Kissed a Sad Goodbye

then slipped the notebook back into the pocket of his jacket and returned his attention to her. “How are things, then?” he asked.
    Madeleine laughed. “Blessedly dull since you went away, Superintendent, thank you very much. The ripples have subsided, and we’ve all gone back to pretending we never suspected one another of murder. And what about you?”
    As he told her a bit about the Hammond case, she listened intently, and when he mentioned Lewis Finch’s name, she made a small movement of surprise. “Do you know him?” Kincaid asked.
    “I did, in my previous incarnation, you might say. He had quite a reputation in the City.”
    “A good one?”
    “Yes, surprisingly; after all, success and honesty don’t often go hand in hand. Then again, Finch didn’t get where he is without a good deal of ruthlessness. Your Annabelle was a strong character indeed if she stood up to that one.”
    “To her cost.”
    “Do you think Lewis Finch killed her?”
    “He seems the most likely possibility. Her former brother-in-law is the only one who professes to hate her, but he has a tidy alibi. Her fiancé seems to have had everything to lose and nothing to gain by killing her, and while he might have lost control enough to have a bloody great row with her, there’s a great gap between that and murder.” He studied his wine. “And Lewis Finch’s son has no motive that I can see—he’d known about her relationship with his father for months, and Annabelle pleaded with him to make up with her.”
    Madeleine refilled their glasses, her expression pensive. “That’s a volatile situation—a father and son in love with the same woman... and if she threw the father over for the son...”
    “What did you think of him?”
    “You want me to tell you if I think Lewis Finch is capable of murder?” She frowned. “I suppose a man as driven as I remember Lewis Finch being might go over the edge. But I also sensed in him a great deal of grief—the sort of sadness that’s carried so long it becomes an integral part of the personality.” She gave Kincaid a swift glance over the rim of her glass, and he keenly remembered how exposed she could make him feel. “So tell me about you,” Madeleine demanded.
    With anyone else, Kincaid would have found it easy to dissemble. He took a sip of his wine. “My ex-wife died— was murdered.”
    “Oh, Duncan, I’m so sorry. Were you close?”
    “Not for years. I wish we had been... friends.” He met Madeleine’s eyes, looked away. She seemed to be waiting. “And I learned I have a son. Kit. He’s eleven.”
    “Your ex-wife’s child? But how wonderful for you.”
    “And complicated,” Kincaid said a bit ruefully.
    “How’s your sergeant coping with all of this?”
    “Gemma? I think she can take anything in her stride.”
    “Do you?” Madeleine’s voice held its characteristic trace of wry amusement.
    Without warning, he was assailed by a longing for Gemma. He finished his wine, wishing she had agreed to come with him—wishing they could have had this one night alone together, uninterrupted.
    “Another glass?” asked Madeleine, but he shook his head, recalling the unusually incapacitating effect of drink-j ing with Madeleine, especially on an empty stomach.
    “Thank you, but I’d better not,” he said, standing, and Madeleine gracefully uncoiled herself from the sofa and walked him to her door. “It was good to see you, Madeleine.
    I like to think of you here, sometimes. A calm center.”
    “If you start quoting Yeats at me, I won’t have you back,” she said lightly, her marvelous eyes level with his. I “Never fear, then. I’m forewarned. And I will come again.” He kissed her cheek and turned away.
    “Duncan.”
    All the amusement had vanished from her voice and he stopped, compelled to look back.
    “Whatever it is that’s happened to you, it won’t go away on its own,” said Madeleine. “Please take care.”
     
    THE SKY HAD PALED FROM BLUE to violet to cobalt, but Gordon Finch had not stirred to turn on a light. In his lap the dressing gown he had bought for Annabelle, his only tangible connection with her, lay crumpled beneath his fingers.
    Until today, he had not allowed himself to think it out. Until today, he had not had all the pieces—had not been forced to follow events through to their logical conclusion. Had Gemma and her watchful-eyed superintendent taken the same path? If not, how long would it take for them to realize where