Page 31 of Wrong Mail

"And you, Mrs. Grant?"

"I write," I say.

"Wrote," David says, and then stops himself. It's the same correction he made at dinner with Helen, only this time he hears it too. He glances at me, and the apology is for me, not the detective. "Sorry. She writes."

Rodriguez looks at me and waits.

"Freelance," I say. “Long-form journalism. Mostly from home. It's been a while."

He nods slowly and lets a beat go by.

"So, I'm told you knew the Ericksons well."

"Everyone knew the Ericksons."

"That's not quite what I asked."

He isn't smiling and he isn't unfriendly. He's simply put a small stone down in the middle of the room and he's waiting to see which of us picks it up.

"What do you want to know?" I ask.

Rodriguez flips back through a couple of pages of notes. "Peggy Erickson, former pharmaceutical executive, worked from home most days. Brant, biotech, on the road a lot. We've got plenty to draw on there. But as neighbors. What were they like?"

"Peggy ran the Hunt Club socials," I say. "I've been to a handful. I was at one on Thursday, actually, at their house. It's hard to describe without sounding entitled."

"A club?"

"More of a get-together."

"And what do you do there?"

"It's complicated to explain."

The detective leans forward. "Try."

"It's a place people go to be seen. There's food, there's wine, there's a charity everybody says they're there to help. But really they go to keep up with the Ericksons, or to make sure they don't end up on the wrong side of them."

I hear it land wrong the moment it's out of my mouth.

"That came out badly. Peggy could be difficult. She put her foot in her mouth a lot. But she was generous too, and she didn't deserve whatever happened in that house."

I pause.

"What did happen in that house?" I ask, before he can move on.

Rodriguez lets the silence run.

"Nothing good. But I assumed it would be the talk of Hunts Point by now," he says.

"Not all news travels fast here," David says. "Barring a few individuals, most people tend to pull the curtains and wait for somebody else to say it first."

Rodriguez looks at him a second longer than he needs to. Something passes behind his face that I can't read. Then he's back to me.

"Do you know if the Ericksons had any enemies?" he asks. "Anyone with a grievance. Anything unusual, however small, however stupid it sounds now."

And there I go, back in my mind to that last evening together.

The path down to the dock. The platter coming out of the kitchen and every head turning. Peggy leaving, unhurried, not looking back. The man in the linen jacket, ten seconds behind her, his drink still in hand.