Paint It Black

Chapter Twenty-one

It was Emily’s idea to go see Roberta Tatum. When Louis told her that Roberta had already been questioned, Emily said simply, “Wives know things their husbands don’t know that they know.”

The Tatum home was a yellow stucco cottage, buried behind a riot of banana trees and purple bougainvillea vines. A storm was gathering over the bay by the time they arrived, and deep shadows moved in the junglelike yard where the windswept palm fronds played treble to the bass of approaching thunder.

They had called ahead and Roberta was waiting for them. She stood behind the wooden screen door, a stocky silhouette in a caftan of orange and green that billowed around her in the breeze. Her hair was concealed beneath a matching turban, giving her round, fresh-scrubbed face a stretched and youthful look.

Emily spoke first. “Mrs. Tatum, we’re sorry to bother you-”

“Have you found him?” Roberta said, her eyes going to Louis.

“Levon, or your husband’s killer?” Louis asked.

“Either.”

“No.”

Roberta sneered. “That’s what I thought.”

“May we come in, Mrs. Tatum?” Emily asked.

Roberta’s eyes slipped to Emily, then back to Louis. “Who’s she?”

“This is Agent Farentino. FBI.”

Roberta made no move to open the screen door. She was staring hard at Emily.

“Mrs. Tatum, please,” Louis said.

Roberta shoved open the door. “This is what they give Walter,” she said as she moved away. “A cookie and a meatball.”

Louis entered first and Emily followed slowly. He found himself in a small living room, with a kitchen off to his left. The rough-textured walls were painted a soft gold and the furniture was a pleasant mishmash of overstuffed sofas and rattan. A rainbow-hued Kilim rug covered the tile floor, and there were several beautiful wood sculptures around the room that looked to be good copies of African primitives. The jalousie windows were open to the breeze, and with each waft of air came the smell of stewing tomatoes and distant rain.

“You have a lovely home, Mrs. Tatum,” Emily said, edging forward through the archway. Louis followed, his gaze going past the tiny dining room to the open French doors that offered a glimpse of pool and greenery. He could hear wind chimes dancing.

Roberta grabbed a pack of cigarettes off an end table. “All right, what do you want?”

“The night your husband was killed-” Emily started.

Roberta’s sharp glance silenced her. Roberta waited until she was sure Emily didn’t plan to speak again, then looked at Louis.

“Where did Walter go when he left here?” Louis asked.

Roberta shrugged. “How would I know?”

“Give us a break here, Mrs. Tatum,” Louis said. “We’re here to help you. You told me you want this bastard found and we’re trying to do that.”

“You and I both know why they aren’t looking too damn hard.” Roberta turned away, picking a bit of tobacco carefully from her lip.

Louis could almost hear Emily bristle and he lifted a hand to keep her from intervening. She was no match for Roberta.

“We’re doing everything we can,” Louis said.

“It’s been almost a month,” Roberta said. “And what do you have? You can’t even find Levon.”

Louis rubbed his forehead. “We will.”

Roberta laughed softly. “I heard about your piggyback ride. I wish I could’ve seen it.”

“Mrs. Tatum,” Louis said slowly, “are you going to help us, or not?”

Roberta suddenly seemed deflated and she sat down, resting her forearms on her knees. The cigarette dangled from her long fingers.

Emily seized the moment. “Mrs. Tatum, we think if we can recreate your husband’s whereabouts the night he was killed, we might have a better idea what happened.”

Roberta looked up at Emily, then at Louis. He could read in her eyes that she wasn’t going to tell Emily Farentino a thing. He was about to ask Emily to go outside when Emily spoke again.

“You were his wife, Mrs. Tatum. You know things that could help us. Please.”

Roberta took a deep drag on the cigarette. She fell back in the chair, staring at the wall.

“I wasn’t his wife,” she said. “Not legally, anyway. But we were together for twenty-two years and that counts for something.”

Emily hesitated, then sat down on the sofa opposite Roberta. “My parents were together for thirty-five years, and they weren’t married, either,” she said.

Roberta looked up at Emily.

“It counts,” Emily said.

Roberta’s eyes welled. She looked away.

“Mrs. Tatum,” Emily said, “is there anything you can tell us about the night Walter died?”

Roberta wiped a hand across her eyes. “He used to like to go over to Hibiscus Heights in Fort Myers,” she said softly. “They got a couple of joints over there that run all night. He’d drink and then I’d feel him crawling into bed when the sun was coming up.”

Louis waited, glancing at Emily.

“I used to worry he’d drive off that bridge one morning and kill himself,” Roberta went on. “Never thought. . never dreamed somebody would do it for him.”

“What are the names of these places?” Louis asked.

“You can’t miss them,” Roberta said. “There’s a string of them on a little street called Queenie Avenue. But they don’t get going till after eleven. Anyone who works late there will know him.”

Her voice had gone flat, her gaze vacant. The long ash from her cigarette fell to the rug. She didn’t seem to notice it.

Louis spotted a framed photo on the television and went to it. It was a photograph of Roberta and Walter. It had been taken on a cruise ship and they were in formal wear. They were smiling like prom-goers.

“Can I take this, to show around?” he asked.

Roberta looked up at him. It took a moment for her to focus on the frame. Then she rose suddenly and disappeared into another room. She came back and thrust something at Louis.

“You take this instead,” she said.

It was a snapshot of Walter, taken at a Christmas party. Walter was smiling and wearing a Santa hat. His face was blurry.

“Mrs. Tatum-” Louis began.

She snatched the frame from Louis and set it back on the television. “You use that one,” she said, nodding at the snapshot.

Louis motioned to Emily and she headed toward the door. Roberta followed them. As they reached the door, Roberta grabbed Louis’s arm. He turned, but Roberta waited until Emily had walked toward the car before she spoke.

“Don’t let them fuck around on this,” she said. “Make them understand Walter is important. Walter is important, you hear me?”

“I hear you, Mrs. Tatum,” he said.

Roberta let go and Louis stepped out, letting the screen slap shut behind him.

Emily was standing at the squad car, waiting. The temperature had dropped at least ten degrees with the coming rain and she was hugging herself, as if cold.

Louis glanced at his watch. “It’s only five o’clock. No point in going to Queenie Boulevard until later tonight. We might as well go back to the station. Or do you want me to drop you off at the inn?”

Emily was looking at something across the street and didn’t answer.

“Farentino?”

Her head snapped back to Louis. “What?”

“I was asking you if you wanted me to drop you off at the inn.”

“No.” She hesitated. “Could we go get some dinner maybe?”

There was something in her voice that caught him off guard. She wasn’t coming on to him; there wasn’t even a hint of that kind of vibration. But she wanted something. Maybe she just didn’t want to be alone. Shit. He kept forgetting that when he went home to the Dodies’ cheerful company each night, she was stuck alone in a mildewed hotel room.

“I could use a burger or something,” Louis said. “Come on, I know a good place.”