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“No idea.”
“Who else did she socialize with?”
The wax turned florid. As if combusting from within.
March said, “What’s the deal here? He’s all sympathetic and you ask pointless questions? Why the hell do her friends matter?Theydidn’t kill her, some Mafia scumbag probably did!”
Milo said, “The more we know about Meagin, Doug, the likelier we are to find out who murdered her.”
“That,” said Douglass March, “sounds random. If I ran my business that way, I’d be broke.”
We remained silent.
March took another look at his exit route. The color in his face had begun to fade but he looked queasy, gripping the arms of the chair.
“You okay, Doug?”
“Not really. I feel like throwing up.”
Milo said, “Whatever you need to do.”
“I didn’t mean that literally. I meant the whole thing is utterly sickening. My wife’s gone and I have to wonder about why she cheated on me and did that lead to…what happened.”
Milo nodded.
I said, “You mentioned her art.”
“She painted, okay? But unless you’re going to tell me someone poisoned her paints, I don’t see…forget it, what’s the use, you’ve got a playbook to follow.”
Milo said, “Did she keep a studio, here?”
“Upstairs,” said March.
“Would it be okay if we had a look at it? At any of her personal space that you think might be relevant.”
“I think none of it’s relevant. What if I say no?”
“Your right but we’d wonder why, Doug.”
March’s fingers drummed the chair arms. “Fine. I keep saying that. Nothing’s fine. Everything’s for shit.”
He bent low, covered his face with his hands, and wept.
It took a while for him to stop snuffling. When his shoulders ceased heaving, he looked up, tear-streaked, smiling crookedly.
“Guess you’re still here. Guess you’re set on doing your job. So few people are, I appreciate your making the effort so I’ll stop being an asshole. The studio is her only personal space, unless you count clothes in her walk-in closet. Whatever you want to paw through, I’ve got nothing to hide.”
He stood. “This place isn’t really a home, anyway. Just a stopover.”
—
We climbed the left-hand staircase to the window-backed landing. Another broad, circular disk surrounded by curving walls. Polished walnut inlaid with a marquetry star. Antique demilune tables tucked snugly at strategic points. High, broad, carved walnut doors punctuated the space. Eight upstairs rooms.
Doug March pointed at the inlay. “Lone Star. The family was from Houston, big in oil, they redid the house when they moved in thirty years ago.”
The windows offered a full view of the property. Seen from above, it looked vast. All the doors were open, offering peeks inside. On the right, large, carpeted bedrooms, each with canopy beds. At the end, a home gym. The mechanical severity of exercise machines stood out against carved, gilt-edged furniture so ornate I imagined Louis XIV begging for simplicity.
On the left, two sets of double doors. The master bedroom. Doug March stood back and said, “Here.”
