But alas, this hesitation was not like that. Wendy Burnet was still shell-shocked from the horrible death of her beloved. It simply took her a while to register and assimilate unfamiliar data. She was probably wondering how to react, if she should pretend she knew Lydia or not.
After another few seconds, Wendy Burnet went for the noncommittal. “Thank you.”
“Poor Jimmy,” Lydia followed up. “Such an awful way to go.”
Wendy fumbled for the paper coffee cup and downed a healthy sip. Lydia checked out the little boxes on the side of the cup and saw that the Widow Wendy had ordered a grande latte too, though she’d chosen half decaf and soy milk. Lydia slid a little closer to her.
“You don’t know who I am, do you?”
Wendy gave her a weak got-me smile. “I’m sorry.”
“No need to be. I don’t think we ever met.”
Wendy waited for Lydia to introduce herself. When she didn’t, Wendy said, “You knew my husband then?”
“Oh yes.”
“Are you in the insurance business too?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
Wendy frowned. Lydia sipped her beverage. The awkwardness grew, at least for Wendy. Lydia was fine with it. When it became too much, Wendy rose to leave.
“Well,” she said, “it was nice meeting you.”
“I . . .” Lydia began, hesitating until she was sure that she had Wendy’s full attention, “I was the last person to see Jimmy alive.”
Wendy froze. Lydia took another sip and closed her eyes. “Nice and strong,” she said, gesturing toward the cup. “I love the coffee here, don’t you?”
“Did you say . . . ?”
“Please,” Lydia said with a small sweep of her arm. “Have a seat so I can explain properly.”
Wendy glanced over at thebaristas . They were busy gesticulating and whining about what they thought was the great world conspiracy that kept them from the most amazing of lives. Wendy slid back onto the stool. For a few moments, Lydia just stared at her. Wendy tried to hold her gaze.
“You see,” Lydia began, offering up a fresh, warm smile and tilting her to the side, “I’m the one who killed your husband.”
Wendy’s face went pale. “That isn’t funny.”
“True, yes, I’d have to agree with you on that, Wendy. But then again humor was not really my aim. Would you like to hear a joke instead? I’m on one of those joke e-mail lists. Most are duds, but every once in a while, they send a howler.”
Wendy sat stunned. “Who the hell are you?”
“Calm down a second, Wendy.”
“I want to know—”
“Shhh.” Lydia put her finger to Wendy’s lip with too much tenderness. “Let me explain, okay?”
Wendy’s lips trembled. Lydia kept her finger there for a few more seconds.
“You’re confused. I understand that. Let me clarify a few things for you. First off, yes, I’m the one who put the bullet in Jimmy’s head. But Heshy”—Lydia pointed out the window in the direction of an enormous man with a misshapen head—“he did the earlier damage. Personally, by the time I shot Jimmy, well, I think I might have been doing him in a favor.”
Wendy just stared.
“You want to know why, am I right? Of course, you do. But deep down inside, Wendy, I think you know. We’re women of the world, aren’t we? We know our men.”
Wendy said nothing.
“Wendy, do you know what I’m talking about?”
“No.”
“Sure you do, but I’ll say it anyway. Jimmy, your dearly departed husband, owed a great deal of money to some very unpleasant people. As of today, the amount is just under two hundred thousand dollars.” Lydia smiled. “Wendy, you’re not going to pretend you know nothing about your husband’s gambling woes, are you?”
Wendy had trouble forming the words in her mouth. “I don’t understand. . . .”
“I hope your confusion has nothing to do with my gender.”
“What?”
“That would be really narrow and sexist on your part, don’t you think? This is the twenty-first century. Women can be whatever they want.”
“You”—Wendy stopped, tried again—“you murdered my husband?”
“Do you watch much television, Wendy?”
“What?”
“Television. You see, on television, whenever someone like your husband owes money to someone like me, well, what happens?”
Lydia stopped as if she really expected her to answer. Wendy finally said, “I don’t know.”
“Sure you do, but again I’ll answer for you. The someone-like-me—okay, usually themale someone-like-me—is sent to threaten him. Then maybe my cohort Heshy out there would beat him up or break his legs, something like that. But they never kill the guy. That’s one of those TV-bad-guy rules. ‘You can’t collect from a dead man.’ You’ve heard that, haven’t you, Wendy?”
She waited. Wendy finally said, “I guess.”
“But, see, that’s wrong. Let’s take Jimmy, for example. Your husband had a disease. Gambling. Am I right? It cost you everything, didn’t it? The insurance business. That had been your father’s. Jimmy took it over for him. It’s gone now. Wiped out. The bank was ready to foreclose on your house. You and the kids barely had enough money for groceries. And still Jimmy didn’t stop.” Lydia shook her head. “Men. Am I right?”
There were tears in Wendy’s eyes. Her voice, when she was able to speak, was so weak. “So you killed him?”
Lydia looked up, shaking her head gently. “I’m really not explaining this well, am I?” She lowered her gaze and tried again. “Have you ever heard the expression that you can’t squeeze blood from a stone?”
Again Lydia waited for an answer. Wendy finally nodded. Lydia seemed pleased.
“Well, that’s the case here. With Jimmy, I mean. I could have Heshy out there work him over—Heshy is good at that—but what good would that do? Jimmy didn’t have the money. He would never be able to get his hands on that kind of cash.” Lydia sat a little straighter and put out her hands. “Now, Wendy, I want you to think like a businessman—check that, a businessperson. We don’t have to be raving feminists, but I think we should at least keep ourselves on equal footing.”
Lydia gave Wendy another smile. Wendy cringed.