Reputation(35)

“I mean, this is the thing,” says a voice. “Besides the whole . . . e-mail stuff . . . it’s not like he was trying very hard with her.”

I freeze by a window that overlooks a sand trap. The voice comes from a table of women of varying ages. One is tall and masculine, with a prominent brow and thick brown hair ending just past her ears. The second woman is petite and perky with chestnut-colored hair arranged in a French braid. The third woman—the one who’s spoken—is about forty pounds overweight, wearing pink glasses, and glancing furtively back and forth.

“So true,” French Braid pipes up. “He was always at the hospital, even when he wasn’t on call.”

Wine wells in my mouth. Are they talking about Greg and Kit?

“And at first, he seemed to love those stepdaughters, but at the end? It’s like they didn’t exist.” That’s Tall One. Is she one of Greg’s coworkers? A nurse?

“And aren’t those two a piece of work.” Pink Glasses rolls her eyes. “Those pictures of them in the bikinis at his funeral?”

I press my nails into my palm. Should I intervene? Who gives these bitches the right to talk about innocent teenagers?

“Anyway,” French Braid says. “Those e-mails, whew! Who do we think she is?”

“No clue,” Pink Glasses says.

“My money’s on her being the killer,” opines French Braid. “Not Kit.”

Tall One looks surprised. “You think?”

“Yep. Lolita gets obsessed in the e-mails. She was obviously unhinged. I bet she found him at home the night of the benefit. She wanted to get back together, but he didn’t. They argued, and she stabbed him. I saw an SVU about this very same thing last week.”

A man stands and blocks my view of them, though maybe that’s a good thing, as I’m bubbling with outrage. So now we’re using Law and Order episodes in lieu of real evidence?

“But what about how Kit and Greg got together?” I think it’s French Braid talking. “I was more wondering if that plays into this, somehow.”

“What do you mean?” That’s Tall One’s voice.

“You don’t know?” I can barely hear her over the bar chatter. “That first husband of Kit’s? Strasser was his surgeon, and the guy died on his operating table. Some say those two planned it—they’d been dating long before he died. They wanted the first husband out of the way.”

I duck my head and try to blend into the surroundings. I feel jarred by what I’ve just heard. I knew Greg worked in the cardiology department when Kit’s first husband, Martin, underwent the heart surgery that he didn’t survive. But I wasn’t aware Greg was Martin’s surgeon. Was I supposed to just know? Why didn’t Kit tell me?

I want to know more, yet when I turn back to the women, they’re packing up their things. Should I follow them? Ask more questions?

“Excuse me?”

Behind me, a tall man about my age holds a tumbler of brown liquid. He has a mess of chestnut curls, piercing blue eyes, a prominent Adam’s apple. He’s also blinking at me with a big, expectant smile on his face.

“It’s Paul,” he says. “Paul Woodson? From high school?”

For a beat, I can’t remember Paul Woodson—I’ve locked high school memories away so tightly, it’s a wonder I even remember my school’s mascot. But then I recall a cramped room where we held the lit magazine meetings. And Paul Woodson’s beat-up Vans sneakers tapping as he flipped through poem submissions. And Paul wrinkling his cute nose at most of the abysmal entries. He used to quote Velvet Underground lyrics, which had inspired me to buy the band’s whole catalog at Tower Records and listen to it on repeat.

“Oh,” I blurt. “Jesus. Paul. Oh my God.” I sound like a nervous eighth grader. “I just mean . . . shit, my brain is scrambled today. It’s good to see you!”

He smiles sadly. His two front teeth still overlap, something I’d found unbearably hot at sixteen. “It’s weird. I was just thinking about you the other day.”

Paul Woodson was thinking about me? This seems highly improbable. Then I remember: Of course he was thinking about me. My sister’s husband was murdered.

“When’s the last time we saw each other?” Paul asks.

“Um, I think it was that dinner,” I say, because I know for certain. “For lit mag.”

“Yes, that dinner!” Paul cries. “At the Indian place!”

I nod as though I hadn’t obsessed over that dinner for weeks, months, after it happened. “It’s been a long time.”

“And what are you up to now?”

“I live in California.” I want to sip from my drink, but I’m disappointed to find it empty. “I have for years. I’m an investigative journalist.”

“Oh yeah? Freelance, or for a paper, or . . . ?”

“This online news site called ‘The Source.’ You probably haven’t—”

“You work at ‘The Source’?” Paul looks thrilled. “It’s the first e-mail update I click every day! I’m a journalist, too, actually. Well, a rock reporter—I cover the local band scene. But I’d love to get into more investigative stuff. You’re my idol.”

Is this happening? Paul was the king of the alternative kids, all army surplus gear and half-shaved head and Henry Rollins intellectual sarcasm. I spent lit-mag meetings slumped in the back, feeling sporty and preppy and nothing like the spidery, edgy girls who flocked around Paul like groupies. I haven’t thought of Paul in years, but now that he’s standing here in front of me, I can’t believe I haven’t thought of him in years.