Page 13 of A Talent for Murder

“Oh, I remember that,” I said. “It was just last summer.” I’d heard about it from my mother, who tells me about every tragic event that happens locally. She often begins the story by saying something along the lines of, “Can you believe it?” while looking at her phone, possibly assuming that I’m looking at her phone as well.

“Right, and it was ruled a suicide, so, technically, it’s not an unsolved homicide.”

“But it could have been a homicide,” I said.

“All I know is that it happened when my husband was there. Also, that was the conference he was coming from when I watched him from the window, when he...”

“Right,” I said. “I can definitely check it out, if you want? Just don’t get your hopes up. I know a few people at Shepaug, but I doubt they know anything that wasn’t in the newspapers. But maybe I’ll find out something. Is that what you want me to do? To help you?”

“I guess so. I don’t know. One part of me just thought that I could tell you what I found out and that you could tell me what you thought I should do.”

“I’m happy to do that, I guess, but I also think that you don’t have enough information yet. Like you said, if you accuse your husband of this and he has nothing to do with it, then it’ll probably wreck your marriage. And you said that’s not something you want to do...”

Martha was nodding.

“Where is your husband now?”

“He’s in North Carolina. Another math conference.”

“Are you worried he might—”

“Of course I’m worried. I’m petrified. If he comes back and I discover that some woman has been assaulted or killed there, then this is on me. I could have done something about it.”

“Well, there’s nothing you can do about it now. He’s already there. It’s not like you can call the FBI and they’ll arrest him because you found blood on his shirt.”

“Okay,” she said, nodding.

“When does he come back?”

“Tomorrow night, and then he’s home for the whole week and the next weekend. Monday he’s off to somewhere else, for a whole week, I think. Somewhere in New York State.”

“Okay. This is what I think we should do. First of all, keep an eye on any news stories from North Carolina—where is he exactly?”

“Chapel Hill.”

“If something happens there, then I think you need to go immediately to the police.”

“You’re right,” Martha said, her eyes fixed on me. I could tell that she just wanted to be told what to do, and now that I was doing that, she was staring at me the way a drowning person stares at a life raft.

“If nothing comes up, then I’ll do some of my own research, not just at Shepaug, but at the other places. And we’ll make a decision together. We’re not there yet, but maybe the accusation can come from me, or be anonymous.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Your job is to note anything suspicious when he comes back and let me know right away if you find anything. Does that work for you?”

She wiped at an eye and said, “Yes. So, you don’t think I’m crazy?”

“I don’t know yet,” I said, saying it in a way that I thought made it clear it was a joke. Her face fell, and I quickly added, “Just joking. No, I don’t think you’re crazy at all.”

“Do you think my husband’s a serial killer?”

Our waitress had returned, hovering around three feet from the table, and we both noticed her at the same time. I asked for the check.

“Oh my God,” Martha said. “You think she heard me?”

“She probably thought we were talking about some TV show. So You Think Your Husband’s a Serial Killer.”

Martha laughed. “Probably. So, do you?”

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