“You don’t seem that surprised that he’d be a murder suspect.”

“Everything can be a surprise. Or nothing, depends.”

“On what?”

She cocked her head to one side. “If you trust people, you get surprised.”

“You don’t?”

“No more,” she said. “Every day, my husband told me he loved me. Every single day, six thirty, first thing he woke up, even before the toothbrush. ‘I love you, Sonny.’ Covering his mouth so the bad breath didn’t bother me.” The hand drifted to her abdomen, continued to her knee. “He was a syurgeon. Every Friday, he gave me flowers, all the women were jealous. He worked so hard, plastic syurgeon, my Stevie. Long hours. Long long long hours.” Flashing teeth. “He hired pretty little Puerto Rican nurses. Now he is married to one.”

“Ah.”

She recrossed her legs. Fabric shifted, revealing the flank of a meaty white thigh. A sandal bobbled.

I said, “You knew Dale when you were married.”

“Oh, yes.”

“What kind of relationship did the two of you have?”

Crooked grin. “You want to know did I sleep with him? A little, yes, it happened. Stevie was having his nurse fun. The rooster, why not the hen?”

“Only a little?” I said.

“I liked to do it. Dale not so much.”

“No enthusiasm.”

“Enthusiasm, yes,” she said. “When he did it. And he was able. No problem with able, just problem with often.”

“Any sign he was gay?”

“He told me no.”

“You asked.”

“It was a syad time for me.” Her shoulders sagged. “I found a little Platinum American Express receipt in Stevie’s jacket. Big, expensive dinner, at a place in the Hamptons I’d asked Stevie to take me. He nyever did.”

“What a bum,” I said.

“Oh, yes, Ah-lex. Big-time bum. So I was syad. I cried to Dyale, said please treat me like a woman. Instead, he was nice.”

“Nice?”

“Like a gyirlfriend.”

“Good listener?”

“The hand-hold, the listening, the hugs. The little kiss here.” Tapping the tip of her nose. “The business? Nyo.”

She shifted her weight, exposed more thigh.

I said, “Hard to believe he turned you down.”

Her eyes moistened. “You are probably lying but I like it anyway.”

She drank wine, looked up at the ceiling. Her chin quivered. She covered her thigh.

I said, “So you asked if he was gay and he said no.”

“Right away, no.”

“Did the question bother him?”

“Not at all,” she said. “He laughed. Changed the subject.”

“To what topic?”

“‘You are so beautiful, Sonny.’” Deep sigh.

“Was he effeminate?”

“Nyo,” she said. “I’d say nyo.”

“You’re not sure.”

“Yes, I’m sure, definite nyo. Dyale was not girly, just a sensitive guy.”

“Helpful.”

She winked. “Not like a nyormal man, eh?”

I laughed.