Page 27 of Sharp Force
“It appears he was carrying a lot of cash when he visited the jewelry store,” I add.
“I don’t know where he got it. He’s maxed out his credit cards. We’re so in debt we’re sinking like theTitanic.”
“I’m assuming he bought the ring for you. And not for someone else?” I don’t like to suggest.
“Who else would it be for?” she replies with an edge. “I’m not worried about him cheating on me if that’s what you’re asking. It would require too much energy. He’d rather eat a goddam bucket of chicken and drink a six-pack.” Tears spill. “I’m sorry. I know how that must sound. I’m really sorry. Forgive me. But I’m just so upset.”
“You don’t need to apologize, Reba.”
“Being angry helps me with the pain.”
“I understand.”
“The police probably already know that Rowdy did a lot of online gambling. He’d win big. And lose bigger, obviously,” she goes on to say. “He was addicted to spending money. It was a sickness.”
“He must have been getting some income from his former clients?”
“You mean clients, which I seriously doubt exist anymore? In other words, I don’t know where he gets his money. We file separate tax returns. He’s secretive.” Reba’s wounded eyes find the velvet box on the coffee table. “Rowdy shouldn’t have bought the ring.”
“I suppose it would be interesting to see if it fits,” I suggest.
“I don’t care,” she fires back. “I begged him not to get me anything expensive. As I have so many times.”
If she’d known what Rowdy intended, she would have called the jewelry store to cancel the purchase in advance. She’s done that before too when he makes grand gestures that aren’t affordable.
“The ring’s not my taste, and I don’t wear jewelry at work,” she says. “Do you suppose I can return it?”
“That might be hard since it was in the water for a while,” I reply.
“Maybe your investigator could check with the jewelry store. I don’t know why his name keeps slipping my mind.”
“Pete Marino.”
“Maybe they’ll take back the ring if he asks them?” she says.
“Better you should bring it up to the police, to Investigator Fruge,” I tell her. “My office doesn’t get involved in things like that. It wouldn’t be appropriate or in your best interest.”
“I see,” she replies, the fight knocked out of her.
She reaches for the plate of M&M cookies near her husband’s jewelry on the coffee table.
“Would you like one?” She offers me the plate.
“No thank you.”
She helps herself, then changes her mind, returning the plate to the table. A paper napkin crinkles while she obsessively wipes her fingers one at a time as if polishing silver.
“Reba, you’ve continued referencing your husband’s hit-and-run six years ago.” I go back to that. “Did the police ever have a suspect?”
“No. It happened after dark, and the car had its headlights off.” She stares unblinking at the Christmas tree. “Rowdy never saw what hit him. He only remembers hearing a loud engine behind him.”
“If he didn’t see the car, how did he know the headlights were off?” I ask.
“He would have seen light shining on the pavement as the car approached. Rowdy said it was as dark as a black hole. That’s exactly how he described it, always the same story.”
“Do you remember the name of the investigator in your husband’s hit-and-run?”
“State Trooper Trad Whalen,” she says. “Rowdy would call him now and then asking for any updates in the case. But six years was a long time ago. Nobody really cares anymore.”
