"Jimmy went down same as always," she says, "but he didn't come up."

"Was he alone?" I ask.

"No, he never dove alone."

I'm thinking: Again with the past tense.

"Jay was down there, too," Jimmy's wife says, "only he was diving the tail section. Jimmy was up in the nose of the plane. See, it's in two pieces on the bottom."

"Jay Burns? From the Slut Puppies?"

She nods. "He and Jimmy were, like, best friends. He swum up off the wreck and starts climbing into the boat when all of a sudden he's like, 'Isn't Jimmy up yet?' And I'm like, 'No, he's still down.' See, I was reading a magazine. I wasn't watching the time."

Cleo lifts the empty glass and turns her head toward the kitchen doorway. In a flash, the neckless bouncer guy hustles forward with a fresh screwdriver. A bodyguard who knows how to mix a drink—every pop star should have at least one.

The widow takes a sip and continues:

"So Jay grabs a fresh tank and jumps back in the water and ... no Jimmy. He wasn't anywhere on the wreck." Cleo rocks back on the sofa cushion. She's no longer looking at me; she's staring out the bay window that faces the Atlantic. Her eyes are locked on something far away and invisible to mine.

She says, "Jimmy was everything to me, you know? My husband, my best friend, my lover, my manager—"

I'm writing like crazy. Trying to slow Cleo down, I say, "Have you got a phone number for Jay?"

"He's still in the islands. He's bringing Jimmy's boat across tomorrow."

"It's nice they stayed so close after the band broke up."

"Jay was the only one," Cleo says, "the only one in the music business Jimmy would even talk to. Until he met me."

She pauses while I catch up on my notes. Obviously she's done interviews before.

"Anyway," she goes on, "we called for help. They found him about three hours later, like, half a mile away. He was already gone. His tank was empty."

I ask Mrs. Stomarti if an autopsy was performed in the Bahamas.

"Yeah, they said he drowned. I guess he just got wore out trying to find the boat. The currents get pretty strong out there, and all those years of smoking weed, Jimmy didn't exactly have the lungs of a teenager."

"But he'd been straight for some time, right?" I make the question sound casual.

Cleo says, "Totally."

I don't write that down because I don't want her to think I'm too interested in Jimmy's wild days.

"So what do you think happened," I ask, "on that last dive?"

"I think ... " Jimmy's wife pauses to snatch a pack of Marlboros off the teak table. "I think my darling husband swam off and got lost—"

Now I'm jotting again.

"—simple as that," says Cleo Rio, lighting up. "Knowing Jimmy, he saw something way cool down there and went swimming off after it—a hammerhead or a big moray eel, who knows what—and got all turned around. It's easy to do." She gives a rueful smile. "When he went diving, he was like a little kid. Totally preoccupied."

"How were the seas?"

"Flat when we got there. But we'd had some wind the night before and Jay said visibility on the bottom was shitty."

"And this happened when?"

"Thursday afternoon. A police boat took Jimmy's body to Nassau and we didn't get him back until yesterday."

The way she's dragging on the cigarette, I can tell she's tired of talking.

"You've been very generous with your time," I say. "I'm almost finished."

"It's okay."

"You said Jimmy liked to keep a low profile. Is that why the death notice didn't mention the Slut Puppies, or even his Grammy?"

"Right."

"But he wrote some good songs. People will remember."

"Tell me about it. I was his numero unofan." Cleo stubs out the butt. "But Jimmy always said it was another lifetime, and he was lucky to get out alive. He didn't want any reminders."

"Not even the music?"

"Especiallythe music," she says. "One of his songs came on the car radio, he'd turn it off right away. Didn't get mad or nothin', just changed the channel." Cleo sweeps a hand through the air. "Dig, in this whole place there's not one of his records. Not one! That's how he wanted it."

Out of the corner of my eye I see the neckless man, leaning against a wall; waiting, I assume, to escort me out.

I say to Jimmy's wife: "He was good."

"No, he was awesome."

Shamelessly I jot this down, too, knowing it's a word that Cleo uses probably fifty times a day to describe everything from bubble bath to frozen yogurt.

She says, "That's why I was so stoked about him producing my CD."

"Jimmy was producing? That must've been a blast, working together in the studio."

"For sure. We're almost finished," she says.

Finally, the present tense. Unless the "we" doesn't include her husband.

"You have a title? I'd like to mention it in the story."

Cleo Rio perks up, scooting to the edge of the sofa. "Shipwrecked Heart.But we've still got some mixing left, so it won't be out for a while."

I write it down: Shipwrecked Heart.Slightly mawkish, but it gives me a semi-ironic kicker for the story. Even Emma might get it.

Standing up, I flip the notebook shut and cap my pen. "Thank you," I tell Jimmy's widow. "I know this was difficult."

We shake hands. Hers is damp, the knuckles showing pink and raw.

"When will this be in the paper?" she asks me.

"Tomorrow."

"Will there be a picture of Jimmy?"

"Most likely," I say.

The bald guy has materialized at my side.

"Well, I hope they pick a good one," says Mrs. Stomarti.

"Don't worry. I'll talk to the photo editor." Like he'd give me the time of day.

No sooner has the door to 16-G closed behind me than I think of a dozen other questions I should have asked. But that's what always happens, and the truth is, I've got more than enough material for the obit. Plus I still need to talk with Jimmy's sister, Janet, and make some calls to the Bahamas.

I scan my notes as I'm waiting for the elevator, which is taking forever. Finally there's a double beep and the door opens, and I nearly walk smack into some tall guy who's on his way out. I don't see his face because he's carrying an armful of grocery bags from a gourmet deli. We both grunt apologetically and manage to sidestep each other. As he turns the corner, leaving me alone in the elevator to gag on his cologne, I see quite a lush mane of copper-red hair shimmering down past his shoulder blades.

The elevator door doesn't close immediately, which annoys me because I'm on deadline. Every pissant delay will annoy me until the Jimmy Stoma obit is finished.

Repeatedly I punch the elevator button. Nothing happens. From down the hall, I hear the guy knocking on a door to one of the apartments. I hear the door open. I hear the voice of Cleo Rio, and though I can't make out her words, the tone is clearly friendly and familiar.

Leading me to the brilliant conclusion that the shimmery-haired man who got out of the elevator was not a grocery-delivery guy, but an acquaintance of the bereaved.

And, as the elevator door finally closes in my face, I wonder: Why would anyone wear so much cologne to visit a widow?