Honeymoon

Chapter 20

KIND OF EXCITING, actually. A rush. The all-important third act of the drama.

Flashing lights and the ascending scream of a siren filled the driveway. Nora ran out the front door, hysterical, screaming, “Hurry! Please, hurry! Oh, please!”

The paramedics—two young men with short-cropped hair—quickly grabbed their bags and hustled into the big house.

Nora rushed them to the hallway bathroom, where Connor’s large frame was sprawled out on the floor.

Suddenly she fell to her knees, weeping uncontrollably, her face flush against Connor’s chest. One of the paramedics, the shorter of the two, had to drag her back out to the hallway to make room for himself and his partner. “Please, ma’am. Let us work in here. He might still be alive.”

For the next five minutes, every effort was made to bring Connor Brown back to life, and every one of those efforts failed. Ultimately, the two paramedics exchanged that knowing glance, the silent recognition that there was nothing more they could do.

The older of the two turned and looked back over his shoulder at Nora, who stood by the doorway in a seemingly shock-induced haze. His face said it all, no words were required, but he uttered the redundant “I’m sorry.”

She took her cue and burst into more tears. “No!” she yelled. “No, no, no! Oh, Connor, Connor!”

Minutes later the Briarcliff Manor police arrived. It was routine procedure, Nora knew. Connor being pronounced dead at the scene meant they got the call. Another screaming siren and more flashing lights in the driveway.

A few of the neighbors had gathered to look on. It seemed that Nora and Connor had just been joking about their watching them have sex only moments ago.

The police officer who did most of the talking was named Nate Pingry. He was older than his partner, Officer Joe Barreiro, and clearly the more experienced of the two. Their purpose was simple: prepare a report detailing the events leading up to, and the circumstances surrounding, the death of Connor Brown. In other words, the necessary paperwork.

“I know how hard this must be for you, Mrs. Brown, so we’ll try to do this as quick as possible,” said Pingry.

Nora had her head buried in her hands. She was sitting on the ottoman in the living room, where the paramedics had practically carried her. She looked up at the policemen, Pingry and Barreiro.

“We weren’t married,” she said through a sob. She saw both officers glance at her left hand and the four-carat diamond ring Connor had given her. “We were just…” She paused and dropped her head back into her hands. “We were just recently engaged.”

Officer Pingry trod lightly. As much as he hated this part of his job, he knew it had to be done. Of all the skills it required, there was none more important than the right amount of patience.

Slowly, Nora took him and his partner through everything that happened. Her arrival at dusk, to the omelet she made for Connor, to the moment he said he was feeling sick. She described helping him to the bathroom, and the trauma his body seemed to suffer.

Nora rambled and, a few times, corrected herself. Other times she spoke with great clarity. As she’d read in books on forensic psychology, the major similarity among “grief-stricken” people was their ever-shifting cognitive and emotional states.

Nora even admitted to the officers that she and Connor had just made love. In fact, she was sure to mention it. The county medical examiner wouldn’t have a report for a day or so, but she already knew what the autopsy would show. Connor died from cardiac arrest.

Maybe the sex, even at the age of forty, had triggered it. That would be one theory. Stress from his job would be another. Perhaps there was a family history of heart disease. The bottom line was that no one would ever know for sure.

Exactly how she wanted it.

After Officer Pingry asked the last of his questions, he read back the notes he’d taken. It was an outline of what Nora had told him—which was everything he needed to know. Except, of course, the little part about how she poisoned Connor, then watched him die on the bathroom floor.

“I think we have everything we need, Ms. Sinclair,” said Officer Pingry. “If you don’t mind, we’d like to take one last look around the house.”

“Okay,” she said softly. “Whatever you need to do.”

The two policemen went down the hallway, and Nora remained on the ottoman, which she’d purchased for slightly over seven thousand at New Canaan Antiques. After a minute she got up. Pingry and his partner may have seemed nice and flashed what seemed to be genuine looks of concern, but the moment of truth had yet to come.

What do they really think?

With furtive steps, Nora fell in line behind the policemen as they went from room to room. Close enough to overhear them, far enough away not to be noticed.

Along the second-floor hallway, she got what she was looking for. The two had stopped to chat inside Connor’s media room. The early reviews of her performance were in.

“Shit, will you look at this setup?” said Pingry. “I think the TV alone is worth more than my salary.”

“That girl was about to marry very rich,” said his partner, Barreiro.

“No kidding, Joe. Now she’s shit out of luck.”

“Tell me about it. She was this close to grabbing the brass ring.”

“Yeah, and then the brass ring drops dead.”

Nora turned in the hallway and quietly padded back down the stairs. Her eyes were bloodshot and she looked a mess. But on the inside the feeling was relief. Brava, Nora! God, you’re good.

The police didn’t suspect a thing.

She had committed the perfect murder.

Again.