I stood there for a moment, clutching my purse strap, then cleared my throat.
He held up one finger. Still didn’t look up.
I waited. Shifted my weight. Looked at the corkboard. Someone had lost a cat named Chairman Meow and was offering a reward of homemade brownies.
“Help you?” He finally raised his eyes. They were brown, deep-set, and currently communicating that whatever I was about to say had better be worth the interruption.
“I’d like to report a possible murder.”
That got his attention. He straightened in his chair. “Sit down.”
I sat in the wooden chair across from his desk. It creaked. His desk was covered in coffee cups—at least four, in various states of emptiness—and case files stacked in towers that defied engineering.
“Detective Tony Caruso.” He picked up a pen. “Name?”
“Gina Ferraro.”
“And whose murder are you reporting?”
“Rosaria Ferraro. My former mother-in-law. She died a few months ago after a family dinner where my divorce from her son was announced. The cause of death was listed as cardiac arrest due to emotional shock.” I’d rehearsed this part. “I have reason to believe she was actually poisoned.”
Tony wrote something down. His handwriting was terrible. “Severalmonths ago.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re coming in now.”
“Yes.”
He set the pen down. “Was a toxicology report done?”
“No. The family didn’t want one. They said it was too painful, that they just wanted to lay her to rest.” I’d called the hospital in New Hampshire to confirm before coming here. “She was seventy-eight. The doctors didn’t push it.”
“And what makes you think it wasn’t natural causes?”
I gripped my purse strap tighter. “Let’s just say I’ve heard things. The family has a lot to gain from her death. Rosaria controlled the finances. The estate is substantial—a house overlooking the ocean, investments, jewelry. With her gone, her children inherit. All three of them. And their spouses.”
Tony studied me. The look wasn’t hostile, exactly, but it wasn’t warm. It was the look of a man who’d heard a lot of stories from a lot of people and had learned to wait for the parts that didn’t add up.
“Mrs. Ferraro?—“
“Ms. The divorce is final. I kept the last name as it’s the same as my children’s.”
“Ms. Ferraro. You said she died after a dinner where your divorce was announced?”
“My ex-husband announced it. I’d already moved out.”
“And the family blamed you for her death.”
“They blamed the shock of the announcement. Which they blamed on me. Yes.”
He picked up the pen again, turned it between his fingers. “So you have a personal interest in proving it wasn’t shock.”
I’d been expecting that. It still stung. “I’m not here to clear my name, Detective.”
He raised an eyebrow. Just one. It was annoyingly effective.
“Okay, I’m a little bit here to clear my name. But mostly I’m here because someone got away with murder and nobody’s even looking.”
