As the waitress walked away, I pulled my cell phone from my purse and put it on the table between us. “I’m going to record this,” I said. Beth said nothing as I tapped the screen.
When it was recording, I said, “Let’s talk about your childhood.”
She looked at the red light on my recording app for a moment, then shrugged. “Sure.”
“You were an only child, and your parents didn’t have a happy marriage. I think that must have been lonely.”
Beth’s voice was cool. “That’s like saying Mount Everest is tall, but yes.”
“I’m curious about your parents. Tell me about them.”
Beth looked down at my phone again, and when she looked up she had a coldness in her expression that was as blank as stone. “It’s dangerous to ask old people about their childhoods, Shea. Our buried things have been buried for a long time.”
I met her eyes, and then the waitress came back with two bowls of lobster bisque. When she had gone away again, Beth said to me, “I’ve never asked. Are you married? My background check didn’t cover your love life.”
I picked up my spoon, trying to shake off the cold feeling from a minute before. “Divorced.”
“Smart girl,” Beth said. “If my parents had had the guts to get divorced, everything would be different.”
“You said your mother was trapped.”
“She was, and so was my father. Men can get trapped in their own ways.”
“Did your mother have mental-illness issues?”
Beth frowned. “Excuse me?”
“It’s something I heard. That your mother may have spent time in a private hospital when she was a teenager.”
Beth blinked and put down her spoon. “Shea, please elaborate.”
They were simple words, polite even, but my stomach went cold. Beth’s inflection was lifeless, dead, her expression blank. She was waiting for an answer, and I had the feeling that if I didn’t provide it, I would be very, very sorry. Which was crazy, because she was an over-sixty woman having lunch in a trendy restaurant.
I cleared my throat. “I found a source who said—”
“Who? Who said that?”
For a second, I didn’t want to tell her. Then again, why was I protecting Sylvia Simpson and her forty years of judgment? “She was your father’s secretary,” I said.
“My father’s secretary told you that my mother was insane?” Now her tone was incredulous.
“Well, she said—”
“That’s bullshit. My mother wasn’t crazy. My mother was a victim. She lived her entire life in shame.”
“Who was she a victim of? Your father?”
“My parents fought, but my father was never abusive. He was good, in his way.” Beth leaned back in her chair and picked up her spoon, stirring her bisque as if she had just remembered it was there. “I would have loved my father more if he had noticed me. But we never had much to say to each other. I don’t think I’ve ever been very good with men.”
I gaped at her. She’d been accused of murdering two men in cold blood, so no, maybe she wasn’t very good with men. “Well,” I managed, “I guess I know the feeling.”
“You’re not the type that’s very good with men, either,” Beth said, letting her judgment drop without a second’s concern for my feelings. “You’re attractive enough, but I’m going to guess you don’t have a boyfriend.” She pondered me. “Does your family try to set you up with dates? I bet they do. And because of what happened when you were a child, you’re too messed-up to say yes.”