No Fault of Mine

Chapter Eighteen

The waiter returned with our drinks and asked if we were ready to order. Of course, I wasn't ready to order. Stan asked for a few minutes. I'm sure the waiter saw I was crying and may have chosen that moment to make sure I was all right.

I turned my hand over, and Stan clasped it. "I'm sorry you're hurting," he said gently.

And he squeezed my hand.

"I'm sorry for my tears," I said. "My world hasn't been right since Martin's murder, and I don't know what to do about it." I withdrew my hand and dabbed at the last of my tears. I immediately regretted leaving his touch. The warmth of his skin against mine had spread through my body like melting butter in a warm pan. I wanted to reach out for more, but I knew I wouldn't be content with just the touch of his hand. Maybe my sister was right; maybe I wanted to use him as a crutch...an emotional crutch.

"Tears are fine," Stan said. "It's cleansing."

"Yeah, I know. It's the body talking."

"Exactly," he said and smiled.

When the waiter returned, we ordered our meals. I ordered lasagne, and he ordered Ziti al Forno.

"The walls are closing in," I said, sipping my coffee. "My brother reported the embezzlement to the police. Just before you arrived, a detective from Compton Hills called and wanted to ask questions."
"What did he want to know, and did you answer them?"

"Her, actually. No, I told her I wasn't comfortable giving personal information over the phone and hung up."

"That was probably a good idea," he said, turning his glass and staring into the liquid. "Do you think you should have an attorney present when the police finally get to the interview?"

"Do you think that's a good idea? I don't want to look guilty."

"If you're a suspect, their assumption is already that you're guilty," he said, looking up. "It's best to have an attorney from the beginning rather than having one come in after all the knots have been tied."

Our waiter returned with our salad and warm bread on a cutting board. Stan cut several slices, laid two on a small plate, and handed it to me.

"Thank you," I said. "I have an attorney I've worked with in the past. I'll give him a call."

"You'll need a criminal attorney," he said and handed the bowl of butter to me. "Your business attorney could probably give you a recommendation. You may have a state regulatory agency that also needs to know about the crime. Your business attorney will know about that. I'd suggest you not use the same attorney your brother is using."

"This is hard," I said. I still hadn't buttered my bread. He reached across the table and took the butter and bread dish.

As he began spreading the butter, he said, "Do you mind if I ask a difficult question?"

"Go ahead, but I may not answer it."

"Not to be disrespectful, but do you think your husband was the criminal or a victim." He returned the bread to me with butter uniformly spread with its melting deliciousness, inviting a taste. I was surprised I had an appetite. I placed the plate next to the salad.

I wrapped my hand around my cup of coffee and tried to answer his question. "My initials were on the bogus statements, too, but I know I was not the one who initialed them. That leaves Martin, but that's so hard to believe. Besides, if someone used my initials, they could also have used Martin's."