“When was this?”

“Twenty-some years ago. Chicago. I was working in a flower shop near his office. Malcolm wanted fresh-cut flowers every morning. I took his order over one day when our delivery guy was sick. Malcolm called my boss, insisted that I do the delivery from then on. I was in art school, just getting by. He tipped me generously. Eventually, he started hitting on me, told me to stop by in the late afternoon sometime, and he’d take me out for a drink. He was just some guy. I wasn’t interested. He kept pestering. Eventually I gave in. And then it was a slippery slope, a slippery slope. A drink, then a dinner, then a weekend in New York visiting the Guggenheim and the Met. A month later it was ten days in Paris visiting the Louvre and Musée d’Orsay. Eventually, I moved into his penthouse. I was perfectly happy with that arrangement, but he wanted us married. The early years were good. But you don’t want to hear the story. I should tell it on Oprah.” She looked away, then back at them. “So how exactly did he die? No one gives me the details.”

Ray looked over at Sue.

“He was stabbed,” she said.

“Where?”

“In the back.”

Brenda repeated the phrase, “In the back. And I imagine that you’re talking to me because you think I might be able to lead you to the killer?” She looked up at them and took another long drag on her cigarette before slowly crushing it out in a large crystal ashtray. “Well, you came to the right place. Stabbed in the back, ha. You’re looking for a killer with a sense of irony, someone who sent him to the great beyond believing that he was meant to die as he had lived, a backstabber.”

“Can you lead us to the killer?” asked Sue.

Wudbine was slow in responding. “Malcolm would have loved to get rid of me years ago. I was getting used up. My looks were starting to go. I was no longer the beautiful young woman he could show off. But Mr. Financial Genius screwed up early on. In our prenuptial he specified a percentage of his then net worth rather than a definite amount. He was only a millionaire back then. He could have unloaded me on the cheap in those days, especially during a bear market. Malcolm didn’t foresee how his wealth would explode over the next couple of decades. In the end, he was too greedy to get rid of me. So he marginalized me. He hardly talked to me the last couple of years. I think he was hoping I’d drink myself to death.”

“Why didn’t you seek a divorce?” asked Sue.

Again, the answer was slow in coming. “I tried. Malcolm said no, said he would make sure any action was stalled in the courts forever. He told me to just hang in there. I’d have plenty of money and my freedom when he was gone. And now he is gone, and my stepson and his wife are probably doing their best to try to screw me out of my inheritance.”

“Brenda,” started Ray, “let me ask this question again. Do you know who would have a motive to kill your husband?”

“Me. I had a perfect motive. Battered wife syndrome. Not battered physically, but years of psychological warfare, anger, and verbal abuse. He brings in his new toys, runs them under my nose, calls them employees or interns. But he knows that I know what’s going on.”

“So did you kill your husband?”

“Of course not.”

“Did you arrange to have your husband killed?”

“Wrong on that one, too, Sheriff. I do admire the way it was done, but I told you that already.”

“Brenda, you are wasting our time. Do you have any idea who might have killed your husband?”

“No, no one in particular. But I’m sure along the way he screwed a lot of people. Malcolm was always looking out for number one, whether we’re talking about his net worth or his bed. You can’t do that for fifty years without pissing off a lot of folks. If you want specifics, Sheriff, I can’t help you out. That’s what you get paid for. My job now is to hang around until we put poor Malcolm in the cold, cold ground.”

“Do you know what the funeral plans are?”

“They don’t talk about those things to me. It’s Elliott and Jill, probably more Jill. She seems to wear the pants. But I did ask Elliott. He said he’d let me know.” Brenda glared at Ray. “It’s like you don’t get it, Sheriff. I’m a zero here, an empty shell. They will let me know. Maybe I’ll get to sit with the family at the funeral. Of course, I’ll have to be sober enough not to make a spectacle of myself. And I’ll have to promise on a stack of WSJs that I won’t be sarcastic or do anything unseemly. I’m sure they’re planning a great show, and I’ll have to promise to stay in character to the end, the bloody end.

“And what if I don’t show,” she continued, looking off into the distance, verbalizing an interior monologue, no longer quite aware of her audience. “How would that look? The happy family, minus the grieving widow. I’m sure they will come up with an almost credible excuse. ‘Too distraught to attend a public event, a victim of uncontrollable grief. She’s under her doctor’s care and resting comfortably.’ Well, I’ve got news for those bastards. I’m going to do my best to get there, but I’m not going to throw myself on my dear husband’s funeral pyre. He can roast in hell on his own.”

Brenda looked up, “I’m getting bored with our conversation, Sheriff. I will leave you to look at the flowers while I wander off to get a fresh drink.”

Ray looked over at Sue. She could feel his frustration.

“Ms. Wudbine, Brenda, we’re trying to find your husband’s killer. And you are not giving us any help. Aren’t you interested in seeing the murderer brought to justice?”

“You just don’t get it, dearie, do you. I don’t care. Bravo to the killer for a job well done. Now listen carefully. Glue your eyes on my mouth. Open your ears. I had nothing to do with it. I have no idea who the killer may be, and I don’t give a damn.” Brenda pulled herself to her feet and gently pushed Ray to the side as she passed, her right hand on his chest. Then she disappeared out the door.

“You really broke that suspect down,” said Sue.

“And your interrogation skills are equal to mine,” said Ray, shaking his head and smirking.

“We may not be able to isolate her again.”

“I know. I’m not sure it matters,” said Ray. “How did it go with the cook and maid?”

“The cook, Grace Rodrigues, I think she was trying to be helpful, but her English is quite limited.”

“I thought you were bilingual,” Ray chided.

“Yeah, sure. Four years of high school Spanish, two more in college, proficient enough to order a meal in a Taco Bell.”

“Citizenship?”

“She has an Illinois operator’s permit. I didn’t push it. She’s a recent hire, and I don’t think she has anything to tell us.”

“How about the housekeeper, what’s her name?”

“Jane Propst, she’s local, lives in town. This is her second season at Gull House. What’s your term, omerta? All she knows is that the Wudbines are a wonder couple. They are the best, most generous people she’s ever worked for. And she just doesn’t know how anyone could hurt Mr. Wudbine. She said, and I’m quoting here, ‘The earth must be spinning off its axles.’”

“Well, if not its axles, at least its rails. So what are you telling me?”

“I don’t think she knows anything. I pushed her hard. Nada, nada, nada. She works 8:00 to 4:00 seven days a week for the twelve-week season. And she comes in during May to open the place and works through September to close things up. During those months she’s on a five-day schedule. The rest of the year she’s on a retainer to be available when they occasionally use the place. And, of course, she’s worried that this arrangement will disappear.”

“How about the handyman?”

“He’s off on weekends, and had today off to see his cardiologist in Traverse City. We’ll have to catch him tomorrow or the next day. What now?”

“We still have the rest of the cast and crew. Grubbs is helping line them up. Maybe after lunch we can split the list and talk to all of them.”