Don't Cry Now (3 page)

“Of course, I'm saying that. What else would I be saying?” Bonnie jumped to her feet. “What's going on here? Am I a suspect?” Of course she was a suspect, she realized. What else would she be? She'd been discovered standing over the body of her husband's ex-wife, with blood on her hands, for God's sake. Of course she was a suspect. “You haven't answered me,” she persisted. “Am I a suspect?”

“We're just trying to find out what happened here,” Detective Kritzic told her calmly.

“I'd like to call my husband now,” Bonnie said.

“Why don't you call him from the station?” Captain Mahoney closed his notepad, dropped his hands to his sides.

“Am I under arrest?” Bonnie heard herself ask, thinking the voice must be coming from someone else. Maybe the radio again.

“I just think we all might be more comfortable at the station” came the unsatisfactory response.

“In that case,” Bonnie said, hearing her brother's voice filtering through her own, “I think I better call my lawyer.”

“W
here have you been?” Bonnie demanded, making no effort to hide her frustration. “I've been trying to reach you for half the afternoon.”

Diana Perrin stared at her friend in astonishment. “I was with clients,” she answered calmly. “How was I to know that my best friend was going to get hauled down to the police station for questioning in a murder case?”

“They think I killed Rod's ex-wife!”

“Yes, I think they might,” Diana agreed. “What the hell did you say to them?”

“I just answered their questions.”

“You answered their questions,” Diana repeated numbly, shaking her head. Bonnie noticed that her long dark hair was neatly tied into a lawyerly bun at the back of her head. “How many times have you heard me say that one never talks to the police without a lawyer present?”

“How could I not talk to them, for God's sake? I found Joan's body!”

“All the more reason.” Diana took a deep breath, plopped down into the chair across the table from Bonnie.

They were sitting on opposite sides of a long table, maybe light walnut, maybe dark oak, in the center of a small, brightly lit, poorly furnished room, with a scuffed linoleum floor and institutional-green walls that were in need of a fresh coat of paint. The ceiling lights were re
cessed and fluorescent; the walls were bare; the wooden chairs were straight-backed, cushionless, and uncomfortable, obviously designed to make their users wish to spend as little time in them as possible. A window interrupted one interior wall, allowing a clear view of the inside of the small suburban precinct. Not much was happening. A few men and women busied themselves at their desks, occasionally glancing in Bonnie's direction. She hadn't seen either Captain Mahoney or Detective Kritzic for the better part of half an hour.

“So, what exactly did you tell them?”

Bonnie again recounted the events of the early afternoon, watching for any sign of emotion on Diana's usually expressive face. But Diana's face registered nothing, her cool blue eyes remaining fixed on Bonnie's lips as she spoke. Diana was a beautiful woman, Bonnie thought, knowing how hard Diana worked to downplay her good looks, at least during the working day, sticking to little makeup, severely tailored suits, like the mustard-colored number she was wearing today, and low-heeled, practical shoes. Still, nothing could disguise the fact that Diana Perrin, age thirty-two and already twice divorced, was a stunner.

“What are you staring at?” Diana asked, suddenly aware of Bonnie's perusal.

“You look gorgeous.”

“Shit,” Diana muttered. “This must be what the cops meant when they said some of your reactions were less than appropriate.”

“Are they going to arrest me?”

“I doubt it. They don't have enough evidence to charge you, and since they didn't Mirandize you, they can't use anything you said against you.”

“Mirandize me?”

“Read you your rights.”

Bonnie thought how wondrously accommodating the English language was, the ease with which it had permit
ted a man's surname to become a verb. “Did I really say anything that was so bad?”

“Well, bearing in mind that my practice is primarily corporate and commercial, and that I haven't had anything to do with criminal law since I got out of law school, let's see what I can come up with: The victim was your husband's ex-wife; you were something less than friends, but still you agreed to meet with her and not tell your husband; you snuck out of a meeting and told no one where you were going; you claimed you were stuck in your car at the time of the murder….”

“There was an accident on the turnpike. They can check it out….”

“They are, I assure you. Just as they'll be checking your phone records, your school records, the symposium you claimed you attended this morning…”

“I was there, for God's sake.”

“…the mileage on your car, Margaret Palmay's neighbors, the message you gave to 911.”

“What possible motive could I have for killing Joan?”

