Page 20 of Little Bitter Truths
“My wife,” he said.
Given his place looked like a junkyard collector’s bachelor pad, I was shocked.
“Yourwife?”
“Mm-hmm.She gave me an ultimatum.Either I went to a doctor and got checked out or she was leaving me.Turns out, Wren wasn’t wrong.The doctor ran tests.Memory stuff.Cognitive things.”
“And?”
He set the beer aside, rubbing his face with a hand.“I’ve got Alzheimer’s.Had it for some time, the doc says.At first I didn’t believe it.Thought the whole thing was nonsense.Then my wife started pointing things out.Little slip-ups like me forgetting appointments and misplacing things.”
His gaze drifted toward the dartboard again.
“I was messing up those medications, just like Wren said,” he admitted.“Didn’t realize it at the time.I’d never do something like that on purpose.”
“The diagnosis must have been hard to accept.”
“You ever have someone tell you your brain’s falling apart bit by bit?It isn’t great.I thought someone at work was messing up those medications, and Wren was covering for them and shifting the blame on me.It was a stupid assumption.Now I know she did what she had to do.”
I glanced again at the dartboard.“But the picture stayed.”
“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to take it down.”
“But you haven’t.”
“Funny story, that.”
“Funny how?”I asked.
“Wren stopped by after she fired me.She saw the dartboard, and I apologized for it and for my behavior.Said I’d put her picture there before I was diagnosed.I said I was going to take it down, and she laughed and told me to leave it up.We even threw a few darts while she was here.I guess I leave it up now because …” He reached for his beer, took a long swig, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.“It’s the last memory I have of her.When I heard she’d been murdered, I felt sick inside.”
“Why?”
“Aside from our disagreement, Wren was the kindest person I’ve ever worked with in my life.Everyone loved her.If I’m being honest, I did too.”
He downed the rest of his beer and tossed the empty bottle into a trash can.“You got any more questions?”
“Just one.Where were you the night Wren was murdered?”
“I was here, and my wife vouched for me when we talked to the police.”
I stood, and he watched me walk to the door.
Just before I stepped outside, he said, “For what it’s worth, I didn’t kill her.”
“I didn’t say you did.”
“Good.”
I walked toward my car, my mind sorting through every emotion he had expressed—anger, resentment, but also regret.And a diagnosis that explained far more than a simple workplace grudge.If Clive had hated Wren enough to kill her, he hadn’t done himself any favors by leaving her picture up on the dartboard or saying what he’d thought of her when she fired him.
I slid into the driver’s seat and started the car, questioning the odds that Clive was the killer.He had an alibi,ifhis wife wasn’t covering for him.
If he didn’t do it, then who?
I wanted answers, and there was one person who might have them—Silas, the county coroner and a man who just so happened to be my good friend.
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