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With that in mind I paste on a smile of my own and greet Connie Wharfman. Actually, first I adjust my smile to sympathetic mode, then I greet her. After all, I’m supposed to be here to offer my condolences.
“Hi, Connie, you may not remember me, but I’m Nora, one of your husband’s employees. We met at the birthday party you hosted for him here last year.” She only blinks at me in response, so I press on. “Anyway, I just heard about what happened to Ian and, well, I wanted to come over and tell you how sorry I am for your loss.”
More blinking. I open my mouth to say more, but she finally decides to speak.
“I’m sorry, my loss?” The cheerful voice we heard as she came to the door is gone. Now she sounds cold and distant. “I’m not sure what you’re referring to.”
“Oh.” I falter. So she doesn’t know about Ian. At least that’s the public stance she’s taking. Something’s off, though. She can’t seem to focus on either me or Jack, instead her eyes are darting around, bouncing from me to him and then behind us. And her hand on the door is turning white from the strength of her grip on it.
She’s definitely nervous about something.
“Our apologies,” Jack speaks from next to me, his tone serious. “We assumed you knew, since the whole company knows.” He clears his throat, feigning discomfort. “This is extremely difficult news to deliver and we’re so sorry to have to be the ones to tell you, but it seems as if there’s no avoiding it now…” He draws a deep breath, then with the gentle finesse of someone well-seasoned at delivering news of this nature, says, “Mrs. Wharfman, your husband was found dead last night.”
Connie Wharfman’s answering gasp is reminiscent of Lucy’s overly enthusiastic thank you to the gate attendant. Meaning it sounds fake.
Did she know? She must’ve known. Hers is not the face of someone surprised by the news she was just given. An actress she is not. But why would she pretend not to know? That doesn’t make sense.
“Are you okay?” Jack asks her. “Do you need to sit down? Perhaps I can get you a glass of water?” He goes to step inside, but she holds up a hand, stopping him.
“No, no. Thank you, but I’m fine. I just need a minute.” She reaches a shaking hand up to her temple and shuts her eyes, breathing deeply. “Ian. Dead,” she whispers to herself. “I can’t believe it.”
“You actually don’t seem all that surprised,” I blurt out before I can think better of it. Connie’s eyes snap open. It’s clear that I’ve woken the beast.
“I’m sorry,” she sneers, “have you lost a husband before? Or what exactly gives you the right to tell me how I should or shouldn’t act upon finding out that my husband is dead?” This last word comes out at a shriek.
Here’s the thing. I know her words should make me feel chastened…I really don’t have any right to say how she or anyone else should respond to such awful news. Only…this is all wrong. I can feel it in my bones. Connie Wharfman knew her husband was dead. She knew, but it didn’t stop her from putting on some of her nicest clothes and making plans with someone she calls, darling.
Still, I attempt to look appropriately remorseful in response to her admonishment. I must not do a very convincing job of it, though, because she keeps on me.
“Wait a minute, I remember you. My husband’s little office pet. Always prancing around him like a puppy, eager to please.”
This is a gross misrepresentation of my behavior at work. So much so that I can’t help but laugh.
I know.
Not a good choice.
In my defense I turn it into a cough pretty darn quickly.
But not quickly enough.
“You think my husband’s murder is funny?” she snaps.
“Woah, woah, woah,” Jack interjects. “Murder? Who said anything about murder?”
“W-well, you did, of course,” Connie sputters. “That’s why you showed up uninvited to my front door, isn’t it?”
“We showed up to your front door uninvited to express our sympathies about your husband’s passing,” Jack replies smoothly. “I don’t believe either of us said anything about him having been murdered.”
Connie’s brow furrows, then smoothes. “It was implied,” she declares loftily.
Jack and I exchange a look. I can tell his mind is on the same track as mine: Connie not only already knew Ian was dead, she knew he’d been murdered. But again, why lie about it? We already know who killed him and it wasn’t her.
Unless of course she’s the one who moved the body. This last thought chills me.
“Did Ian come home last night?” I ask her, changing the direction of the conversation. Let’s see how far she’s willing to take this lying game she’s playing.
Connie stiffens. “Not that I saw, but I was out myself until almost midnight.”