Diana lifted her elegant long fingers into the air, counting off the reasons one by one. “One—she was your husband's ex-wife, which some might consider motive enough. Two—she was a nuisance. Three—she was a financial drain on your resources.”

“They think I would kill her to save on alimony payments?”

“Many have been killed for far less.”

“Jesus, Diana, I didn't kill her. You have to know that.”

“Of course I know that.” Diana suddenly snapped around in her chair, as if she'd just realized she'd misplaced something important. “Where's Rod? Does he know what's happened?”

“Not yet. I couldn't reach him until about twenty minutes ago. I can't tell you how frustrating it was. I couldn't find anyone. You were in meetings; Rod was at
lunch. The only person I could get a hold of was Pam Goldenberg.”

“Who?”

“Her daughter is in day care with Amanda. We carpool together. I asked her if she'd mind keeping Amanda at her house until I get out of here.”

“Good thinking.”

“About time.”

Diana reached across the table to take her friend's hand. “Don't be too hard on yourself, Bonnie. It's not every day you stumble across the dead body of your husband's ex-wife.” She looked toward the ceiling. “How do you think Rod will take it?”

Bonnie shrugged, pushed herself out of her chair. “I guess that after the shock wears off, he'll be okay. It's Sam and Lauren I'm worried about. How are they going to cope with the fact their mother's been murdered? What will this do to them?”

Diana's voice grew timid. “Does this mean they'll be moving in with you?”

Bonnie paused. “What other choices are there?”

She closed her eyes, the images of Rod's two teenage children leaping into focus: Sam, sixteen years old and a student at Weston Secondary, very tall and very skinny, with shoulder-length hair newly dyed jet-black, and a tiny gold loop earring wrapped around his left nostril; Lauren, age fourteen, a mediocre student despite attending the best private girls' school in Newton, model-thin and doe-eyed, with her mother's head of luxuriant long reddish hair and full sensuous lips.

“They hate me,” Bonnie muttered.

“They don't hate you.”

“Yes, they do. And they barely know their half sister.”

Diana looked toward the inside window. “Here comes Rod.”

“Thank God.” Bonnie jumped to her feet, watching as the tall, handsome man who was her husband was directed by a young woman in a wrinkled blue uniform toward the
small interior office. Bonnie stepped toward the closed office door, hand reaching for the knob, then stopped dead.

“Tell me that's not who I think it is,” Diana said, voicing Bonnie's thoughts out loud.

“I don't believe it.”

“What's she doing here?”

The door opened. Rod stepped inside, the woman behind him momentarily detained by a young man who was thrusting something at her for her to sign, a crowd already gathering around her. An excited buzz filled the air.
Isn't that Marla Brenzelle?
a voice asked.
Is that really Marla Brenzelle?

Marla Brenzelle, my ass, Bonnie thought. I knew her in high school when she was plain old Marlene Brenzel, back in the days before plastic surgery gave her a new nose and a new set of boobs, before her teeth were capped and her tummy was tucked, before her thighs were lipo-suctioned and her hair was bleached the color of ripe corn. I knew her when the only people she could get to listen to her were those hapless souls she cornered in the hallway between classes, long before her daddy bought a television station and made her the star of her own television talk show. The only thing about Marlene Brenzel that hadn't changed in the intervening years was her brain, Bonnie thought. She still didn't have one.

“Oh, Rod, I'm so glad you're here.”

“I got here as fast as I could. Marla insisted on driving me.” Rod surrounded Bonnie with his arms. “What's going on?”

“They haven't told you?” Diana asked.

“Nobody's told me anything.” Rod spun around in Diana's direction, obviously startled by her presence. “What are
you
doing here?”

“I called her when I couldn't reach you,” Bonnie explained.

“I don't understand.”

“Maybe you should sit down,” Diana advised.

“What is it?”

“Joan is dead,” Bonnie said softly.

“What?” Rod grabbed for the back of a chair for support.

“She was murdered.”

Rod's normally pale complexion turned paler still. “Murdered! That's impossible. How…who…?”

“It looked like she'd been shot. They don't know who did it.”

Rod took a moment to digest her words. “What do you mean, it looked like she'd been shot? How would you know what it looked like?”

“I was there,” Bonnie answered. “I found her.”

“What do you mean you found her?” The confusion in Rod's voice carried out into the hall, attracting the attention of the former Marlene Brenzel, who stopped mid-autograph, her body swaying toward them.

