He had to ask, although Harry did not believe, at this point, that Wendell Comstock had murdered his wife. The coroner, who had made an initial assessment and was waiting downstairs, believed the woman had probably been dead since early afternoon.

“No. Things were fine.”

“Had your wife been depressed lately? Had she made previous attempts to take her own life?”

“She’d never tried anything before, at least not that I know of.”

“Do you know whether she was seeing someone?”

“You mean, like an affair?”

“No, sorry, I meant, was she seeing anyone like a psychiatrist, a therapist, to help her if she was feeling down?”

“No. I’d have known if she was doing that. But the truth is, we . . . we didn’t have what you’d call a real happy marriage, at least not until lately.”

“Lately?”

The man nodded. “We just discovered, after all this time, kind of by accident, that we had something in common. Things were looking . . . they were looking better. So I don’t understand why . . . oh God, I’m going to have to call her parents. Jesus. This’ll kill them.” He bit his lower lip.

“I know,” Harry said. “I’m so sorry.” He paused, then asked, “Did she ever ask about, you know, questions about electrical things? Short circuits? What would happen if you dropped a toaster in a tub filled with water?”

“It wasn’t a toaster.”

“I’m sorry?”

“It wasn’t a toaster.”

Harry hadn’t had a close look himself at what was in the bathtub with the dead woman. When he’d arrived, one of the firefighting staff had said the woman had died from knocking a toaster into the tub.

“Give me a second,” Harry said, and excused himself. He went into the bathroom and looked at the black object down by the dead woman’s foot. It definitely was not a toaster. It was slightly smaller than a toaster, and there were no slots in the top, but instead a little handle and a couple of buttons and lights.

He thought he knew what it was but wasn’t certain.

He returned to the bedroom and asked Wendell what that device was.

“A transformer.”

“What kind of transformer?”

“For running trains.”

“Where would your wife get one of those?”

“Follow me,” Wendell said.

He led the chief down to the first floor, then to a door off the kitchen, and finally down a flight of stairs to the basement.

He pointed to the train setup on the Ping-Pong table.

“It powered this,” he said. “She had to have unplugged it, disconnected the wires from the track, and taken it upstairs. I can’t . . . I can’t imagine what got into her head.” He looked at the trains and the buildings on the table. “I’m getting rid of all of this. I don’t ever want to see any of it again.”