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The judge looked skeptical.

The district attorney shrugged. “Your Honor, a killing is a killing.”

“Please approach the bench,” the judge said, indicating both attorneys.

I waited with bated breath as they went back and forth with emphatic if lowered voices. Felix returned smiling. “Deal,” he said. “We got it reduced to accessory to murder and a bail of fifty thousand dollars, which I’ll take care of.”

It wasn’t until I stepped outside into a still-bright summer evening to face a knot of feisty reporters that I realized my troubles were only beginning. There should be a new case added to our description of English grammar — the accusative interrogative. Did I murder Heinie von Grümh? Was it a crime of passion? Was I going to resign now as director of the museum? Where was the missing murder weapon?

Such was my befuddlement at the moment, I nearly answered, You know, I’m not sure I didn’t murder him.

7

It is a gorgeously warm, bright June day. The local Cardinalis cardinalis is in full throat along with other members of his class. The roses are primping for their triumphant, blushing glory. Honeysuckle scents the air. And I am living in hell.

Alone.

Out on bail, I returned home from police custody. Felix drove me through familiar and now estranged streets to what I thought would be the refuge of my home and family. I envisioned the scene. Diantha would be tearfully, fulsomely apologetic. I would hold her in my arms. I would comfort her. I would tell her that we would get through this together.

Life, alas, should never be rehearsed.

The remnant media included one of those television vans and a ten-year-old girl from her school newspaper. A police cruiser parked in front of the next house. I imagined the neighbors peering furtively through curtain slits at me as I profusely thanked Felix one more time and made my way through the unabashed reporters.

Diantha met me at the door not with a kiss but with finger to lips. “Elsie’s asleep,” she whispered and shut the door on the Third Estate. Still no kiss. No hug. I followed her into the kitchen where she was working at her computer.

“Just let me finish this one item,” she said and focused on the screen.

The bell and then the phone rang.

“Oh, Norman, is there nothing we can do about those people outside?”

I said nothing. Perhaps, I thought, she thinks a shared annoyance will bring us together. Or does she even care about that? Is this her way of diminishing the enormity of her betrayal? Which enormity ballooned in my closing heart as I turned in stony silence and walked from the room.

I went up to my study. The chest where my weapon had been locked remained open, its contents askew. The sight revived the scene of my humiliation in front of Lieutenant Tracy, who had been my friend and colleague.

The telephone rang again. I ignored it. It rang again and again. I picked it up finally. A crank caller who said, “You’re finished.”

When it rang again, I went downstairs to a master switch that shuts off all incoming communications on a fat cable that serves telephones, television, and, I forgot, computers.

Diantha came storming at me. “Norman, what are you doing! I just lost several hours of work.”

“You’ve lost more than that,” I hissed at her.

Thus began a long bout of acrimony, accusation, bad feelings, and feeble attempts at reconciliation.

Over the next few days, I became a bear to live with. Not always outwardly. I could be agreeable, even cordial at times. But I could no longer bring myself to talk directly to Diantha, to engage her face and eyes. I took to sleeping in my study where an ample couch serves as a comfortable bed. I found excuses for avoiding regular meals, preferring to snack. I hid my worst thoughts under a thick layer of inner frost.

To explain it, I suppose I must take the blame. I cannot bring myself to forgive her for lending my revolver to Heinie von Grümh without asking me or telling me. The offense is primal: You don’t give a man’s weapon to his rival, certainly not if you are the man’s wife.

Her folly revived in the