“I don't want her in here,” Bonnie said.

Rod quickly stepped into the outer room, his hand reaching out, stopping on Marla's shoulder as he bent over to whisper something in her ear. Bonnie watched the woman's eyes fill with surprise, although her facial muscles didn't move. They probably couldn't, Bonnie thought.

“She's had so much plastic surgery, she looks like a quilt,” Diana muttered, echoing her thoughts. “Her chin is so pointed, she's liable to stab someone with her face.”

Bonnie had to bite down on her lower lip to keep from laughing, the laugh dying instantly in her throat as Rod walked back into the room. Rod's hair had started turning gray when he was in his late twenties. Now it actually made him look younger than his forty-one years, emphasizing the deep brown of his eyes, and giving the harder edges of his face—his long nose and his square jaw—a much-needed softness.

“Do the kids know?” he asked.

“Not yet.” Bonnie walked to his side, put her arm through his.

“What am I going to say to them?”

“Maybe I can help,” Captain Mahoney offered, emerging from the crowd around Marla Brenzelle and entering the small room, shutting the door behind him. “I'm Randall Mahoney, captain of the Detective Bureau. Detective Kritzic and I are the ones who escorted your wife down here.”

“Will you please tell me exactly what happened.”

Bonnie watched her husband's posture as he absorbed the news: his wide shoulders slumping forward with the confirmation that his ex-wife had indeed been shot and killed; his large hands dropping lifelessly to his sides with the revelation that Bonnie had agreed to meet with Joan that morning without telling him; his head shaking back and forth in denial when he learned that it was Bonnie who had called the police and then refused to cooperate further until she spoke with her lawyer.

“She's a goddamn corporate lawyer, for Christ's sake,” Rod whispered, not even trying to conceal his long-standing distaste for Diana. “Why did you call her?”

“Because I couldn't reach you. And I didn't know who else to call.”

Rod turned back to Captain Mahoney. “Surely you don't suspect my wife,” he stated more than asked.

“We're just trying to find out as much information as possible at this stage,” Captain Mahoney told him.

Bonnie heard something new in the policeman's voice, a subtle hint of conspiracy, as if what he was really saying to her husband was: We're both men; we know how these things work; we don't let our emotions get the better of us; now that you're here, maybe we can start making some progress.

“Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?” Captain Mahoney asked as Detective Kritzic opened the door and stepped inside.

“That's quite a crowd,” she muttered, clearly flushed by her brief encounter with celebrity.

“Mr. Wheeler, this is Detective Natalie Kritzic.”

Detective Kritzic nodded, self-consciously tucking an autographed picture of Marla Brenzelle behind her back. “I understand you're her director,” she said. “I'm a big fan.”

I'm in serious trouble, Bonnie thought. The world is in serious trouble.

Rod accepted the compliment graciously. “Whatever I can do to cooperate, I'll be happy to…”

“You're Joan Wheeler's ex-husband?” Captain Mahoney asked.

“Yes.”

“May I ask how long you were married?”

“Nine years.”

“And you divorced when?”

“Seven years ago.”

“Children?”

“A boy and a girl.” He looked to Bonnie for help.

“Sam is sixteen and Lauren is fourteen,” she offered.

Rod nodded. Everyone watched while Captain Mahoney jotted down this latest information.

“Did your ex-wife have any enemies that you know of, Mr. Wheeler?”

Rod shrugged. “My ex-wife wasn't exactly Miss Congeniality, Captain. She didn't have many friends. But enemies…I couldn't say.”

“When was the last time you saw your ex-wife, Mr. Wheeler?”

Rod gave the question a moment's thought. “Christmas, probably, when I took over some gifts for the kids.”

“And the last time you spoke to her on the phone?”

“I can't remember the last time I spoke to her on the phone.”

“And yet, according to your wife, she often called your house.”

“My ex-wife was an alcoholic, Captain Mahoney,” Rod said, as if this somehow explained everything.

“Were you on good terms with your ex-wife, Mr. Wheeler?”

“Don't answer that,” Diana advised from across the room, her voice quiet but forceful nonetheless. “It has no relevancy here.”

“I have no problem answering the question,” Rod informed Diana curtly. “No, of course we weren't on good terms. She was nuttier than a fruitcake.”