Free Dead Canaries Don't Sing by Cynthia Baxter Page B

herself couldn’t have done better.
    “When we were still in high school—I think he was, like, a junior—Tommee started getting kids’ names in the local paper. Like if somebody won some poetry award or scored the winning point in a basketball game, Tommee would offer to call the newspaper and get some reporter to come over and take their picture. He was really good at it. He could talk anybody into anything.”
    “Did these kids pay him?”
    “He didn’t expect to be paid. All he wanted was their gratitude—and a way of being close to them. Here, let me show you. Take a look at our yearbook.”
    Proudly she held up the blue and white cover for me to see. It was embossed with the name, The Caumsett Commemorative .
    “You can practically open to any page and you’ll see Tommee standing next to some kid who’d just done something special.”
    To demonstrate, she flipped the book open. Sure enough: There was a photograph of the varsity soccer team carousing after a victory. Tommee—looking younger and thinner—hovered in the background, wearing a pleased expression.
    “This is the Debating Team, the time they won the Norfolk County Championship.” Six serious-looking students posed in front of lockers, standing at attention for the camera. Lurking a few feet behind was Tommee.
    Frankly, I found the whole thing kind of creepy. But Merrilee had that starry look in her eyes again. “He was so terrific with people. Tommee really had a special, special talent. And it took him exactly where he wanted to go.”
    I jumped as she slammed the book shut. “I still can’t believe he didn’t want to take me with him.” Her voice had become hard.
    After a few seconds, I broke the heavy silence that had fallen over the room. “It sounds like you’ve never gotten over him,” I said gently.
    Staring straight ahead, as if she’d forgotten I was in the room, Merrilee said, “To this day I believe I’m the only person who ever truly loved him.”
    My heart was pounding. I knew I was treading in dangerous territory, but I couldn’t help myself.
    “It must have been extremely hard, then, seeing him with other women.” I spoke softly and slowly, the way I talk to animals who are behaving erratically because they’ve been abused. “When you heard he was going to marry Barbara Delmonico—”
    “That bimbo!” Merrilee snarled. “She was only after his money. I mean, did you get a look at her? Showing up at his funeral dressed like some hooker, dragging that stupid dog along with her . . . She never loved Tommee. It was the money she loved!”
    Her shoulders slumped. “You know, I always thought he’d come back to me. Even after all this time, I never stopped believing that one of these days, he’d come to his senses and realize that all those other women were just a waste of time. That I’m the one who truly loves him.”
    I put my arm around her. I always seemed to be doing that. “I wish I’d had a chance to know him better.”
    She shook her head, and tears rolled down her cheeks. “If you really want to know about Tommee, talk to the people who knew him as a businessman,” she said angrily. “His job was his life. In the end, that was what he really cared about.”
    “I’m sorry to be asking you all these questions. I can see it’s difficult for you to talk about him. Besides, I’m sure the police have bothered you enough.”
    “The police? They haven’t been around. Although now that you mention it, you’d think they’d be a little more anxious to find out who killed my husband. He certainly knocked himself out for the Norfolk PBA, getting good press for the cops, working his butt off day and night—”
    “You know,” I interrupted, “I think we’re both ready for that coffee now. Would you like me to help?”
    “I can manage.” She swiped at her face, smearing her makeup once again.
    I followed a few paces behind, sensing she needed a chance to pull herself together. As we neared her