“Pleased to meet you,” the detective says.
I open my mouth to regain control of the conversation, but Libby is too quick.
“She was a mail-order bride!” she continues, and I close my eyes in disbelief that she can be so helpful one minute and so unhelpful the next.
“Is that so?” Detective Morris says, smiling at me.
“It’s not quite like that,” I say.
“But it is!” Libby gushes. “Mr. Hocking was a sad, lonely widower with a sweet little girl and he put an advertisement in a New York paper for a new wife and new mother for his child. Sophie answered the ad and he chose her. And she came out on the train and married him the same day. And they had never met!”
“When was this?” the detective says, still smiling.
“March of last year,” I answer, rubbing a temple in mock embarrassment.
“That’s quite the story,” the detective says, cocking his head and watching me carefully.
“And guess what?” Libby says “They’ve grown to care for each other! Isn’t that the most romantic thing? It’s just like a love story in a book.”
“Indeed it is.”
“Libby,” I say.
“What? It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. It’s perfectly lovely.”
“So you were in New York when you answered this ad?” Detective Morris asks.
“Yes. I wasn’t happy there. I lived in a dreadful tenement, I worked for pennies, and I was cold and hungry most of the time. I thought I could be happy here with Martin and his little girl. I knew I could love his child and I thought it was certainly possible that I would grow to care for him and that he might in turn come to care for me.”
“And that’s exactly what happened!” Libby exclaims.
Detective Morris is still looking at me intently. “Would you say that’s what happened, Mrs. Hocking?”
“I would. I would indeed,” I say, and I am surprised at how self-assured I sound.
“So, then—and I’m sorry to have to ask this—you have no reason to believe Mr. Hocking has deserted you?”
“Of course he didn’t do that!” Libby says.
Detective Morris ignores her. He is looking only at me.
“No. No, he wouldn’t leave us. He certainly wouldn’t abandon his child. He wouldn’t do that.”
The detective consults the sheet of paper. “And your husband is a salesman? Selling... hair tonic?”
Libby laughs. “That’s not right. He works in insurance!”
The detective looks up at me.
“He... he does both, actually,” I say quickly. “But he was out selling the tonic the last time I saw him.”
Libby turns to me. “You never told me he was doing that!”
“It was a new venture. He was giving it a go.” I can feel beads of sweat forming on my brow.
“And it was going well?” the detective says.
“As I said, it was a new venture. He was taking it south of the city to try to sell. To druggists and mercantiles and five-and-tens and the like.”
