“Scott, these are the detectives who called.”

He’s tall, thin but well-muscled, wearing jeans and a faded work shirt. His big hands are dirt stained, his hair cut short and graying. “Let me get cleaned up. I was out back working.” He looks at his hands, then looks me in the eye. “I can’t believe it about Jay.” He turns on his heel and heads down the hall.

Dr. Westmore lowers her voice. “That’s how he copes. Scott works. Some people cry. Others rage. Everyone has his or her own way of grieving.”

“Uh huh. Kind of cold to be digging in the garden, isn’t it?”

“He’s a landscaper. He owns the business but likes to get his hands dirty. He doesn’t mind the cold, and I think he’s just been cleaning out the planters on the back porch.”

“Hmmm. So there was no tension last night between anybody?” I shoot a glance at Chase, who’s head down over his phone, taking notes.

“No. It was a delightful evening.” She draws a deep breath and dabs at her eyes with a tissue. “We’ll need to notify his patients,” she says to herself.

Mr. Westmore returns. He’s changed his clothes, washed his hands.

Dr. Westmore rises. “I’ll be out front if you need me,” she says, setting the cat on the floor and reaching for the cigarettes. The cat trots after her as she leaves the room. Her husband sits in the chair she vacated. He looks out of place in the fussy living room.

“Mr. Westmore,” I begin, “would you tell us about last night?” He gives us the quick and dirty version. No frills. He seems like that kind of guy. Nothing he says deviates from his wife’s account of the birthday party.

“How long have you known Dr. Bradley?” I ask.

He scratches the gray stubble on his chin with a callused finger. “As long as Elise has. She met him in grad school. We’d been married for a few years when she went back to school to finish her degree. He used to come over to the apartment sometimes.” He smiles slightly at the memory. “We had a tiny little place downtown.” He clasps his hands in front of him, rests his elbows on his knees, and drops his head. “Jay was a nice person.”

“You think of anyone who wanted to hurt him?” The heat rumbles on loudly, like it does in some old houses.

Mr. Westmore waits until the noise subsides. “No. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Why not?”

“He was just a good guy, that’s all.”

“You spend much time with him?” Through the bay window, I see Dr. Westmore pacing the porch, a cigarette clamped between her lips, smoke twirling in her wake.

“We went fishing occasionally.”

“When was the last time?”

Mr. Westmore sits back, takes a deep breath. “Last fall. October, before it got real cold.”

“He say anything at all that seemed unusual, troubling, in the last few days?”

“Not to me.” He takes a deep breath, glances out the window, where his wife leans against the porch railing, her back to the house. “But I hope you find the bastard who killed him.”