Only it’s not. Cath’s sister and brother-in-law keep agitating. They know people, what with him working for the state police and her a court stenographer. They have complained that the investigation was botched, that Polly should have been treated as a suspect, not a lucky witness who escaped death by paying an impromptu booty call. They pointed out that the volunteer fire department made myriad mistakes at the scene. That was Jim’s quote in the Wilmington News-Journal—“myriad mistakes at the scene.” If Polly leaves town now, with or without Adam, everyone will think she’s guilty. That shouldn’t bother her, but it does.
Polly wonders if Cath’s people have come to regret making a stink. Because while the News-Journal has dutifully reported Polly’s “life story”—apartment’s tenant was a Baltimore woman who had killed her husband after years of alleged abuse, then been granted a controversial pardon—it also dug up Cath’s past, which is almost as interesting. As a seventeen-year-old high school senior, she had jumped another girl who was taunting her. The two had been on the elevated ramp at an old driving range, a place where high school students went to smoke dope and drink beer. The railing gave way and the other girl had fallen, breaking her neck. Cath went to a juvenile facility; the other girl was in a wheelchair for life. So, yes, there was a record of rage and anger, consistent with lying in wait for a woman she was trying to blackmail. If Polly had known before about Cath’s temper—no, she thinks it’s better she didn’t know.
But the brother-in-law can’t let go. When Polly arrives for work on this particular Thursday, he’s sitting in the High-Ho parking lot in his state trooper car. His tanned, brawny forearm on the window ledge makes Polly think of a thick snake basking in the middle of the road, one you’d almost go out of your way to slice with your tires. She wonders if it’s allowed, using his official car on this not-quite-official business.
“I want to talk to you,” he says, without preamble.
She doesn’t have to cooperate with him, of course. She could get a restraining order, complain to his bosses. She has been cleared. It’s—unseemly, the way he uses his job to badger her.
But Polly knows a thing or two about cops. She knows how they close ranks, even behind the worst of the worst. Her husband was a dirty cop and his colleagues had to have suspected as much. There was a pattern, if anyone cared to find it. Beyond his own criminal activities, he was just a lousy guy. He hit her, threatened horrible things. His coworkers had to have known that was true as well. But he was one of theirs and she had killed him, and that wasn’t allowed. Killing was a perk that cops kept for themselves. Themselves and maybe little old ladies, shooting blindly toward an intruder in the middle of the night.
“What do you want to talk about?” She stops, but doesn’t get in the car, which is clearly his intent. She doesn’t want to be in a confined space with him. Then again, she’s not going to let him follow her inside, where Adam is already at work, prepping for lunch.
“What really happened that night.”
“Only she knows for sure. I wasn’t there.”
“Why wasn’t your door locked?”
“I never locked the door. No one locks their doors here. It’s Belleville.”
“We could bring a lawsuit against you, you know.”
That gets her attention. “For what?”
“Liability. You knew that stove wasn’t safe.”
“That’s on the landlord.”
“He says you didn’t report it.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not sure that trespassers have any right to be assured that the appliances they use are in perfect condition.” She goes inside the High-Ho, not in the least bit of a hurry or a fluster.
Still, he has needled her, and she mulls what he has said as she moves on autopilot through the steps of readying for the lunch service. Could Cath’s family really sue her? Can she be held accountable? She has heard about cases where people claim civil damages even when criminal liability is unproven. She should ask a lawyer, but no one knows better than she does that you can’t even say how-are-you to a lawyer without starting the clock.
There’s a famous old saying, He who steals my purse steals trash, he who steals my good name, etc., etc. People can do whatever they want to her name, but Polly likes her purse, thank you very much.
“What did he want?” Adam asks. So he, too, saw the car, saw Cath’s brother-in-law.
“He’s just being a jerk probably to appease that crazy wife of his. Tried to scare me by saying they could sue because I knew that old stove was dangerous. Can someone really sue me? For that?”
“People can sue for anything,” Adam says.
She had expected a more comforting reply from him. She stews about Jim’s threat the rest of the day, is snappish with Max and Ernest when they come in, not that they notice or care. No matter how she treats them, each man leaves a lone dollar at the end, usually a soft limp one that looks as if it’s been dug out of a back pocket. Never more, never less, as if her actions don’t matter. Polly is so tired of men deciding how much money she deserves—Ditmars, who kept her on a strict allowance. Gregg, ditto. Even her landlord, who seemed like such a sweetheart, stated flatly how long he was willing to stake her to a motel room while she tried to find a new place. Maybe she should sue him. No, better to let that go if she’s going to stay in Belleville. The town has been remarkably forgiving of the newcomer whose faulty stove killed one of their own. This is the time to live and let live. For the landlord, if not for poor Cath.