Page 38 of A Talent for Murder

When I stepped into his office, we did a slightly awkward dance that involved a kiss on the cheek and a half hug. “Everything okay?” he said, stepping back. We looked at one another. He was basically unchanged since I’d last seen him, his brown hair a little shorter, eyes a little wearier, but wearing his usual uniform of a tweed blazer over old jeans. He’d referred to his style once as “dissolute poet.”

“I’m fine,” I said. “But I think I might have a job for you, if you’re interested.”

We moved to separate sides of his desk. The office coloring was beige and there were built-in fluorescent lights in the dropped ceiling. I was looking around, and Henry said, “New office. My last one blew up with me in it.”

“I remember. This new one is...”

“Maybe it needs some new paint.”

“Yes.”

“It’s nice to see you in person,” I said, not willing to get down to business just yet. Maybe I didn’t want to say the words about my friend Martha out loud. I knew it made no difference, but I still wasn’t quite ready.

“Thank you for all the letters. They make me feel like I’m living in a different, better time.”

“We might be the last letter writers on planet earth.”

“We might be.”

“How are David and Sharon?”

“My mom fell and broke a hip about six months ago—I probably wrote and told you that already—and now she’s much better but likely a pill addict. David’s just about the same. I’ve been reading him Anne Sexton poems. He talks about you.”

I saw a slight flush of red cross his cheeks. He admired my father a lot, despite having met him on several occasions. “What does he think of Anne Sexton?” he said.

“He says she keeps his attention, which is his highest praise. And, oh, he met her once, but that’s not that surprising, because he’s met everyone.”

“Did you read him my limerick?”

I laughed and told him I hadn’t, at least not yet. Henry had once been an aspiring poet, but these days he only wrote limericks. Most of his letters included at least one.

“I’m glad you’re all doing well,” he said. “I had this horrible feeling when you buzzed up that you were going to tell me that someone died.”

“Someone has died,” I said. “No one you know, but that’s why I’m here.”

“Okay,” he said.

“Her name was Martha Ratliff. Do you have a moment to hear the entire story?”

I saw him hesitate briefly, then say, “Yeah, tell me all about it. I’m free.”

I told him all about it. How Martha had come to me with a suspicion that her husband might be responsible for up to five murders across the country. How we’d researched those deaths, together, finding some evidence that suggested Alan had most likely been responsible, but not enough evidence to know for sure. And then how I’d gone to a conference in Saratoga Springs to at least look at Alan, to follow him, see if I could find out anything.

“Did you think you’d look at him and know the truth?”

“A little bit,” I said. “Foolish, I know.”

“So what did you think?”

“Let me tell you another story first. Back when I first met Martha, she began dating one of the adjunct professors at our school. He was this very good-looking guy, and it was obvious to me, but not immediately to Martha, that he was bad news. He got her into all sorts of sexual things she was uncomfortable with. She became a project for him, someone he could manipulate and change. It was all a game to him. He was a sociopath, or maybe just a sadist. I helped her get out of the relationship.”

“And you’re telling me about this guy now...”

“Because he was there at the conference in Saratoga. Because he was following Alan as well. And now I have a theory.”

“Okay.”

“It sounds ridiculous, I know, but I think he’s killing the women.”

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