Red didn’t answer. Just hurried toward her, and she did the same. They met on the grass between the path and his table, and she threw herself into his arms, then wept as though she’d been keeping it all bottled inside until she saw him.
He held her, hoping his arms around her were some comfort, though how could they be? She’d just lost her husband. What could possibly erase the pain?
Her body shook, the tremors cutting through him, then slowing as she caught her breath, calmed her shaking, and finally stepped back out of the circle of his arms.
It took all his strength not to draw her back in. He told himself that he needed comfort, too. But it was more than that. He needed her. He always had. But oh, God, not like this. Never like this.
“You called,” she said, her eyes meeting his. “I tried to text back but I didn’t have a signal, and I was going to call you back as soon as I got home. But then the officer was waiting in the driveway and—and—”
“I know. Jo, I know.”
Tears flowed, and she clutched his hands, searching his face. “Then it’s true? Mel’s really dead?”
“I’m so sorry. Yes, it’s true.”
Chapter Three
Red’s words hit me with the force of an anvil. Stupid, I suppose. After all, I’d come home schlepping groceries only to find a police cruiser in my driveway, along with the horrible news that my husband was dead.
I believed them, but at the same time, maybe I hadn’t. Maybe I’d just been numb, and Red’s words have sent reality crashing down on me.
I hug myself, feeling lost and unsure, my hands holding so tight to Red’s I’m probably crushing bone. “I can’t wrap my head around it. Suicide? Why would he—”
“Mrs. Swift?”
I turn to see a dark-haired woman in a pantsuit striding toward me, a badge worn like a lanyard around her neck. “I’m Detective Amaro,” she says in a voice laced with compassion. “Is there somewhere we could talk?”
I glance sideways at Red, then nod. “Um, yes. Mel’s office? But can I—I mean, I need to see him. I need to know—I mean, what if you’re wrong?” It’s a stupid thing to say. Of course they’re not wrong. But I can’t truly believe it until I see Mel’s body.
His body.
“Certainly,” she says kindly. “We’ll go there first.”
A shiver courses through me, and I reach for Red’s hand. “Stay with me?”
His eyes flick briefly to the detective, but she nods, and I’m grateful not to have to go through this alone. My heart hurts and my eyes sting with the tears I’ve been holding back. I feel numb, but there is anger boiling beneath. Anger and loss and betrayal. Suicide?
I want answers. I want to curl up in bed and cry. I want it to go away.
Most of all, I’m glad Red is beside me, because if anyone can get me through this, it’s him.
I follow the detective into the distillery to the fermentation room. There’s someone in a T-shirt stenciled with Coroner’s Office zipping my husband into a body bag. The detective leads me there, and I follow with Red behind me. He puts his hand gently on my shoulder when we come to a stop.
“This is Mrs. Swift,” Detective Amaro says. “She’d like to see her husband.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” the medical guy says, but I barely hear him. I’m too focused on his hand tugging the zipper down, then spreading the black plastic cocoon away so that I can see Mel’s face. It’s been wiped clean, but there are still bits of the mash in his hair.
I turn away. “Thank you,” I whisper. The officer who drove me here told me that he’d died in the fermentation tub, but even so I ask, “How did this happen? You can stand in those tubs. How can someone force themselves to drown?” I turn back to Red. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
“We believe that he tampered with the carbon dioxide scrubbers,” the detective says, “then got into the tub. As he started to lose consciousness, he would have slipped under. I am truly sorry,” she adds, and I realize that I’ve put my hand up to cover my mouth. A tear trickles down my cheek, and I wipe it away, sniffing.
“You believe?” I look pointedly up at the security cameras. “Didn’t you watch the footage?”
She shakes her head. “It appears he turned them off, as he did with the other safety measures.”
I hug myself, still in shock at Mel’s death, much less that he’d concocted such an elaborate one.
“Would you like to stay here a bit longer?” The detective’s gentle voice catches my attention.
I shake my head and reach for Red, unsure if my legs are strong enough to support me. Why. Why would he do this? I know there were things troubling him, but never once did he seem suicidal.
Then again, we weren’t really spending that much time together lately.
I barely notice the walk back to Mel’s office. I sit on the small sofa, with Red beside me. The detective pulls out one of the guest chairs at Mel’s desk and sits as well.
“Because of the note, we are approaching this as a suicide. But at the same time, we need to make further inquiries.”
“Of course. Yes. I can’t believe he’d do this.” Beside me, Red squeezes my hand hard, and I squeeze back, grateful for the support.
“Had he been acting differently recently? Any depression? Trouble at home or at work?”
“I—” I draw in a breath. I don’t want to go there, but I know I have to. “I asked him for a divorce.”
Beside me, I feel Red shift. I glance that way and see the surprise in his eyes. I’m surprised, too. He and Mel were best friends, but apparently this is news to him.
The detective must also have noticed Red’s reaction, because the next question is addressed to him. “You didn’t know? Your friend and partner, but he didn’t tell you that his wife wanted a divorce?”
“No. This is the first I’m hearing of it.”
“We’d grown apart,” I say, though no one has asked me to elaborate. “We’ve been married five years, but the last three…” I trail off with a shake of my head. “It wasn’t working,” I say simply. “I kept hoping things would get better, but about six months ago, I told him we should separate. He said we should try harder, but nothing changed. Three months ago, I hired an attorney and drew up settlement papers.”
“I see. And what stage is the divorce in now?”
I shake my head. “He still hasn’t signed. I didn’t want to push or formally file with the court. I know him. He’s slow to wrap his head around things, but I knew he’d realize I was right. I—I’d hoped we could still be friends, but we couldn’t stay married.” I tug my hand from Red’s and clasp my own together. “We made a mistake getting married in the first place.”
The detective nods slowly. “And did you see any change in his behavior in the last three months? In his mood?”
“You mean any signs that he was suicidal?” I shake my head. “God, no. He was distant and hurt, but nothing like that.”
“Did he move out? Did you?”