Eight Perfect Murders(46)

At exactly three thirty a woman I recognized as Jillian came through the doors. She was small, enveloped in a puffy jacket with a hood. She must have caught me looking at her because she immediately came over, and I introduced myself.

“I only have about twenty minutes,” she said, and I wondered if she’d gotten more wary since our phone call.

I offered to buy her a coffee and she asked for an herbal tea. I stood in line again and got her one. It was impossible for me not to think of Claire, who always used to get herbal tea at coffee shops, and how it used to drive me crazy to pay three dollars or more for what amounted to a tea bag and some hot water.

Back at the table I said, “Thanks so much again for meeting with me. I know this must seem very strange, but I’ve been asked to do a background check and it has to happen very quickly because the publishers want to make a decision right away.”

She perked up at the word publishers, which I knew she would. “Oh,” she said. “What’s the . . .”

“I can’t actually tell you the publishing house but he’s being considered as an editor for a big anthology, and, apparently, someone somewhere expressed concern about his personal life, that it might inhibit him from doing the work.”

Jillian was about to take a sip of her tea but set the mug back down on its saucer. “You said that this conversation would be entirely confidential.”

“Oh, absolutely,” I said. “One hundred percent. I’ll never even file a written report.”

“I haven’t seen or spoken to Nick for over three years, not since I left New Essex. Clearly, you already know I filed a restraining order against him, otherwise why would you be talking with me, right?”

“Right,” I said, then added, “How long were you involved with him?”

She looked toward the ceiling. “Less than a year. I mean, less than a year that we were actually involved. I knew him for a year before we started going out, and after I finally broke it off, I was still in New Essex for another six months or so.”

“And can you tell me what prompted you to file the restraining order?”

She sighed. “He never actually hurt me, or threatened me with physical violence, but after we broke up, he called me all the time, showed up wherever I was going to be, and once—it was only the once, but it was what caused me to get the restraining order—he got very drunk and broke into my house.”

“Jeez,” I said.

“The thing is . . . I do think he’s actually a decent man, but he’s a drunk. Do you know . . . is he still drinking? The last time I spoke with him he told me he’d been sober for over a month.”

“I’ll be sure to find out. So he was never actually violent with you?”

“No. Definitely no. Just persistent, really. He considered me the love of his life.”

“He dedicated his book to you,” I said.

“Oh, God.” She covered her face as though she was embarrassed. “I know. And it was after we’d broken up. Look, I don’t want to stop Nick from getting a job that he probably needs. I had a bad experience with him, but if he’s stopped drinking, then maybe he’ll be a good fit. He’s very well read.”

“So, from your time knowing him, you don’t think he’d be capable of any kind of violence? You never felt as though he’d be vengeful after you broke up?”

She looked a little confused at the question, and I wondered if I’d taken it too far. She started to speak, stopped, then said, “I never saw a violent side of him, but he did . . . he was very interested in violence from a literary point of view. He was attracted to stories of revenge. But that . . . that was just professional interest, as far as I knew. He’s a pretty typical English professor, really. Bookish.”

I wanted to ask her if she knew anything about what had happened to his sister, or subsequently, his sister’s ex-husband, Norman Chaney. But I already felt like I was treading on thin ice. Jillian Nguyen was studying me the way someone studies a person they might have to describe at a later time. “I know these questions sound odd,” I said. “Apparently, and this is just between you and me, someone came forward to the publishing house and accused Nicholas Pruitt of a violent act.”

“Oh,” Jillian said and took a sip from her tea.

“The publishers did not believe the accusation, or the accuser, was trustworthy, but just to make sure—”

“Oh my God, you think it’s me,” Jillian said, straightening up in her chair.

“Oh, no, no,” I said. “Not at all. We have the accuser’s name. We’re just looking for any kind of corroboration.”

“Okay,” she said and put her mug down. “Look, I do need to go. Besides, I don’t really have anything else to add.”

She stood, and I did as well. “Thank you, you’ve been very helpful.” It was clear that I’d lost her trust, but I decided to test my luck. “Just one last thing. As far as you knew did Nick Pruitt own a gun?”

She was sliding on her huge coat, and she shook her head. “I mean, no,” she said. “Besides the antique guns, but I don’t even think those work.”

“The antique guns?”

“He collects guns. Not to shoot, but old revolvers. Anything that was in an old crime film. It’s his hobby.”