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Three months later, I was playing the role of grieving widow. Lyle had been caught in flagrante with his paramour when they were incinerated in their love nest. I earned bushels of sympathy from friends and acquaintances, who, after a suitable time, hinted that I must have known something was up; everyone else did. I played the shocked and unsuspecting wife role to a level I thought deserved a Tony or even an Oscar.
I fantasized about my teary acceptance speech, where I’d heap praise on everyone who helped me win the award: “To my dear, departed, philandering husband, Lyle, whose insatiable lust for other women earned him the privilege of getting his sorry ass blown sky-high in a fiery postcoital Roman candle.”
An arson investigation had determined that the explosion was due to a gas leak that had been caused by a series of small quakes along the San Andreas Fault, which had put cracks in the gas lines going into the house. Pacific Gas and Electric had had an appointment to check the lines the week after the house blew up. My lawyer filed a negligence suit against PG&E as well as against Alex for letting Lyle use the hideaway as an illicit love nest when it was unsafe. Both suits will probably settle out of court, and I’ll get handsome penalties for my pain and suffering.
I received life insurance checks for $300,000 from Lyle’s group policy at work and another $500,000 on a term policy we had taken out when we bought our house. Our financial planner had recommended we both carry “mortgage relief” insurance; in case one spouse died, the other would get insurance money to keep paying the mortgage and stay in the house. Originally it had been our planner’s idea, and I had gone along. It turned out to be a brilliant recommendation. I paid down $250,000 from the term policy on the mortgage, bought a new Audi, upgraded the kitchen with Italian tiles and marble tops, and invested the rest with my planner. He says I’ll get about 10 percent each year in a diversified portfolio invested in commodities, natural resources, foreign currencies, and REITs.
The $300,000 death benefit from Lyle’s work policy is in laddered CDs for a down payment on a cute little bungalow I found in Napa that will make a lovely B&B one day. I’m so excited about the bungalow that I’m considering retiring early and starting a new career as a B&B hostess. Next weekend I’m going back to Napa to see my real estate agent and make an offer. If I get the bungalow, I can spend the winter and spring getting it in shape for the summer tourist season. I love this idea and dream about it at work, which, I have to admit, is getting more boring day by day. I’m ready for a big change in my life. I have Lyle and his girlfriend to thank for giving me this wonderful new life.
After Lyle tragically “passed away,” I took a month off from work to put my life together. I worked on my painting, enrolled in a yoga class, and went wine tasting all over California: Napa and Sonoma, Santa Barbara, San Luis Obispo, and Solvang. At Christmas I’m going to fly to London to catch a couple of plays and shop at Marks & Spencer. I want to buy nice presents for my family and friends, something I haven’t done in a while.
I’ve kept a low profile socially, going to quiet dinner parties hosted by me and Lyle’s friends. But no dating or hints that I was ready to start meeting new men. Why bother? Why in the world would I need a new man in my life at this time? Such foolishness. I might get a dog, though, one of those cute Shih Tzus or a Pomeranian. Their messes are easier to dispose of than those of men, who are sloppier. I would have my dog neutered, though, so I wouldn’t have to deal with those foolish impulses when another dog strolls by and they do that silly tail sniffing. How gross.
I have been interviewed by the Marin County police several times. They delivered the news of Lyle’s tragic death. Through tears and a good bit of well-rehearsed acting, I told them I had been in Burbank when the “unfortunate accident” happened.
A week or so later they returned, and I volunteered details about my trip to Burbank. Our last meeting was at the police station in Mill Valley for a taped interview to verify what they found out from interviews with hotel and restaurant personnel, people at the metroplex, work colleagues, and the mileage on my airport rental car. They made me go over the times repeatedly, even down to the minute, for heaven’s sake.
The detectives who questioned me were Sgt. Alvarez and Lt. Prendergast. I had the feeling that Sgt. Alvarez believed every word I said, but Prendergast was a bit of a pill, furrowing his brow, pursing his lips, and scowling as if he didn’t believe a word I said. Alvarez was kind of cute, in a boy-toy sort of way. Prendergast reminded me of that tall guy on “Law and Order” who’s always sarcastic when interrogating perps in those dreadful gray, windowless rooms where they browbeat people into admitting they did the dirty deed. Jerry Orbach was his name, I think. Did I read that he died recently?
I still wake up in the middle of the night from nightmares about the interview at the police station when Prendergast grilled me about my schedule from Wednesday afternoon around 3:00 p.m. until 7:00 a.m. the next morning.
“One thing keeps bothering me, Mrs. Harding. We don’t have anyone who can identify you leaving the theater or returning to your hotel that night,” Prendergast persisted. “Could we go over those times once again?”
I was frustrated that he kept going back to this time. I kept my composure and tried to show my sincerity. “It must have been around 9:45,” I said, always using the exact time. “Have you checked the movie show times?”
“The theater manager confirmed the movie was over at 9:40 p.m.”
I nodded. “After leaving the theater, I window shopped in the shopping center on the way back to my hotel. The stores were locking up so I didn’t go in.” I mentioned Banana Republic, Gap, Pottery Barn, Ann Taylor, and Lucy.
“So you got back to your hotel at . . .?
“Like I said, about 10:30. I took a shower, read for half an hour, and turned out the lights about midnight. I had a busy day Thursday with my CEO’s presentation. I was running his PowerPoint presentation that morning from the projection booth at the convention center.”
“Anybody see you go back into your hotel room that night?”
I strained to think. “No, I don’t think so. Someone was in the elevator when I went up, but I can’t even recall if it was a man or a woman. Sorry.”
“Did you watch television back in your room?”
“No, as I said, I read and went over some work.”
“What time did you wake up?”
“I’m an early riser; about 5:45. I went for a morning run and came back at 7:00 or so. Showered, dressed, and went down for breakfast.”
“We have a witness who saw you in the hallway about that time. In fact, we have witnesses from about 6:20 p.m. on Wednesday until 7:00 Thursday morning.”
Prendergast was frustrated that he couldn’t find any holes in my story for that critical twelve hours that I had driven to Marin to kill Lyle and return. I had the perfect alibi. NO one could find a hole in it.