Page 25 of Again with Feeling

“Milk? Sugar? Lemon? It’s a Darjeeling that I just found.”

“No, thanks.”

She offered me a flash of a smile as she sat. “Excellent. I’d hate for you to ruin a good cuppa.”

“It’d be a different story if it were coffee, though.”

“Is that so?”

“Have you ever heard of a s’mores latte?”

With a quiet laugh, she shook her head. “I don’t think my doctor would approve.” She sipped her tea, watching me over the rim of the cup. And then she said, “You’re trying to learn what happened to Richard.”

“Yes.”

She was silent for what felt like a long time—no longer sipping her tea, but holding the cup in both hands as though trying to absorb its warmth. “It happened a long time ago,” she finally said. “It was a tragedy; Richard was a wonderful man. But tell me, Mr. Dane, why it matters now, after all these years? What good will come from opening old wounds?”

It was a strange metaphor, on top of a strange response. I wasn’t sure what I’d been expecting—outright hostility, perhaps, like Arlen. I probably wouldn’t have been too surprised bya distraught widow, complete with waterworks. But I hadn’t expected this composed, reserved, and clearly intelligent woman whose first response was to ask why I was bothering to try to find her husband’s killer. And I certainly hadn’t expected the question to be…genuine, because it was clear that Jane wanted an answer.

“There are a few reasons, I guess,” I said, trying to frame my response. “One is that Richard’s killer is still walking around out there. He might have hurt other people. He might still be hurting other people. And even if he hasn’t, he needs to be held accountable for what he did to Richard. I think that’s what the family of every victim wants.”

“Do you think so?” She seemed to contemplate her own question. “I don’t know. Revenge is a hollow thing, and punishment isn’t much better. We want what everyone wants, of course, which is for the awful thing never to have happened in the first place. But that’s impossible.” Her gaze focused on me again, as though she’d remembered me, and more crisply, she added, “Besides, this person might be dead. Might have died years ago. Or perhaps this person has lived an exemplary life. Perhaps they’ve gone on to do wonderful things, helped lots of people, and made the world a better place. Shouldn’t all of that be weighed in the balance?”

“That’s for a judge to decide. But Daniel Webster said justice is the ligament that holds a civilization together—I’m paraphrasing—and I think there’s something to that. As a society, we agree to protect each other, and when we fail in that, we have a responsibility to make sure that order is restored.”

“Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.”

“Something like that.”

“But is it your responsibility, Mr. Dane?”

“Maybe not. But I don’t know if there’s anybody else. From what I understand, the police already think they know whodid it. They’re convinced Richard was one of Vivienne’s first victims, but it doesn’t seem so clear cut to me.” I waited, but she didn’t take the bait. She sat there, watching me, her dark eyes unreadable. “Don’t you want justice for Richard? Aren’t you angry?”

She set the teacup down, and it rattled against the saucer. Then she clasped her hands in her lap. “I’ve spent the last thirty years being angry with Richard. That doesn’t make sense, I know. Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I should feel some sort of demand for justice. But I don’t. I feel tired, Mr. Dane. And old. And empty. I don’t know if I have it in me to feel that much anger again.”

Silence fell over the little house. Outside, in the distance, a lawnmower came to life.

“Ask your questions, Mr. Dane,” she said, and she took a tissue from her pocket and wiped her eyes. “I’d like to get this over with if you don’t mind.”

“Could we start with the night Richard disappeared?”

“We had a terrible fight. I left. When I came home, he was gone.”

“What did you fight about?”

She gave a bitter laugh. “We fought about what we always fought about: Richard’s stubbornness.”

I waited, but she didn’t expand on that. “I hate to ask this, but were you having an affair?”

“You’ve been talking to Candy.” But she sounded amused more than anything. “No, Mr. Dane. I wasn’t having an affair. And I imagine I know what your next question will be. I went to Neil’s house after the fight; by that point, he and Vivienne had divorced, but he was still my friend, and I didn’t have anywhere else to go. We weren’t sleeping together, just to be clear.”

“But you’re married to Neil now.”

“I understand the implication, Mr. Dane. Let me show you something.” She excused herself and returned a moment later with a framed photo.

The colors were oversaturated and faded, and to judge by the clothes, it was from sometime in the 1970s or 80s. There were four people in it: two men and two women. It was easy to make out a young Vivienne and Richard—when I saw them together in the photo, the likeness was even stronger, although the Richard in this photo was even younger than the one in the photo Vivienne’s attorney had sent me. The other two were clearly Neil, with his dark hair and dark eyes, and Jane. I guessed that the picture had been taken in a high school gym, because they sat on bleachers, Richard and Neil in basketball jerseys and skimpy shorts, their faces flushed and sweaty. Vivienne sat next to Neil in a sweater and slacks; she was one pearl necklace away from looking like a teenage June Cleaver. But Jane was perhaps the most surprising, radiant in makeup and a cheerleader uniform.

“We were friends,” Jane said, turning the photo so she could look at it. “Best friends. Of course, everything seems more powerful at that age, but we really were close. It’s hard to describe; have you ever had something like that? A group of people that you knew you belonged to, in a way that went beyond blood and bone?” A smile turned the corner of her mouth. “I believe young people today call it ‘found family.’”

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