Goodnight Nobody Read Free Page A

dun-colored mustache. He'd been a member of the New York City Police Department until September 11, when he'd traded high crime and the threat of terrorism for sleepy little Upchurch, where a big day might involve writing a speeding ticket or two, rousting teenagers from the local lovers' lane, and chasing down one of Lois Kenneally's champion corgis, who had a tendency to wander. Stan and I had gotten to know each other during my first six weeks in Upchurch, when, thanks to my failure to master the extremely expensive and very sensitive alarm system, he'd been out to my house on Liberty Lane almost every other day.
    "We just need to ask you a few more questions," Stan said.
    "What else?" I asked, trying to sound like my heart wasn't in my throat, like I wasn't still shaking, like I couldn't feel the crumpled note in my pocket bearing my former crush's phone number swelling and throbbing like a tumor. I'd thought about going to the bathroom and flushing it down the toilet. But what if it got stuck? Then I'd imagined tearing it into shreds and eating it. But what if I got sick? Better to just wait it out. I shifted in my seat, imagining I could hear the paper crackle when I moved.
    In the three hours since I'd staggered out of Kitty Cavanaugh's house, I'd called Gracie, my babysitter, to come take the kids home in my minivan. Then I'd been driven to the police station, where I'd filled out my statement and had my fingerprints taken. I'd explained three different times to three separate people why my fingerprints were on the knife's handle. My interrogators had included one cop who'd grunted in disgust and said, "Geez, lady, don't you watch CSI ?" I'd widened my eyes and said, "Is it on Noggin? Because if it isn't, probably not."
    I pulled on the beaded barrettes that were holding my bangs out of my eyes. Mr. Steven had sold me on layers, but because he'd declined moving into my house and styling my hair each morning, I always had at least two inches of oh-so-trendy choppy bangs hanging in my eyes any given moment. As I reclipped them, I inquired, "Do I need a lawyer?"
    Stan shrugged. "Why would you need a lawyer? You're a witness, not a suspect. You don't have anything to hide."
    "Or do I?" I intoned. Stannie stared at me. "Just kidding," I said. Stan's face fell. "Please. Like I've got time to go around plotting murders. My husband's been in California for a week. I've barely got time to empty the dishwasher." I looked at my watch, hit redial on my cell phone again, and hung up without leaving a message when Ben's voice mail answered. I'd already left half a dozen messages--none of which he'd returned--that were variations on the pertinent theme: I stopped by Kitty Cavanaugh's house and found her dead on the kitchen floor with a knife sticking out of her back. Now I'm filling out a statement at the police station. Please call. Please come home. Please call me and come home as soon as you can.
    My husband was out in Los Angeles for some big Democratic confab, soliciting new clients for his political consulting firm. If you've lived anywhere in the Northeast for any of the past three election cycles and seen an ad where one of the candidates appears in jiggling slow motion, or in grainy mug-shot black-and-white looking like he might have little boys' body parts stashed in the basement freezer, chances are you've seen Ben's work. He's got two senators, three representatives, the governor of Massachusetts, and the United States attorney general as satisfied clients, the word "hotshot" permanently preceding his title, and more than enough money to keep the five of us safely ensconced in this bedroom community forty-five minutes outside of Manhattan, where the least expensive house costs more than a million dollars, where all the cars have four-wheel drive, and where I haven't made even a single friend.
    I shifted on the chair again as the elementary school crossing guard consulted with a fellow in blue polyester, who I was pretty