"I'm not sure. He had a full gun kit, though. He used to sit here"-- she pointed to the dining room table--"at night, after work, cleaning and oiling it. He took better care of the gun than me. I don't think he ever fired it, so what was the point?"
"And he took the gun when you separated?"
"Damn right he did."
"Why would a civil servant need a gun?"
"It was . . . it was a token of his flowering self-importance. No particular reason . . . no threat or anything, if that's what you're looking for."
"I'm not sure what you're getting at."
"It's not complicated, Mr. Drummond. He believed he had become noteworthy enough that somebody might want to hurt or kill him. He was very proud of that thought. That . . . weapon . . . that was his affirmation." She added, "You know how men are with guns--like penises."
Despite this assault on my gender--with its embarrassing ring of truth--this had turned into a very interesting line of discussion, but Bian asked, "How long were you married, Mrs. Daniels?"
"Thirty-three years."
"Long time. When were you divorced?"
"We legally separated four years ago. The divorce finalized a year later."
"Where are they now?" Initially I was annoyed by this diversion from more promising territory into what struck me as mundane familial stuff--then I realized why Bian was inquiring. The children also were suspects. She added nicely, "If I'm not being too nosy."
"Elizabeth is a senior at Georgetown," Theresa informed us. "She lives here, at home. She commutes. Saves money."
"And Jack?"
"Jack dropped out of school two years ago. He's in Florida, and has . . . let's say Jack's working through a few problems."
Bian glanced in my direction. "Would it be too rude of me to ask what kind of problems?"
"Well, the . . . the divorce . . . You have to understand, Jack was three years younger than his sister. Also he's a boy, he looked up to his father, and . . . the circumstances were . . ." She recognized she was saying more than we needed or possibly wanted to hear, and quickly concluded, "There were a few school problems . . . drugs, a few legal scrapes. He's now in a special center outside of Tampa."
I said, "It's a mere formality, but I have to ask you something." There are no formalities in criminal investigations, incidentally.
She stared at me without comment.
"Can you think of anyone who would want or who would benefit from Cliff being dead?"
"You bet I can." She looked me in the eye. "Me--I wanted that bastard deader than a doornail." She inquired, after a moment, "Would you happen to know if he kept up his insurance payments? The kids are beneficiaries. We could sure as hell use the money."
Bian coughed.
A moment passed during which Theresa and I never broke eye contact. I said, "You mentioned coffee."
This seemed to amuse her and she chuckled. "I was just making a pot. Join me in the kitchen. It wouldn't be good for your careers if your key suspect escaped out the window."
"You're not a suspect, Mrs. Daniels." Yet.
There was a long silence, then she said, "Don't be so sure of yourself."
CHAPTER EIGHT
On that auspicious note, we rose and followed her through the dining room and into the kitchen, essentially a narrow strip, about six feet in length and three feet in width, with old, scarred white cabinetry on both sides. The floor was a checkerboard of scuffed black-and-white vinyl squares, and the counters were some kind of awful lime green plasterboard. Aside from a few appliances and the occupants, since about 1950 the kitchen looked frozen in time.
We all three somehow shuffled and squeezed into the narrow space. Theresa stood by the sink where an asthmatic drip coffeemaker coughed and spit its last drops into a dungy glass beaker. I counted three plants--all withered into gnarled brown papyrus, which seemed to me to be appropriate decorations for the house, and its owner.
Theresa asked us, "Do either of you take cream or sugar?"
"Both, please," I replied. Bian and I traded uneasy glances. I mean, this woman had just been notified that the man she had shared her life with for thirty-three years--slept with, bred and raised two children with--now was in the morgue. No, I hadn't expected her to wail or yank her hair or anything. But