Chapter 29

We – me, Cinda, and Beth – sat in silence for a while, sipping our tea and trying to get back to something like a normal way of looking at the world. Beth and I had gotten so wet, sitting out in the rain, that we'd not get completely dry till we got home, but after a while we at least weren't freezing.

It was while we were there, in the thick silence waiting for the detectives to knock on the door for our statements, that I heard a ruckus outside. A cop's voice rose, and then a female voice, which didn't sound like a cop ... though how I could tell I didn't know. Maybe I couldn't tell; maybe I was just assigning things randomly, without any basis in fact.

Suddenly Cinda's front door banged open, and the altercation was very clear. It was a cop's voice, all right – that tone of authority was unmistakable. And the other voice wasn't a cop's – it was Cecelia's, and she was not pleased.

I was on my feet, looking toward the door. Cecelia stood there, just inside, looking back out, and up, at a cop who had to be some inches over six feet. She had her fists on her hips, and her head tilted back to look the cop in the face. "I have advised you, sir, that I shall see my husband. That is not a negotiable matter; it is not a demand; it is a fact, which it would behoove you to accede to. If you have a problem with this, do as I requested – contact Sgt. Delgado, and if he authorizes you to expel me from these premises, I shall go quietly. Until then, sir, you are in peril of my wrath if you do not leave me alone."

She was magnificent. She whirled from the officer as though he had ceased to exist, the black leather trench coat – this time buttoned and belted – swirling around her feet. "Darvin, I called Rudy, and came as soon as God released me."

In spite of everything I couldn't help grinning. "Come on in, C – clearly I can't keep you out."

She reached behind her and slapped the door to – and I'm not entirely sure that she wasn't hoping to hit the cop in the nose. She didn't – he stepped back – and when she heard it thump closed she turned back and flipped the deadbolt. It had never occurred to me to do so. I'd had things on my mind.

The uproar had even gotten Beth's attention, and she was standing beside me, just to my right, still wrapped in her blanket. She was so close we were almost touching, and I realized that she was nearly as tall as I was. I didn't look to check, but I guessed she'd be about Cecelia's height, 5'7". Her thicker build, along with winter clothing, had fooled me.

I had to say something, so I did. "Rather than try to do everything according to protocol, whatever the protocol might be, I'll just say this. Cecelia, this is Beth Martinson here in the blanket, and Cinda Barelas in the sweater. Beth, Cinda, this is my wife, Cecelia."

Cinda murmured something, and Beth said, "Pleased to meet you." Cecelia nodded in acknowledgement, and looked straight at me.

"Are you all right, Darvin?"

"I'm fine. Beth's the one you oughta worry about."

She glared at me for a moment, and then her face softened. "My concern is, and must be, for you, my husband, before anything else. But you're right – I have been rude. My apologies, Ms. Barelas, Ms. Martinson." She paused for a second, and then resumed on another subject. "Since I have foisted myself upon this gathering, may I please hang my coat somewhere?"

Cinda moved forward. "Of course, Mrs. Carpenter. I'm sorry – it's been a bad day."

Cecelia's voice was soft now. "You are, Ms. Barelas, a mistress of understatement; no doubt it is inadvertent, but you have uttered a sentence worthy of the driest Britisher." She undid the belt of the trench coat, and began unbuttoning it. "I am sorry for your trouble, and – if it is not misplaced compassion – for your loss."

"Thank you, Mrs. Carpenter," said Cinda. She took Cecelia's coat and headed off for the bedroom; the trench coat wasn't soaked and didn't need to drip into the bathtub.

Cecelia was wearing all black – black cowboy boots, which had water beaded on them just now; black jeans; and a black silk blouse with very thin white accents on the collar and cuffs. It's one of the few blouses she owns which isn't three sizes too big, and it and the close-fitting jeans made it clear how thin she is. Even with the distraction of the shooting and its aftermath, I noticed what Cecelia had on. She stepped forward and kissed me on the mouth, and then turned to Beth. "Ms. Martinson, I am so sorry you had to shoot that horrid creature. I do not know in detail what help my husband has offered, but to it I wish to add that anytime you need someone to talk to, I – though I am no counselor – will be available to you."

"I..." Beth's voice was shaky, and she started again. "I appreciate it, Mrs. Carpenter. I don't know ... I need to see how things go..."

"That is perfectly understandable. I have no wish to obtrude myself upon you; if you find sufficient aid elsewhere, or are uncomfortable calling upon a stranger, I will understand and will applaud whatever course you pursue toward recovery. If the best thing I can do for you is to stand aside, then that is what I shall do – though I must admit that I will pray for you, regardless of everything else."

"Thank you." That was all Beth got out, and she broke down again. I got my arm around her shoulders, and Cecelia folded us both in. Formal she may be, but my wife knows exactly when to abandon her natural reticence and let her inner heart show.

It was a long afternoon, and a long evening. Long after the ambulance had carried the body away, the police were still examining the scene, talking to neighbors, and interviewing the three of us who, since we were already there, remained in Cinda's apartment. They spoke to Cinda twice that I know of, and me three times, and once they got around to us they were at Beth more or less continuously. Cecelia took over the kitchen, so smoothly that it was as though it were an automatic device, disgorging hot tea and coffee and sandwiches without, it seemed, any human intervention. Rudy showed up, and wiggled his way through the layers of police until he got into the apartment. By now it was getting crowded – me, Cinda, Beth, Cecelia, and various investigating officers, plus Rudy. I was tired, Cinda was getting fed up, and Beth was staggering with exhaustion. She'd cried herself out, for the day at least, and was running on sheer willpower.

Finally I'd had enough, and said to a detective who was dragging her off to the bedroom for yet another interview, "Hey, can't you leave the lady rest for a bit?"

"It's part of the investigation, sir."

"Yeah, I know – I'm not an idiot. But this lady's worn plumb out, and if you hit her with a pillow she'd break into a million pieces. Just leave her alone, huh?"

"Sir, we have to investigate the shooting—"

"Investigate, yes. Badger a hurting lady, no."

"Sir—"

"Leave it." That was Rudy's voice, coming from the sofa.

"Sergeant, with all due respect, I—"

"Don't tell me how much you respect me when you're defying me." Rudy got off the sofa, and I saw something I'd only seen once or twice before. He's not a big guy, somewhat shorter than I am, and stocky, but he seemed to fill the room. "I said leave it. You can interview Ms. Martinson another time. But if you still need to interview her after all the questioning you've done, you're not much of a cop."

The detective gulped. "Yes, sir."

"Now go do something useful – outside."

And that was that. The detective went, and within 15 minutes or so all the cops were outside, leaving us with the word that we were all free to go. I dropped onto the sofa beside Beth, not quite touching her. She leaned her head against the back of the sofa and drew in a jagged breath. "Thank you, Sgt. Delgado."