“Have the police reopened it? Or is gossip at work?”
They both said no.
“Then let’s get on. Where’s the trouble?”
“It’s us,” Peggy said.
“Why? What’s wrong with you?”
“Everything.” She gestured. “No. I don’t mean that — not everything, just one thing. After my husband’s death and the — the routine investigation, I went away for a while. When I came back — for the past two months Fred and I have been together some, but it wasn’t right — I mean we didn’t feel right. Day before yesterday, Friday, I went to friends in Connecticut for the weekend, and he was there. Neither of us knew the other was coming. We talked it out yesterday and last night and this morning, and we decided to come and ask you to help us — anyway, I did, and he wouldn’t let me come alone.”
Peggy leaned forward and was in deadly earnest. “You must help us, Mr. Wolfe. I love him so much — so much! — and he says he loves me, and I know he does! Yesterday afternoon we decided we would get married in October, and then last night we got started talking — but it isn’t what we say, it’s what is in our eyes when we look at each other. We just can’t get married with that back of our eyes and trying to hide it—”
A little shiver went over her. “For years — forever? We can’t! We know we can’t — it would be horrible! What it is, it’s a question: who killed Alberto? Did he? Did I? I don’t really think he did, and he doesn’t really think I did — I hope he doesn’t — but it’s there back of our eyes, and we know it is!”
She extended both hands. “We want you to find out!”
Wolfe snorted. “Nonsense. You need a spanking or a psychiatrist. The police may have shortcomings, but they’re not nincompoops. If they’re satisfied—”