Still Waters Read Free Page A

“You’re quite right, Detective. I’m not family.”
    â€œReally,” Miranda said, realizing her disparaging comment had been overheard. The striking young woman was one of those people defined by style. Someone you had trouble imagining with a home life or childhood memories. A prosperous self-reliant urban adult of purposefully indeterminate age.
    Somewhere between twenty-six and thirty-two.
    She had the subdued flare of a woman who read
Vogue
to check for mistakes, Miranda thought. She probably subscribed to
Architectural Digest
, never travelled by bus, and arrived early at the dentist’s so she could read
Cosmopolitan
.
    Miranda brushed imaginary creases from her skirt and straightened her shoulders inside her jacket. She glanced at Morgan. He shrugged almost imperceptibly.
    â€œI take it you knew the deceased,” Miranda declared too formally as she gazed into the woman’s eyes, searching for personality.
    â€œYes, I did,” said the woman. Then, as if she were ordering a martini, she added, “I was his mistress. I still am, I suppose.” The woman smiled. “Wives become widows. There’s no past tense for a mistress.”
    Mattress, thought Morgan, but said nothing. She was an interesting anomaly, not because she was the mistress of a flaccid man with a comb-over but because she obviously didn’t need to be. She was addressing Miranda. He turned away. There was a jousting so subtle neither woman seemed aware of it, and it didn’t include him.
    â€œGriffin didn’t like
mistress
,” the woman said. “I rather like it myself.
Lover
is just too depressing.”
    â€œWas he depressed?” Miranda asked with a hint of aggression.
    â€œWhy, because he killed himself? He wasn’t a man to die from excessive emotion.” She paused. “From business perhaps. He never talked about business.”
    She made it sound like suicide could have been a tactical ploy.
    â€œIt’s unexpected, if that’s what you mean,” she continued. “But not surprising. Robert was a very secretive man, but he could be quite impulsive.”
    The woman studied the black plastic bag, tracing the zipper line as if it were a wound. Her features softened, then she glanced up directly into Miranda’s eyes, her dispassionate aplomb instantly restored. For a moment Miranda felt an unnerving bond between them.
    â€œWith some people, you know, you can’t really tell,” said the woman.
    â€œWhat?” Morgan asked. “If they’re dead?”
    â€œWhether they’re depressed,” she said. “I suppose he might have been.” She smiled as if forgiving herself for a minor oversight.
    Miranda looked at her quizzically. The woman didn’t seem concerned about a display of grief. Perhaps that would come later. Perhaps, more ominously, she had dealt with it already. Or sadly, thought Miranda, she felt nothing at all.
    â€œDo you have access to the house?” Miranda asked.
    â€œDo you mean, have I keys? Yes, of course.”
    â€œThen perhaps we could look inside,” said Morgan.
    â€œOf course,” said the woman. Touching Miranda on the arm, she casually amended her assessment of the victim’s mental stability. “He sometimes took Valium.”
    â€œSometimes?” said Miranda. “It’s not an occasional drug.”
    â€œHe said he had trouble sleeping.”
    â€œAnd did he?”
    â€œWe didn’t sleep together, Detective. I’m not his widow.” She seemed vaguely amused by her own witticism. “My name is Eleanor Drummond.” She held her hand out to Miranda, then Morgan.
    The woman was gracious without warmth, as if they were Jehovah’s Witnesses and she a lapsed Catholic. Some people offered their names as an invitation, but with her it seemed more like a shield or a disguise.
    They introduced themselves in turn, both fully aware Robert Griffin’s