“In a minute honey.” I resisted the guilt of a missed opportunity to comfort her in her most vulnerable state. I grabbed the television remote and found a cartoon and Sarah’s attention was quickly diverted.

I slipped into the hallway and leaned against my bedroom door-frame and stared at the spot where I had last made love to Catherine. The impression of her body appeared still on the side of the mattress where she had died, although the bed-sheet was missing; evidence I supposed. On my nightstand stood the quarter-empty bottle of scotch that I had drunk during the course of our last evening, Catherine’s and mine, of making love. The glass sat next to the bottle, half filled still, and I could taste the acrid flavor of whiskey condensed in the dry air of our house. On Catherine’s nightstand the decanter which held her alcohol of choice, white wine, was gone, along with the wine-glass she had used.

Poison, I thought? Why else would they take it?

I stepped into the room and I sat on the edge of the bed staring at the nightstand and wondering about the vacancy of its contents; wondering what the police had found; wondering how they would try to pin her death on me. I was the husband; therefore I had killed her. That would have been my first thought as an impartial interloper. And my fingerprints would be on the decanter. I brought the wine from the fridge. My fingerprints would also have been on the glass. I poured her first glass of wine after lighting the plum scented candle and placing it on her nightstand. The candle was also missing. If Catherine were poisoned what kind of potion could it have been that she would not have detected it through the wine?

Just being in the room made me yawn with the exhaustive weight of Catherine’s absence. I pulled my pillow from my side of the bed (Catherine’s pillow, I noted, was also missing) and I laid back settling my head on the cool pillow case. I pulled my cell phone from my pants pocket and I dialed Amber’s phone number for the umpteenth time. I was startled to hear it ringing and I closed my phone, shutting it off, not knowing what I would say to her, my mysterious murderous phone lover?

I dialed Amber’s number again. I had to know.

“Hello lover!” Were her disturbing words. I never mentioned to Amber the private joke I shared with Sarah.

But still the sound of Amber’s voice, as a reflexive reaction like a spark to gunpowder, un-willfully aroused me. Her voice was the equivalent of sex; of dirty words and sentences whispered in quiet, safe, alone places; words, which when spoken in person, invoked a blush of discomfort, as if unnatural, a part of a blue movie. But the sound of her voice invoked a noxious mixture of both delectation and disturbed morbidity. Her voice to me now that I had reason to question her character represented both euphoric exhilaration and murderous malfeasance; life and death.

“Where have you been?” My voice was parched and choked, the sound of her voice having scorched the saliva from my mouth. I withheld my desire to ask her if she had killed my wife. I wasn’t utterly sure that Amber had not had a hand in Catherine’s death. I wasn’t yet sure if I was angry with her; if I had reason to be angry with her; if I had reason for wanting her to die an agonizing death of retribution.

“Why? Did you miss me?” Her voice was deliberately low and gravely. She was trying to sound sexy but her tone was tinny and cautious.

“Of course I missed you,” My voice was purposely monotone. I didn’t want to betray my mistrust, and I didn’t quite know how to ask what I had to ask. She had a way of disarming me; of turning me into a little boy; a submissive. But being sex talked in the bed that I once shared with my wife was just wrong. Letting myself be sex-talked at all was wrong and now brought on pangs of guilt and made me angry with Amber for enticing me and angry at myself for being weak enough to be enticed.

“Does little Mathew want to come out and play? I’m alone and I’ve misplaced my panties. What to do…what to do?” She drew a deep breath and exhaled as if exhausting a gust of cigarette smoke. “Just the sound of your voice makes me hot, lover. Do you feel up to the task, Mathew? Are you excited?”

“No.” I lied.

“We’ll have to do something about that. Goddd, the sound of your voice… I’m so wet Mathew. We haven’t done this in days! Tell me what you’ll do to me Mathew. Be a good boy and make love to me with that sexy voice of yours.”

“Catherine is dead.” I didn’t know how else to package my words, but her attempt to arouse me made me feel pathetic. Besides Amber wasn’t letting me get a word in edgewise. The phone went silent. “Are you still there?” I asked.

“Mathew, ‘Catherine’s dead’ is not going to get me off.” Her tone was sarcastic and no longer sexy.

“She is dead. The police think that I killed her.”

“That’s terrible.” Her voice rose in pitch to an un-sultry crescendo. “You’re serious, aren’t you Mathew?”

“Yes.” I was deliberately succinct. I wanted to hear her ramble; to get a sense of her demeanor; to judge her by her words and the tone of her voice; innocence or guilt.

“Oh Mathew, I’m so sorry.” Her voice was normal; concerned; higher pitched. Amber the friend had taken over the conversation. “If I had any idea I would never have…said what I said. But how can they think that you killed her? You’re a sweetheart. You wouldn’t hurt a soul. How could they think such a thing?” “I don’t know.”

“Oh Mathew, is there anything I can do for you. I am truly sorry. I know that we’ve never met in person, but I feel as though I’ve known you all of my life. I mean we’re friends, right?” She drew an empathetic sigh,

“Mathew, I can’t imagine how you must feel; and your daughter. The poor thing…”

“I know. It’s okay.” I drew a deep breath. As unscientific as my method was, I could tell that Amber hadn’t a clue. I could tell that she had nothing to do with Catherine’s death. “But the police have brought you into this. They think that I killed Catherine to be with you.”

“How smart of them.” Amber drawled out the vowels in a flippant tone.

“They never called you then?”

“How could they have? My cell phone’s been out of commission for almost a week; something about not paying the bill. Anyway, it’s Charlie’s fault whatever it was. And I don’t have a landline…Oh Goddd!” she gasped, “Charlie! Do you think they might have spoken to Charlie? He’s been acting so strange. He’s been giving me dirty looks. He hasn’t spoken to me for a few days now! God, I hope they haven’t talked to Charlie! He’d kill me if he knew about us.”

“Calm down Amber. It’s okay. How could they know anything? All they know is that we’ve talked; the phone record. We’ve conducted business. That’s all.”

“Oh, yeah…I suppose your right. I don’t know what’s gotten into Charlie lately.” “The police told me that you came to Cleveland.”

“How theatrical. And you believed them I suppose?”

My silence betrayed me.

“Thank you very much Mathew!” I could tell that she was hurt.

“I feel awful for believing them, if that makes you feel better.”

“Of course it does.” I could sense her smiling. “That seems a little over the top though. Did they think they were making a television show? I mean how dramatic!”

“I don’t know. They had me wondering.”

“You didn’t really think that I…” She laughed softly with a girlish sort of giggle,

“Mathew, really. Did you think that little ole Dorothy flew down from Kansas in her house, riding a cyclone, and landed on the wicked witch of the north? Come on now Mathew, you’re not being serious?”

“I only wondered for a moment. The cop was pretty convincing.”

“It sounds so ridiculous Mathew.” She drafted a deep sigh. “You must be devastated though. I know you loved Catherine very much. I hope you don’t feel guilty about what we did. They were only words Mathew. We didn’t actually fuck you know.”