Rough Trade

last night. Apparently there was a fire in one of the concession areas. He said he flew back into town last night to make sure everything was ready for today’s game. I’m surprised he didn’t call you.”
    “He may have,” replied Chrissy, “but I was already in Lake Forest.”
    “And you didn’t perhaps call home and retrieve the messages from your answering machine?”
    “What, and listen to all the reporters and TV producers urging me to tell my side of the story? No thank you.”
    “And where were you earlier in the day?”
    “I was at the Millhollands’ house in Lake Forest.”
    “You didn’t leave?”
    “I went for a walk and had coffee earlier that morning. The baby was napping, and one of the maids said that she would be happy to listen for her if I wanted to do anything. I was feeling restless so I went out for a while.”
    “How long?”
    “I don’t know. As you can imagine, the past couple of days have been very stressful. I went into the village, took a walk, stopped at Starbucks, and read the paper.”
    “Did you see anyone you knew?”
    “No.”
    “Anyone recognize you?”
    “No.”
    “And what time did you return?”
    “I’m not sure. When I got back, Katharine had been fed and was down for another nap. The pregame show was just starting...
    Detective Eiben reached inside his jacket and pulled out a Ziploc plastic bag. Inside it was a single sheet of paper that had once been folded into a square but now was smoothed flat. One edge of the page appeared to be covered with brown stains. After a closer look I realized that it was blood.
    Chrissy took the offered page and read it, carefully holding the edges of the bag, her hands trembling. I scanned it over her shoulder. It was obviously a fax. According to the routing information that appeared at the top of the page, it had been received at the Regent Beverly Wilshire at nine-forty the preceding evening. I did not recognize the number of the transmitting fax, but it had a Milwaukee exchange. I made a mental note of it.
    The message itself was simple. One line, hand-printed in block letters: If you want to catch them at it, try your father’s house tomorrow at 2:00. It was not signed.
    “Do you have any idea what this fax might be referring to, Mrs. Rendell?”
    “No,” replied Chrissy, “I have absolutely no idea.”
    “So it wouldn’t happen to have been you that had a meeting or an assignation at two o’clock today?”
    “Absolutely not!” retorted Chrissy indignantly.
    “So you deny that you were having an affair with Jack McWhorter?”
    Chrissy rose to her feet, her mouth open in an expression of speechless disbelief. I confess I was pretty surprised at this latest development myself.
    “Are you now or have you in the past had an affair with Jack McWhorter?” demanded Detective Zellmer again slowly.
    Chrissy wheeled around to face the other detective, obviously in the throes of a mixture of strong emotions. “Let me explain something to you,” she said passionately. “Before I met my husband, I ran with a very fast crowd. I did lots of things I would never want my daughter to do. My parents were dead, I was alone in the world, and I went out with a lot of different men. I did a lot of experimenting.
    “But when I married Jeff, that ended. Not only did I settle down, but also I understood that there was a certain responsibility that went along with being Jeff’s wife because of his association with the team. I accepted that I would have to be like Caesar’s wife, absolutely above reproach, and I took that obligation very seriously. So, to answer your question, I am not having an affair with Jack McWhorter or anyone else. And I challenge you to offer me one scintilla of evidence that indicates otherwise.”
     

CHAPTER 22
     
     
    A hospital cafeteria at 3 A.M. is hardly the best place to get any kind of thinking done, but I didn’t have a lot of alternatives. It was either there or in the patient lounge where the mechanic whose son had tried to kill himself lay slumped across two chairs, snoring noisily. Besides, I was starving. It was a good thing, too. Because only someone truly desperate for nourishment would even think about consuming what lingered on the steam tables at that hour.
    Only one counter was open, serving gray and congealing Salisbury steak, mashed potatoes, and hamburgers that looked like they’d been sitting out since lunch. I bravely asked for the steak, helped myself to a mug of