SIREN'S TEARS (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 3) by Lawrence de Maria Page B

well as could be expected,” I asked Mrs. Clifton if there was anything that bothered her about her husband’s death.
    “You mean other than his dying?”
    I richly deserved that.
    “Sorry. I mean, the circumstances.”
    “Well,” she said, “it was very sudden. John had just finished dinner and we were watching N.C.I.S. on cable. A rerun. The one where Abby goes bowling with the nuns and comes home to find a killer waiting for her.” She looked at me. I smiled. “Anyway, Jack’s head slumped forward. I assumed he had nodded off. But when I asked him for the remote he didn’t respond. He wasn’t breathing. I called 911, but it was too late. They said it was a heart attack. No one mentioned anything about the environment. But I wouldn’t be surprised. We’re so near to Jersey and the Fresh Kills dump isn’t all that far away either. I worry about the water.”
    The Fresh Kills Landfill, so huge that when operating it was visible from orbit, had been closed a few years. But it still got blamed for a lot. As well it should. I clucked sympathetically, feeling like a heel. Then it got worse.
    “Poor Jack wanted to move to Jersey, nearer his dealership. He sold Fords, you know. Would only sell American. He was a veteran. But I said no. Our family is on Staten Island. We raised our kids here. Now something here might have killed him. He won’t get to have any grandkids. I wish I had listened to him.”
    She started crying then, quietly. Being a heel would have been a step up from how I felt now.
    When she composed herself, I said, “Mrs. Clifton, it may not have had anything to do with that. This is all very preliminary. I just have a few questions. Are you up for them?”
    She nodded.
    “Did your husband complain of feeling ill in the days or weeks leading up to his death?”
    “No. The normal aches or pains. But he always went to work. He was often tired. Had a lot of late meetings and such, but the car business is like that, you know.”
    “Did he always work late, or was that something more recent.”
    She thought about it.
    “It seemed like he had more business meetings in the months before he passed. Why?”
    “Well, if he was working so hard, it might mean he was under a lot of stress.” I took a deep breath. “What about other kinds of stress, perhaps in his personal life.”
    She looked at me.
    “Why do you want to know that?”
    “I really don’t. But some lawyer will undoubtedly ask, trying to shift the blame. Looking for mitigating circumstances. You know how they work. Always trying to blame the victim. I just want to get it out of the way. I know it’s a difficult subject to address. You can’t imagine how many of these interviews I’ve done. Fortunately, many of the wives I’ve spoken to see the big picture. In cases like this, it’s better if we get a full picture of a victim, warts and all. We’re all human, after all.”
    “John was a fine man. A little overweight, but he was working on that. We had a happy marriage. That’s what you’re getting at, aren’t you?”
    I knew I had gone as far as I could. Or would.
    “I’m sure you did, Mrs. Clifton. What you’ve told me is most helpful.”
    Somewhat placated, she said, “When will you know if John’s death is connected to any others?”
    “I can’t predict that. But if there is a connection, you will be notified.”
    That, at least, was the truth. She would indeed be notified, but not for the reason she thought.
    ***
    My next visit went a little better, although I still felt like I needed a shower when it was over.
    I told the same lies to Carol Lydecker in a small storeroom behind her office at the family lumber business she was now running in Mariners Harbor. We were constantly interrupted by customers, salesmen and employees, which helpfully distracted her from some of my probing questions.
    “I’m sorry,” she said after one man with a clipboard left. “Ralph was very hands-on and I’m still learning my way. I’m