Atwell for drugs.”
“I’m sorry to have to ask you this, Mr. Kershaw, but as far as you knew, was there any sexual relationship between your wife and Atwell?”
I hesitated. Part of me just wanted to tell this detective everything I had learned from Claire’s diary, but I also knew that the more I spoke, the more it became obvious that I had a very serious motive for Atwell’s death. I said, “I don’t know, to tell the truth. I suspect they might have.” Saying the words made my throat start to close a little, as though I were about to cry, and I pressed the heel of my hand against an eye.
“Okay,” the detective said.
“She wasn’t herself,” I said, unable to stop myself. “I mean, because of the drugs.” I wiped a tear from my cheek.
“I understand. I’m sorry to come out here and make you go through all this again, Mr. Kershaw. I hate to have to do this, but investigations of this kind are often all about the elimination of possible suspects. Do you remember where you were on the afternoon of February eighth?”
“I was in Florida, actually. At a conference.”
“Oh,” Detective James said, almost looking pleased. “What kind of conference was that?”
“Antiquarian booksellers. I run a used bookstore here in Boston.”
“Old Devils, right. I’ve been there.”
“Really? Are you a mystery fan?”
“Sometimes,” the detective said and fully smiled for the first time since she’d stepped inside of my apartment. “I went to see Sara Paretsky read. About a year ago?”
“That sounds right,” I said. “She was good, I thought.”
“She was. Were you the one who introduced her?”
“I was. You’ll be forgiven if you don’t remember me. Public speaking is not my forte.”
“I think I remember you being fine,” she said.
“Thank you for that,” I said.