Mr Peanut - Adam Ross [25]
“No. But I knew she was.”
“How’s that?”
“You’d have to be a woman to understand.”
“Educate me.”
“We decide things long before we know we’ve decided. She’d decided, all right, she just hadn’t acted.”
“That sounds like something all people do.”
“Women need to feel safe before they make a move. She sounded to me like someone looking for a place to jump off.”
“I must not understand women very well.”
“I could’ve told you that just by looking at you.”
Hastroll nodded. On the pad, he wrote, Hannah. “Did you tell Pepin this?”
“Did I tell him what?”
“That you thought his wife was leaving him.”
“Yes.”
“And what did he say?”
“He said I didn’t know what I was talking about.”
“Did he ever indicate that you two might have a future?”
“He never talked about divorcing Alice, no.”
“Did you talk about a future with him?”
“Sometimes.”
“Was he receptive?”
She shrugged.
“When Pepin broke things off, how did you take it?”
“I didn’t take it well at first.”
“Did you try to keep the relationship going?”
“For a short time. But I got the message pretty quick.”
“You never harassed him? Never threatened him professionally or personally?”
“No.”
“Do you remember the last time you made a private call to Mr. Pepin?”
“I haven’t called David in months.”
Hastroll got up. “Here’s my card. Call me if you think of anything else.” He turned to leave.
“Detective,” she said.
“Yes?”
“I don’t believe he killed her.”
“Why is that?”
“Because he loved her,” she said. “At least, he loved her more than me.”
Hastroll decided he’d been too passive with Hannah. He had to force her hand. He needed a new strategy. He decided to stop feeding her.
“Ward,” she said from the bedroom, “what’s for dinner?”
“I don’t know,” he said, his face hidden behind the paper. “I already ate.”
“Oh,” she said. “Well, that’s all right. I’m not really hungry.”
Hastroll snapped the paper away from his face, chuckled to himself, and went back to reading.
Later that night, when he got into his bed, he could hear Hannah’s stomach rumbling. “You sound hungry,” he said.
But she didn’t answer.
He made her no breakfast the next morning. He poured the milk down the drain, bagged up the eggs, bread, the canned soups and beans and vegetables from the pantry, the crackers, pasta, tomato sauce, and chicken broth—in short, everything they had—and left the garbage bags by the front door to take with him when he left for work. To make sure she couldn’t order in, he took all the credit cards and cash from her purse—even her checkbook—and stuffed them in his jacket pocket. When he came to their bedroom to kiss Hannah good-bye, she was frowning, a little perturbed, like someone who couldn’t place where she’d left her keys.
“Not a bite?” she said.
His resolve weakened slightly. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m late. I have to get to the station.”
“Oh,” she said. “Okay.”
He took a final peek in the refrigerator—nothing!—and felt his confidence rise. He was sure this would work! He grabbed the two enormous garbage bags (he felt like the Santa Claus of purloined goods) and left, though all day he wondered what she’d do for sustenance.
“I’m home,” he said that night and then stood for a moment in the foyer. When she didn’t respond he went straight to her bedroom.
Hannah was watching television. “Have you ever noticed,” she said, “how many commercials there are for food? It’s amazing: Milk: It does a body good. Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. Two whole-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun.”
“How about that?”
“A1, it’s how steak is done.”
“Strictly speaking, that’s a condiment.”
“The incredible, edible egg. Beef: It’s what’s for dinner. Yo quiero Taco Bell.”
“There’s one right down the street.”
“There are even commercials for other things with food in them. Fruit of the Loom. Banana Boat sunscreen. Have you noticed?”
“No,” he said.
“Maybe you’re not hungry.”
“I am now,” Hastroll said. His wife’s list had weakened him. “You?”
She shrugged.
Hastroll thought her shoulder blades appeared prominent.
“Say,