“Why should it matter if he sees you talking to me?”
“He'll figure out why, if he does. Then he'll make trouble for me later on.”
“Trouble?”
“He yells,” she said, “he says things he doesn't mean. Or maybe he does mean them, I don't know. Then he'll ignore me for days, pretend I'm not even there.”
“I don't understand, Mrs. Kiskadon.”
“It's his illness,” she said. “And his obsession with finding out about his father.”
“Suppose you start with the illness.”
“Did he tell you what it was? That he almost died from it?”
“He did, yes. Diabetes.”
“But I'll bet he didn't tell you what it did to him psychologically. I'm not even sure he knows. He used to be optimistic, cheerful … normal. Now he has severe mood swings, periods of deep depression. His whole personality has changed.”
“That's understandable, given the circumstances.”
“That's what his doctor says too. But the doctor doesn't have to live with Michael and I do. He can be … well, almost unbearable at times.”
“He doesn't get violent, does he?”
“No, no, not toward me. But his depression gets so bad sometimes I think …” She broke off and made a fluttery, frustrated gesture with one gloved hand. “He has a gun,” she said.
“Gun?”
“A pistol. He keeps it locked up in his den.”
“Has he always had it, this pistol?”
“No. He bought it after he came home from the hospital.”
“Why?”
“There were reports of prowlers in the neighborhood, a burglary down on Cragmont. He said the gun was for protection.”
“But you don't think so?”
“I don't know what to think.”
“Has he ever threatened to use it on himself?”
“No. But I don't like the idea of it in the house. You can't blame me, can you?”
I didn't say anything. It wasn't a question I could answer.
“Then, there's this obsession with his father,” Mrs. Kiskadon said. “It's just not healthy.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because it isn't. It's all he talks about lately, all that seems to interest him. He spent close to two thousand dollars collecting all of his father's writings, and now he wants to spend God-knows-how-much more on a private investigation. We're not rich, you know. We're not even well off anymore.”
I had nothing to say to that either.
She said, “You're not even getting anywhere, are you? How could you after all those years?”
“I might be,” I said carefully.
“I don't care if you are. What does it matter why Harmon Crane shot himself? It's Michael I care about. It's me. Don't think my life hasn't been hell this past year because it has.”
“So you want me to quit my investigation.”
“Yes. It's foolish and it's only feeding his obsession.”
“My quitting wouldn't do any good,” I said. “As determined as he is, he'd only hire someone else. Someone not as scrupulous as I am, maybe; someone who'd cost him, and you, a lot more money in the long run.”
“I didn't mean to imply that you were dishonest.…” She broke off again and stared up at the big cedar, as if she thought insight and sympathy might be hiding among its branches. “I don't know what to do,” she said in a small voice.
“Have you tried to get him into counseling?”
“A head doctor? He'd never go.”
“But have you tried?”
“I mentioned it once. He threw a fit.”
“Then I'm sorry, Mrs. Kiskadon, but that's the only advice I can give you.”
“You're going to go right on investigating,” she said with some bitterness.
“I have to; I made a commitment to your husband. If he asks me to quit, then I will; but it's got to be him. Meanwhile there's a chance, given enough time, that I'll come up with an answer that will satisfy him.”
“How much time?”
“I can't answer that yet.”
“More than a week?”
“Probably not.”
She gnawed flecks of lipstick off her lower lip; one fleck stuck to her front tooth like a dark red cavity. “I suppose you're right,” she said at length. The bitterness was gone; she sounded resigned now.
I said, “Why don't you talk to his doctor? A physician might be able to convince him that counseling is a good idea.”
“Yes, I'll do that.”
I got up on my feet. “You want me to go over first?”
“Please. I'll come in later; he'll think I've been out for a walk.”
I left her sitting there, huddled and feeling sorry for herself, and went back along the path and across the green to Twelfth Avenue. Lynn Kiskadon struck me as a self-centered and self-pitying woman, at least as concerned with her own difficulties as she was with her husband's; but I still felt sorry for her. There was no question that she'd had a rough time of it since Kiskadon's illness was diagnosed, and she had stood by him throughout. It would have been nice to do something for her, something noble like take myself off the job as she'd asked, or refuse payment for services rendered. But I wasn't feeling particularly noble these days. Besides which, I like to eat and to pay my bills.