Phyllis smiled. “We all know each other. We tend to hang out together, like a social club.”
“I guess so,” I said, mentally begging her to hurry since I was freezing my ass off.
“Tom was a wonderful man. I think you’ll find that out when you start asking around.”
“So everybody says. In fact, most people seem to prefer him to her,” I said.
“Oh, Selma has her good points. Not everybody likes her, but she’s all right. I wouldn’t say we’re friends . . . in fact, we’re not even that close, which may seem surprising given the fact we live two doors away . . . but you can see somebody’s weaknesses and still like them for their better qualities.”
“Absolutely,” I said. This was hardly an endorsement, but I understood what she was saying. I felt like making that rolling hand gesture that says Come on, come on.
“Selma’d been complaining to me for months about Tom. I guess it’s the same thing she told you. Well, in September . . . this was about six months ago . . . Tom and Macon went to a gun show in Los Angeles and I tagged along. Selma wasn’t really interested-she had some big event that weekend-so she didn’t come with us. Anyway, I happened to see Tom with this woman and I remember thinking, uh oh. Know what I mean? Just something about the way they had their heads bent together didn’t look right to me. Let’s put it this way. This gal was interested. I could tell by the way she looked at him.”
I felt a flash of irritation. I couldn’t believe she was telling me this. “Phyllis, I wish you’d mentioned this before now. I’ve been in there slogging through that bullshit and what I hear you saying is that Tom’s ‘problem’ didn’t have anything to do with paperwork.”
“Well, that’s just it. I don’t really know. I asked Macon about the woman and he said she was a sheriff’s investigator over on the coast. Perdido, I believe, though
I could be wrong about that. Anyway, Macon said he’d seen her with Tom on a couple of occasions. He told me to keep my mouth shut and that’s what I did, but I felt awful. Selma was planning this big anniversary party at the country club and I kept thinking if Tom was . . . well, you know . . . if he was involved with someone, Selma was going to end up looking like a fool. Honestly, what’s humiliating when your husband’s having an affair is realizing everybody in the whole town knows about it but you. I don’t know if you’ve ever had the experience yourself-”
“So you told her,” I suggested, trying to jump her like a game of checkers. I did conclude from her comments that Macon had subjected her to the very humiliations she was so worried about for Selma.
Phyllis made a face. “Well, no, I didn’t. I never worked up my nerve. I hate to defy Macon because he turns into such a bear, but I was debating with myself. I adored Tom and I couldn’t decide how much I owed Selma as a sister-in-law. I mean, sometimes friendship takes precedence regardless. On the other hand, you don’t always do someone a favor telling something like that. In some ways, it’s hostile. That’s just the way I see it. At any rate, the next thing I knew, Tom had passed away and Selma was beside herself. I’ve felt terrible ever since. If I’d told her what I suspected, she could have confronted him right then and put a stop to it.”
“You know for a fact he was having an affair?”
“Well, no. That’s the point. I thought Selma should be warned, but I didn’t have any proof. That’s why I was so reluctant to speak up. Macon felt like it was none of our business, and with him breathing down my neck I was caught between a rock and hard place.”
“Why tell me now?”
“This was the first opportunity I had. When I was listening to you in there, I realized how frustrating this must be from your perspective. I mean, you might turn up evidence if you knew where to look. If he was scrmisbehaving, so to speak-he had to leave some trace, unless he’s smarter than most men.”
The front door burst open and Selma popped her head out. “There you are. I thought the two of you’d gone off and left me. What’s this all about?”
“We were just jawing,” Phyllis said, without missing a beat. “I was on my way home and she was nice enough to walk me out.”
“Would you look at her? She’s frozen. Let the poor thing come in here and get thawed out, for Pete’s sake!”
Gratefully, I scurried into the house while the two of them discussed another work session the next morning. I headed for the kitchen where I washed my hands. I should have considered another woman in the mix. It might explain why Tom’s buddies were being so protective of him. It might also explain the six 805 calls to the unidentified woman whose message I’d picked up from her answering machine.
A few minutes later, Selma came in, agitated. “Well, if that doesn’t take the cake. I cannot believe it. She was just telling me about a dinner party coming up in the neighborhood, but have I been invited? Of course not,” she was saying. “Now I’m a widow, I’ve been dropped like a hot potato. I know Tom’s friends . . . the fellows . . . would include me, but you know how women are; they feel threatened at the thought of a single woman on the loose. When Tom was alive, we were part of a crowd that went everywhere. Cocktail parties, dinners, dances at the club. We were always included in the social scene, but in the weeks since he died I haven’t left the house. The first couple of days, of course, everybody pitched in. Casseroles and promises. That’s how I think of it. Now, I sit here night after night and the phone hardly rings except for things like this. Scut work, I call it. Good old Selma’s always up for a committee. I do and I do. I really knock myself out and what’s the point? The women are all too happy to pass off responsibility. Saves them the effort, if you know what I mean.”
“But Selma, it’s only been six weeks. Maybe people are trying to show their respects, giving you time to grieve.”
“I’m sure that’s their version,” she said tartly.
I made some reply, hoping to get her off the subject. Her view was distorted and I wondered what would happen if she could see herself as others saw her. It was her very grandiosity that offended, not her insecurities. Selma seemed to be unaware of how transparent she was, oblivious to the disdain with which she was regarded for her snobbery.
She seemed to shake off her mood. “Enough of this pity party. It won’t change anything. Can I fix you a bite of lunch? I’m heating some soup and I can make us some grilled cheese sandwiches.”
“Sounds great,” I said. Already I felt guilty accepting her hospitality when I’d sat around listening to other people’s withering assessments. I’d told myself it was part of the information I was gathering, but I could have protested the venom with which such opinions had been delivered. By now familiar with the kitchen, I opened the cupboard door and took down soup bowls and plates. “Will Brant be joining us?”
“I doubt it. He’s still in his room, probably dead to the world. He goes to the gym three days a week, so he likes to sleep in on the mornings between. Let me go check.” She disappeared briefly and returned shaking her head. “He’ll be right out,” she said. “Why don’t you tell me what you’ve found out so far.”
I took out an extra plate and bowl, then opened the silverware drawer and took out soup spoons. While she heated the soup and grilled sandwiches, I filled her in on activities to date, giving her a verbal report of where I’d been and who I’d talked to. My efforts sounded feeble in the telling. Because of what Phyllis had told me, I now had a new avenue to explore, but I was unwilling to mention it when I was only dealing with suspicions. Selma had never even suggested the possibility of another woman, and I wasn’t going to introduce the subject unless I found some reason to do so.
Brant appeared just as we were sitting down to eat. He was wearing jeans and cowboy boots, his snug white T-shirt emphasizing the effectiveness of his workouts. Selma ladled soup into bowls and cut the sandwiches in half, putting one on each plate.