Page 39 of Go Home
“Like Whitman’s wife.”
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The professor’s wife – who preferred to be called Dr.Nardone – served them lapsang in a steamy glass summerhouse, which was attached to a narrow, clapboarded home with a Dutch gabled roof.Like the house, the bone china teacups, and Dr.Nardone herself, everything was elegantly understated.
“How are the children taking it?”Kate asked, noticing none of the usual traces of an eight-year-old and an eleven-year-old: no balls, uncapped coloring pens, random socks, half-completed jigsaws.Were Whitman’s daughters understated, too?
“They’re at my sister’s,” Dr.Nardone said.“They don’t know yet.I’m going to tell them in the morning.”
Kate found that surprising.Wouldn’t Whitman’s wife want to keep the girls with her?What if they found out that their father was dead when they were miles away from their mom, from their familiar beds and favorite toys?It wasn’t her business to judge; people handled shock and grief in myriad different ways.But this particular way seemed a little… detached.
“Dr.Nardone, we’re trying to find out more about the months leading up to your husband’s death.Specifically, if anyone had a motive for murdering him.”
“Oh, I should think so,” Dr.Nardone replied simply.“Don’t you?I mean, he made a profession out of baiting people for whom faith was an unquestionable reality.That was a perilous path.A rather stupid, mulish path.”
She wasn’t detached now.Her dark eyes flashed, and she sounded angry.But perhaps that was just one of the stages of grief.
“There was something frankly adolescent about the way Alan tried to argue with everyone.You know, like those people who invite the Mormon kids into their homes so they can outwit them?What does it prove?That you’re the cleverest?Have a gold star!I’m sorry to say it, but there could be something quite cruel about Alan, and of course, that became very clear when…” Her lip trembled, and she tried to hide it by taking a sip of tea.
“I’m sorry.I’m – “.
She simply stopped speaking.Out of words.Or the feelings behind them.They sat with the silence for a while, as Dr.Nardone twisted the wedding ring around her finger and gazed towards the garden.
“Can you recall any specific threats to his life or person?”Kate asked, after a decent interval.
“Yes, obviously, the lectures had to be canceled because there was a threat.”She noticed the look that passed between Kate and Marcus.“What’s the matter, didn’t you know?”
“The Dean told us they were canceled for fire-safety reasons.”
Dr.Nardone gave a mirthless laugh.“They resolved those issues quite swiftly.You’re either misled, or you’vebeenmisled.There was a threat.Threats, I should say.”
“What did they say?”
“Alan didn’t discuss them with me.And I didn’t ask.But I wasn’t surprised.My husband goaded people.And he could be callous.Even his adoring students knew that.”
“Who else knew about the threats?”Marcus asked.
“I honestly wouldn’t know, Agent Reid.My husband and I led quite separate lives.”
Back at the office, they reviewed the day, discussed priorities for tomorrow.Kate was beyond tired, but she actually feared the prospect of sleep.The more exhausted she was, the stronger the grip that the nightmares had over her.A psychologist, specialist in complex PTSD, had explained it to her: something to do with REM cycles and competing levels of dopamine and histamine.It didn’t really matter to her what the mechanism was; it mattered that the dreams seemed extra-real, and that it was difficult to wake from them.Tiredness brought Denton so close she could smell him.She could only trust that one day, things would be different.That had been the only useful thing the psych said to her.This won’t last forever.
“No luck?”she asked, as Marcus put the phone down.
“I think the Dean of Brantley is avoiding us.He probably guesses we’ll have found out about the threats.”
“But why lie to us?”
“Covering his back,” Marcus said, leaning back in his chair.“He knew about the death threats and beyond canceling the lectures, maybe he didn’t do enough to protect Whitman.Or he worries he didn’t.What about Douglas Cove’s answer to theBoston Globe?”
“The editor ofThe Cove Trovesaid there was nothing out of the ordinary.A spate of strongly worded letters in January and February.Then there was a hoo-hah about an ugly new mural on the side of the old library.And everyone forgot Father Tom’s Christmas message.”
“But maybe someone didn’t.”
“Hmm.I got the feeling Whitman’s wife was onto something.”
“In what way?”
“She started saying something.About a time when he went too far.Then she stopped herself, and the conversation moved on.She also mentioned his students, something about them knowing how callous he could be.I wish I’d pressed her further.If I hadn’t been so tired…”
