“Let’s check around back. You said she’s a drinker. She could be back there getting wasted.”
In the small backyard they found Mildred Martin sitting at a wicker table on a lumpy, moss-covered brick patio, having a drink, smoking a cigarette and admiring her garden. She was about seventy-five, had the heavily wrinkled face of a lifelong smoker and sun worshiper and wore a lightweight print dress and sandals in the warm, breezy air. Her hair was dyed. Other than the gray roots, the primary color was a sort of orange. The smell of citronella filled the air from a bucket of the substance that sat lighted under the table.
After introductions were made, Mildred said, “I like sitting back here. Even with the damn mosquitoes. This time of year the garden can really shine.”
“We appreciate your seeing us,” said King politely. He’d followed Joan’s instructions and removed his head bandage.
Mildred waved them to seats at the table and held up her glass. “I’m a gin girl and hate to drink alone. What can I get you?” Her voice was deep and gravelly, permanently engraved with decades of liquor and cigarettes.
“Screwdriver,” said Joan with a quick glance at King. “I just love those.”
“Scotch and soda,” said King. “Can I help you?”
She laughed heartily. “Oh, if I were forty years younger, yes you could.” With an impish smile she walked a little unsteadily to the house.
“She seems to have finished her mourning period,” commented King.
“They were married forty-six years and by all accounts had a good relationship. Her husband was about eighty, in poor health and suffering great pain. Maybe there’s not much to grieve about.”
“Bill Martin was Bruno’s mentor. How so?”
“Bruno worked for Martin when he first started as a criminal prosecutor in Washington. Martin taught Bruno the ropes.”
“At the U.S. Attorney’s Office?” asked King.
“That’s right,” she said.
King looked around. “Well, the Martins don’t seem to be all that well off.”
“Public service doesn’t pay very well, we all know that. And Bill Martin didn’t marry an heiress. They moved down here after he retired. Mildred grew up here.”
“Well, nostalgia aside, it’s not the sort of place I’d want to come rushing back to.”
Mildred returned with their drinks on a tray and sat down. “Now, I guess you want to get down to brass tacks. I’ve already talked to the police. I really know nothing about any of this.”
“We understand, Mrs. Martin,” said King, “but we wanted to meet and talk with you personally.”
“Lucky me. And please call me Millie. Mrs. Martin is my mother-in-law, and she’s been dead for thirty years.”
“Okay, Millie, we know you’ve talked to the police, and we know that they did an autopsy on your husband’s body.”
“God, that was a complete waste of time.”
“Why’s that?” Joan said sharply.
Mildred eyed her keenly. “Because no one poisoned him. He was an old man with terminal cancer who died peacefully in his own bed. If I can’t drop in my garden, I’d prefer to go that way too.”
“You know about the phone call to Bruno?”
“Yes, and I’ve already told the police I didn’t place it. They checked my phone records. I guess they didn’t believe me.”
Joan leaned forward. “Yes, but the point is that Bruno was reportedly very agitated after getting the call. Can you explain why?”
“If I didn’t make the call, how should I know? Unfortunately mind reading isn’t among my repertoire. If it were, I’d be rich.”
Joan persisted. “Look at it this way, Millie. Bruno and your husband were once close but no longer really were. Yet he gets a phone call, which he thinks is from you, asking to meet, and he gets agitated. The person calling would have had to say something plausible for that to happen, something that Bruno would logically associate with you or your husband.”
“Well, perhaps it’s as simple as the person’s having told him Bill was dead. I hope that would have upset him. After all, they were friends.”