discovering her husband’s asphyxiated body in their small garage.
My hero firefighter was dead. As I described the baby pink color of James’s corpse, I broke down again. Matt handed me a handkerchief then put his arm around me. When I finished getting his leather jacket good and wet, I began telling him what happened after the police arrived.
“An army of them tramped all through the Noonans’ home,” I said. “Detectives interviewed Val and me in separate rooms, and I told them that I believed James was murdered.”
“Murdered? Why?”
“That’s what the detectives wanted to know.”
“And?”
“James was killed because of what he knew about Bigsby Brewer’s death. I’m sure of it.”
“What did he know?”
“James wouldn’t tell me. That’s why I went to see him. He was supposed to be at the pub, but he never showed. So I asked Val to help me try to coax the truth out of him . . . and I know there’s a truth. Michael Quinn even confirmed it.”
Matt looked about as convinced as those guys with the gold shields.
“I told the detectives to speak with the captain. They wrote his name down in their notebooks, assured me they’d follow up in the morning, but I don’t know . . .” I shook my head.
“What’s the matter, Clare? The cops will follow up.”
“It’s just that . . . despite my assuring them that James was murdered, they began looking hard for a suicide note, and unfortunately they found one—in Val’s e-mail box.”
“What did it say?”
“Five words. ‘I am so sorry. Good-bye.’ It was a text message sent from James’s phone earlier in the evening.”
“That’s it?”
“Anyone could have written it! Especially if James had texted Val in the past. The addresses would be right there, stored inside his phone!”
“Did you tell the cops?”
“Yes,” I said, “but I don’t think they believed me. Val broke down at the sight of the message, sobbed openly about her husband’s depression; his erratic behavior and mood swings; how James was mourning the death of his best friend, Bigsby Brewer; how hard he’d taken the loss . . .”
I met Matt’s eyes. “Bigsby was a hero to me, too. He went with James into that collapsing caffè, helped save your mom and Enzo.”
I paused to gulp more coffee (and cry a little more).
“Here.” Matt pressed a second handkerchief into my hands (the first one he’d given me was already soaked).
With frustration I swiped at my uncontrollable waterfall. “Sorry,” I said.
“Don’t be. After your call, I laid in a supply.” He pulled open the right side of his jacket, the inside pocket was bulging with folded handkerchiefs.
I would have burst out laughing. But it struck me as touching and I started crying all over again.
“Oh, boy . . .” Matt held on to me.
“I don’t believe that lame text message,” I said against his jacket. “The killer sent it. I’m sure of it.”
“I don’t know, Clare . . . How can you be?”
“The beer on the kitchen table.” I leaned back, finally dried my eyes. “James hated beer. If he wanted to get drunk one last time, he had a four-foot rack of good wine he could have guzzled instead.”
“People who decide to off themselves do irrational things.”
“Right. So if you were going to end it all, you would add arsenic to an espresso made from freshly roasted Yirgacheffe peaberries? Or a cup of green tea brewed from a grocery store box?”
Matt scratched the back of his head. “I see your point.”
“And . . . there’s something else . . . As I was sitting here, waiting for you, before I nodded off?”
“What?”
“I remembered: At the bake sale in Union Square Park, I met this club guy, Dean Tassos, a ‘friend’ of Val’s, only he was acting like more than a friend: fawning words, lingering touches, sweet looks—”
“Where are you going with this?”
“Just listen: Dean called Val while she and I were at the pub. She didn’t want me to hear their conversation so she took the call in the ladies’ room.”
“And how do you know it was Tassos?” Matt asked.
“The ring tone—‘You Spin Me Right Round’ . . . Val had it set especially for him, and immediately after Dean calls her, she decides her husband isn’t going to show and asks me to give her a ride home.”
“So?”
“So what if Dean called Val to tell her the deed was done?”
“Come on, Clare. You’re starting to suspect conspiracies 24/7.”
“It makes perfect sense: Dean calls Val to tell her that James is dead.