The Widow's Son by Thomas Shawver Read Free Book Online Page A

have to do with you now?”
    “It’s complicated.”
    “No kidding. Have you gone to the police?”
    “Why would I, since it was him who admitted it? Despite my initial shock, I never felt threatened. You’ve met Emery. He’s not capable of violence.”
    “Jeffrey Dahmer’s mother surely felt the same about him.”
    She looked at me levelly; there were no tears now. “I trust him, Michael.”
    I didn’t know what else to say. But Natalie did.
    “Would you talk to him? He doesn’t have any friends other than a few colleagues at work. Perhaps you can bring him out of his shell.”
    When I hesitated, she urged, “He trusts you.”
    “But I barely know him.”
    Not about to let me off the hook, Natalie Phelan appealed to what we both knew I couldn’t resist. “If it helps,” she said, “he also has a remarkable book he’s prepared to sell. Please, Michael. Say you’ll see him at your shop in the morning.”
    And, like an idiot, I looked into those luminous green eyes and said, “Sure, why not?”
    —
    The Emery Stagg who entered my store the next morning gripping a battered briefcase had changed slightly from two years earlier. For one thing, he’d added a little paunch at his belly, no doubt from the beer and wine I’d seen him imbibe on occasion with Natalie in the bistro. I suspect he was testing the teachings that had been drummed into him by the Church of Latter-day Saints, but he sought to lessen the heresy by treating his experimentation with alcohol as if it were a science project. He’d let his hair grow longer, too, combing the strands straight back from his high forehead.
    Despite these changes, however, Emery retained the look of one slightly adrift in public, like a letter delivered to the wrong address. And for all of Natalie’s attempts to liberate his conservative fashion sense, he hid the tortoiseshell glasses she bought him in a sock drawer and remained steadfast to the old white shirt/black trouser uniform of the day, as if it was one less decision to make every morning. In short, Emery Stagg still looked and acted like what he was when I first met him: a civil engineer specializing in water and sewage treatment systems who felt far more comfortable among flocculation filters than people.
    Approaching the counter that morning he looked concerned to find Josie standing next to me.
    “Hiya, Em,” she called out cheerfully, instantly attuned to his unease. She tucked a pencil behind her ear and made a show of gathering up a bundle of papers to clear space next to the computer. “Why don’t you two get comfortable in the alcove. Mind if I join you after I finish these accounts?”
    He drummed his fingers on the counter, considering.
    “Okay, I guess,” he finally answered.
    Emery followed me to a quiet section of the shop between the philosophy and poetry sections where we settled into green leather wingback chairs.
    “You must think me nuts,” he began softly, setting his briefcase on the coffee table between us.
    I was tempted to respond sarcastically with something like: “Because you intended to murder Natalie? Or that you confessed it to her after changing your mind?”
    But I didn’t. The introvert was trying his best to be forthcoming about a matter obviously painful to him and I didn’t want the conversation to end before it began.
    Instead, I smiled diplomatically while my left index finger explored an ear.
    “One can’t hide a secret as dark as that forever,” he continued, looking at me with bleak, tired eyes. “She needed to know before deciding to accept me.”
    “Given what she told me last night,” I said, “you don’t have to worry on that score. She loves you very much.”
    Emery rubbed his nose between his thumb and forefinger, stifling a sniff.
    “Becker Systems lost its contract with the county,” he said, drawing a handkerchief from his back pocket. “I may lose my job. At best, my billable hours will be cut. We are going to need money. It’s the