The Other Mrs.(62)

My reply is immediate. “You’ve met him. Will is outgoing, easy to get along with. Everyone likes him. This doesn’t surprise me.”

“No?” he asks. “Because the details,” he tells me, “surprised me a bit. The way these women said they would stand close, their conversations hushed, whispering words so that no one else could hear. One of the women had a picture.”

“She took a picture of Will and Morgan?” I interject, incredulous. Not only is she gossiping about my husband, but she’s taking photos of him—for what purpose?

“Calm down, Dr. Foust,” he says, though it’s patronizing the way he says it. On the surface, I am calm, though inside my heart is racing. “She took a picture of her son coming out of school. He’d received the Principal’s Award,” he explains, finding the photo that this woman shared and showing it to me. Her son stands in the foreground. Maybe ten years old, a mop of flaxen hair that hangs into his eyes, his winter coat unzipped, shoe untied. In his hands he holds a certificate that reads Principal’s Award, a big deal in elementary school, though it shouldn’t be. Because by the end of the year everyone gets one. But for the kids, it’s a big deal. The boy’s grin is wide. He’s proud of his certificate.

My eyes move to the background. There stand Will and Morgan, just as Officer Berg described. They stand close in a way that makes my stomach churn. He’s turned toward her, facing her, his hand on her arm. There’s sadness on her face, in her eyes. It’s plain to see. His torso is bent at the waist so that he slopes into her by twenty or thirty degrees. His face is only inches from hers. His lips are parted, eyes locked on hers.

He’s speaking to her, telling her something.

What was Will telling her when this picture was taken?

What was he saying that he had to be standing so close to say it?

“Looks a little suspect, if you ask me,” Officer Berg says, snatching the photograph from me.

“I didn’t ask,” I think aloud, getting angry, unable to stop the words that come next.

“I saw you,” I remember just then. “I saw you put something into the Nilssons’ mailbox, Officer. Twice. It was money,” I say. An indictment.

Officer Berg remains composed. “How did you know it was money?”

“I was curious,” I tell him. “I watched you. After you left, I went to see.”

“Mail fraud is a federal crime. It carries a hefty penalty, Dr. Foust. Up to five years in prison, a steep fine.”

“But this wasn’t mail, was it? Mail goes through the postal service. This didn’t. You put it there. Which, in and of itself, is a crime, I believe.”

To this, he says nothing.

“What was it, Officer? A kickback, hush money?” Because there seems no other logical explanation why Officer Berg would secretly place an envelope of bills in the Nilssons’ mailbox, and all at once, puzzle pieces drop into place.

“Did you pay Mr. Nilsson to lie?” I ask, dismayed. “To say he saw me when he didn’t?”

Because without a murderer, Officer Berg needed only a scapegoat, someone to blame for the crime of killing Morgan Baines.

He chose me.

Berg leans against the countertop. He wrings his hands before him. I take a deep breath and gather myself, spinning the conversation in a different direction. “How much does obstruction of justice go for these days?” I ask.

“Pardon me?”

I make sure my question is clear this time. “How much did you pay Mr. Nilsson to lie for you?” I ask.

A beat of silence passes by. All the while he watches me, surprise turning to sadness. “I almost wish that was the case, Doctor,” he says, lowering his head. “But no. Unfortunately not. The Nilssons have fallen on hard times. They’re nearly broke. Their son got in some trouble, and George and Poppy spent half their savings to help him out. Now there’s talk that the city might take their home if George can’t find a way to pay his municipal taxes on time. Poor George,” he sighs. “But George is a proud man. It’d kill him to ask for help. I keep my donations anonymous, so it doesn’t feel like a handout. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything,” he says.

He takes a step closer to me and says, “Look, Dr. Foust. Between you and me, I don’t think you’re capable of murder. But the truth is that spouses don’t always make the most viable alibis. They’re subject to bias; there’s a motive to lie. The fact that you and your husband both claim you were at home when Morgan was killed isn’t an impenetrable alibi. A prosecutor may see right through that. Add to that witness statements, and we have ourselves a bit of a problem.”

I say nothing.

“If you help me, I will do everything I can to help you.”

“What do you want from me?” I ask.

He says, “The truth.”

But I’ve already told him the truth. “I’ve been nothing but honest with you,” I say.

“You’re certain of that?” he asks.

I tell him I am. He stares awhile.

And then, in time, he tips his hat at me, and he leaves.



SADIE


At night I find it hard to sleep. I spend most of the restless night awake, on alert, waiting for Imogen to creep into the bedroom. Every sound worries me, thinking it’s the opening of a bedroom door, footsteps padding across the floor. It’s not. It’s just the house showing its age: water through pipes, the furnace quickly dying. I try to talk myself down, reminding myself that Imogen only came into our room the one time because of something I’d done. It wasn’t unprovoked. I tell myself she wouldn’t come again, but that doesn’t come close to allaying my concerns.