‘How long did you argue?’ Stride asked.
‘I have no idea. Ten minutes? Fifteen? I had some wine.’
‘Even though you were feeling sick?’
‘Vomiting has a way of improving your outlook,’ Janine replied.
‘Then what?’
‘I took a shower.’
‘Where is the shower located in the house?’ Stride asked.
‘The lowest level, off the master bedroom. Jay and I have separate bathrooms. I built mine as something of a spa and retreat. Husbands have man caves. I have my bathroom.’
‘And when you got out?’
‘I noticed something strange.’
‘What was that?’ Stride asked.
‘The drawers of the jewelry case in the bedroom were open. I hadn’t left them that way. When I looked, several expensive pieces of jewelry were gone. I called for Jay but got no answer. I went back upstairs, and that was when I found him.’
It wasn’t a convincing story, but she told it as if it were gospel.
‘So you’re saying that in the time you were in the shower, someone came into the house, shot and killed your husband, walked down two levels, found your bedroom, stole jewelry, and then escaped.’
‘That’s correct,’ Janine said.
‘You must take long showers,’ Stride said without humor.
‘In fact, I do.’
‘How long?’
‘I didn’t time myself, Lieutenant. I sat in the spray for a long time.’
‘Did you hear anything? Did you hear the gunshot?’
‘No.’
‘What did you do when you found Jay’s body?’ Stride asked.
‘I was in shock,’ Janine replied. ‘The front door was open. I ran to the doorway, and I heard the noise of a car on the streets below us, but that’s all. I didn’t see anyone or anything.’
‘What next? Take me through it.’
‘I confirmed that Jay was dead, although the wound made that obvious.’
‘And then you dialed 911?’
Janine hesitated. ‘I believe some time passed.’
‘Some time? How much time?’
‘Again, I don’t know. There are no clocks in my house. I’m not interested in what time it is when I’m home. I sat on the sofa and stared at Jay. As I say, I was in shock. When I was myself again, I called the police.’
‘And Mr. Gale,’ Stride said.
‘Yes, that’s correct.’
‘Anybody else? Neighbors? Friends?’
‘No.’
‘Did you go anywhere? Did you leave the house?’
‘No.’
Some time. Time enough to hide a gun. Time enough to hide jewelry. Time enough to craft a story.
‘Do you own a gun, Dr. Snow?’
‘No, I don’t,’ she replied.
‘What about your husband?’
‘He used to, but I asked him to get rid of it when we got married. I didn’t like the idea of a gun in the house.’
‘What about enemies? Threats? Either directed at you or your husband.’
Janine shrugged. ‘You know who Jay was. The way he was. He collected enemies like stamps.’
‘Where are your clothes?’ Stride asked.
‘Excuse me?’
‘The clothes you wore home from the party. Where are they?’
‘In the washing machine.’
‘You already washed your clothes?’
‘Having thrown up on them? Yes.’
‘I would have pegged you for more of a “dry-cleaning only” kind of woman, Dr. Snow.’
‘In Dallas? Maybe. In Duluth in January? No.’
She spoke down to him with all the superiority and impatience of a surgeon doing rounds with her residents.
‘Was Jay abusive?’ Stride asked. ‘Did he ever hit you?’
Gale broke in sharply. ‘Enough of that, Lieutenant. We’re not discussing their relationship.’
‘It’s all right, Archie,’ Janine added calmly. ‘No, he wasn’t physically abusive. Jay was many things, but he never touched me.’
Stride watched her face, expecting a crack in her facade. Instead, she was calm and deliberate.
‘Is there anything else you want to tell me?’ he asked.
‘I think that’s everything.’
He leaned closer and lowered his voice. ‘Janine, if something happened between the two of you — if there was a fight, if things got out of hand — the best thing is to tell me now. We can work things out if we know the truth. Lying only makes it worse.’
Gale opened his mouth again, but Janine held up her hand and silenced him with the tiniest smile. Her robe nudged forward, offering a small V of bare skin. Damp blond hair caressed her face. He smelled her soap and shampoo.
‘I’ve already told you the truth, Jonathan,’ she said. ‘I didn’t shoot my husband. It wasn’t me.’
3
‘She did it,’ Carol Marlowe announced to her husband.
Howard Marlowe didn’t hear his wife at first. His eyes were glued to the Gateway monitor on his desk, where he’d zoomed in on a photo of Janine Snow on the screen. Finally, he glanced at Carol, who’d wandered into his basement office from the laundry room in her slippers.
‘What?’ he said, distracted.
‘That rich doctor. She killed her husband. That’s what you’re looking at, aren’t you? More stories about her? You haven’t talked about anything else for days.’
Howard shrugged defensively. Carol was right, but he wasn’t going to say so. His mouse was poised to close the window on his screen if she came closer. ‘You don’t know that she killed him. Nobody knows what happened. She says she’s innocent.’
Carol flopped down on the threadbare sofa on the other side of the room, underneath posters of the Great Wall of China and the statues of Easter Island. Places he’d never been but had always wanted to visit. His wife pulled out an emery board and worked on her fingernails. ‘Do you think she’d admit it if she were guilty?’
‘No,’ he acknowledged.
‘Well, there you go. Everyone at Super One is talking about her. They all think she killed him.’
Super One was a local grocery store. Carol had worked there as a checker since she was in high school. They’d met at the store when Howard tried to take fifteen items down the ten-items-or-less aisle, and Carol refused to let him through.
He found himself getting annoyed. ‘Oh, so the detectives at the store have it figured out. I’ll call the police and tell them you cracked the case.’
Carol rolled her eyes. ‘Come on, Howard. A mysterious stranger sneaks in while Dr. Perfect is in the shower? He blows away her husband and escapes? She must think we’re idiots.’ She leaned forward and lowered her voice. ‘It just goes to show you, a rich white doctor marrying a black man like that? Nothing good is going to come of it.’
‘Don’t talk like that,’ Howard snapped. ‘That’s offensive.’
‘I’m just saying what everyone is thinking.’
‘Well, don’t say it.’
‘Whatever.’ Carol shrugged and kept filing her nails. The drier tumbled in another part of the basement, and he heard a zipper banging on the metal drum.
His wife wore a long-sleeved Minnesota Vikings T-shirt and gray sweatpants. She always wore loose clothes to cover the extra ten pounds she complained about. Her mousy brown hair was pushed back behind her ears. She grabbed a tissue to blow her nose, which was a little too large for the rest of her face. Her eyes were brown, and her winter-pale skin sported a few freckles.
‘I booked the Dells for our vacation in July,’ she told him.