The Lesson of Her Death

dinner.
    Corde told the children with gentle words that there might be some people who weren’t real happy with what he was doing to solve this case, so not to go anywhere by themselves and to stay close to home. Don’t talk tostrangers. Then Corde somehow found the strength to turn the conversation funny and talked about a sports blooper tape he’d seen recently. The only time a pall filled the room was when Corde realized he had stopped talking in mid sentence and was staring out the black window at the backyard. He stood up fast and closed the drapes. Everybody looked at him. Then he sat down and ate a huge third helping of string beans even though he didn’t want them but it seemed like a comic thing to do and the evening returned more or less to normal.
    T.T. Ebbans’s practice was to question people at home at night. He’d try not to conduct interviews during business hours at offices, where guards are up and minds instinctively think up lies and excuses—for bosses, for fellow workers, for clients, for creditors.
    Ebbans also happened to enjoy the evening. It reminded him of a wholly different era of his life, years before. The oily smell of night, the stillness, the bleaching to monotone of the deep colors of the day and the feel of his heartbeat quickening—a prelude to the five-man search-and-destroy night missions that were both the peak and the valley of his life.
    At ten-thirty he came to the last house, a colonial on one acre sloping down to Blackfoot Pond. This hour was usually postbedtime in New Lebanon for anybody under fifteen and over thirty. But lights shone in the windows of this house. He thunked the brass lion’s-head knocker once and the door swung open almost immediately. He found the couple waiting for him. Communication was good among Blackfoot Pond homeowners.
    They all introduced themselves church-social formal. Tall, paunchy, bushy-haired Hank said, “Come on in, Officer. Get you anything?”
    “Maybe if I could trouble you for a glass of water.”
    “Surely.” Lisa, still in her real estate broker’s whiteblouse and trim red skirt, vanished like a spooked mouse.
    Hank motioned Ebbans into a living room spotless as an operating theater. Plush white carpet, a cream-color sofa covered with clear plastic. The furniture was antiqued white and gold. Lisa walked into the room and handed the water to the deputy. They both stared at him as he drank it all down. He wasn’t so thirsty as this but he didn’t know where to set down the glass. He handed it to her. “Thank you.” She returned a moment later. They sat. Plastic crinkled loudly.
    Hank said, “You’re here about the murder.”
    “I’m asking everyone in the area if they saw or heard anything around the time of the killing. That would be ten o’clock.”
    “That was Tuesday, right?” Lisa asked, gesturing, moving her fingers in a circular motion to count back on an invisible calendar.
    “Nothing,” Hank said. “We didn’t see anything.”
    “No,” Lisa echoed. “Not a thing. Sorry we can’t be more help.” Hank said he wished they could but, well, Ebbans knew how it was.
    The deputy let them stew in a lengthy silence then asked Lisa, “But do I understand that you saw something another night?”
    Lisa’s busy hands spread apart for a moment. Ebbans noticed they had left sweat stains on her crimson skirt. “Pardon?”
    Hank said, “We didn’t see—”
    Ebbans said to his wife, “You asked if it was Tuesday. I was just wondering if that meant you saw something some night other than Tuesday.”
    She stared for a minute then gave a fast burst of a laugh. “Oh, I see what you mean. No. The only reason I asked if it was Tuesday was to, you know, orient myself. Because of Sean. He …” She blinked. Hank’s head turned slowly toward her. Ebbans figured they had debated all evening about keeping their secret. Lisa beganto tremble. Ebbans wondered how loud the discussion between these two would be after he left.
    “Sean is … ?” Ebbans asked.
    “Our son,” Hank muttered.
    Lisa said, “He
was
here on Tuesday. That’s right. I’d forgotten.” She swallowed hard and Ebbans wondered if she was going to cry. “Sean got home from a Rifle Club practice late.”
    “What time would that have been?”
    She looked at her husband and decided not to lie. “About ten.”
    Ebbans asked, “Is Sean here now?”
    “Well, he is,” Hank conceded. “But I doubt he can help you.”
    Lisa said, “It was pretty