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Kit knocked on the Crawfords’ front door, wishing that she’d come to interview the widow sooner. But they’d been pulled in too many directions.
I’m here now. That was what was important.
The door was opened by a woman with brown hair and eyes that looked tired. But resolute.
“Mrs. Crawford?” Kit asked. Denise Crawford was forty-five years old according to her driver’s license, but she looked ten years older. The marriage license that Kit had pulled showed that Denise and Kent had been married for fifteen years. No kids.
“Yes. Are you Detective McKittrick? Detective Marshall said you’d be stopping by.”
“I am. May I come in?”
“Of course.” Denise led her into the kitchen, gesturing to a set of stools in front of an island counter. “Please have a seat. I’ve just made coffee. Would you like some?”
“No, ma’am, but thank you for offering. I’ve had a lot of coffee today.”
It wasn’t true, but until they could validate Denise Crawford’s alibi, she was technically still a suspect. Kit sat on one of the stools, while the woman poured herself a cup of coffee that smelled so good that Kit nearly changed her mind.
Finally Denise turned, cradling the cup in both hands. “It wasn’t suicide.” It was a statement, not a question.
“How do you know?”
“Because you’re a homicide detective. I read up about you while I was waiting. You close a lot of cases.”
“I do my best. And I’ll do my best for your husband.”
Denise chuckled bitterly. “Yeah, well. He wasn’t much of a husband, to be honest. I didn’t want him dead, just out of my life. I’d asked for a divorce and he’d said no. But I was going to file anyway. Whoever killed him saved me a lot of trouble, because it was going to be a nasty process.”
That was interesting. “Do you know of anyone who did want your husband dead?”
Denise eased onto a stool on the other side of the island, sipping her coffee, her hands slightly shaking. “I’ve thought of nothing else all day. Look, my husband was a blowhard. None of my friends liked him because he always thought he knew everything. My family hated him because he’s been…impatient with me. My illness.”
Kit’s brows went up. “May I ask what illness?”
“I have lupus. I have good days and bad days. I didn’t have it when we got married, and back then I was ‘fun.’ Now not so much. I tire easily. Kent didn’t like that we had to cancel our plans when I had a bad day. He didn’t like that I prepared foods that were less likely to cause flare-ups. He kept throwing statistics at me about the number of people who go into remission, like I was slacking because I hadn’t. My family has wanted me to divorce Kent for a long time.”
“So why did you pick now to initiate a divorce?”
“I didn’t in the past because it takes a lot of energy to meet with attorneys, and on bad days, I simply don’t have the energy to spare. And partly because I kept hoping he’d…I don’t know. Grow up? Fix himself? I loved him once. I’d hoped I could love him again. But about six months ago I started to suspect he was cheating. That was the final straw. My dad found an attorney for me to meet with. That’s what I was doing this weekend. Talking to a lawyer and planning my divorce.”
“I see.” And Kit did see. Kent Crawford was an asshole. “I know you told Detective Marshall earlier, but would you mind telling me where you were between midnight and eight a.m. on Saturday?”
“Sleeping in my parents’ house.” She slid off the stool and picked up a folder from the counter next to her knife block—which, Kit noticed, still contained all of its knives.
Denise took a piece of paper from the folder and pushed it across the island to Kit before retaking her seat. “I made a list of my family’s names and contact information. You can ask them. I went to bed about eleven on Friday night and got up at seven. My folks have an alarm system with cameras and they’re happy to give you copies of the video. I didn’t leave the house.”
Kit took the information with a murmured Thank you. She’d check into it, but she believed this woman. “What made you think he was having an affair?”
Denise’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “Um…he used to be really mean when I didn’t feel like sex, but then he stopped asking. Which was about the same time he started spending a lot of weekends at work when he hadn’t before. And he’d started coming home smelling like another woman’s perfume.”
“Did you recognize the scent?”
“No. I tried at first, and then I just didn’t care. I was mostly grateful that he was leaving me alone. Now I’m wondering if he was having affairs before that and hid them better. I don’t think he cared anymore, either.”
“Then why was he so opposed to a divorce?”
“I don’t know. He wasn’t Catholic or even religious at all. My family thinks he got pleasure from hurting me.”
What a guy. “Do you have any suspicions on who he was having an affair with?”
