Chapter 4
It was the kind of drive that often cleared my head.
But today it gave my thoughts more room to wander.
The facts as I knew them so far: Wren had been murdered in her sister’s living room.
Nothing was stolen. There was no clear motive.
A neighbor had spotted a truck parked nearby the night before, and a fired employee had threatened her.
And then there was the husband who sounded almost too good to be true.
As I mulled it all over, Paso Robles came into view, the small downtown area coming alive with the quiet bustle of late morning. I pulled into the parking lot outside a modest brick office building with a brass sign mounted beside the entrance, which read: MAYFAIR FINANCIAL
Inside, the office was neat and understated. Framed photos of vineyards hung on the walls, and soft instrumental music played somewhere in the background.
A receptionist sat behind a desk near the front.
She looked up as I approached and said, “Can I help you?”
“I’m here to see Cooper Mayfair,” I said. “My name is Georgiana Germaine.”
“He’s just finishing up with a client,” she said. “You’re welcome to have a seat.”
I sat, and moments later a door opened down the hall and a man stepped out. He shook hands with another man in a gray suit with a folder tucked under his arm. Gray Suit seemed relieved to be leaving.
At first glance, Cooper looked like the kind of person one could trust to manage their money.
He had an all-American vibe. He was clean-cut and handsome in a way that wasn’t flashy but easy on the eyes.
His dark blond hair was trimmed above the collar of his white button-up, which was tucked into a pair of beige slacks.
His gaze landed on me, and I said, “Mr. Mayfair? I’m Georgiana Germaine.”
Recognition flickered in his eyes.
“You’re the private investigator,” he said.
“That’s right.”
“Mia told me she hired you. I assume you’re here because you have questions for me. I was just about to take my lunch break. Would you mind if we talked over a meal?”
“Works for me.”
He walked in my direction, offering a slight smile to the receptionist. “I’ll be back in an hour, Linda.”
We stepped outside and walked a block down the street to a small restaurant on the corner called the Twisted Vine Bistro, a cozy place with outdoor tables shaded by umbrellas and a chalkboard menu propped beside the door.
Inside, the hostess led us to a table near the window.
We took a seat, and a waiter dropped off a couple of menus and glasses of water, saying he’d give us a few minutes and then return to take our order.
“What would you like to know?” Cooper asked.
“Let’s start with your relationship with Wren. Why do you think the two of you separated?”
His expression softened.
“If I’m being honest, I think life got in the way.”
“That’s a broad answer.”
“I suppose it is, isn’t it? Over the last year or so, we started drifting apart. I was more wrapped up in work than usual, and so was she, and then one day it was like we were living together but not connecting anymore.”
“That’s similar to what Wren told Mia.”
He rested his hands on the table. “A few months ago, she told me she felt like we weren’t close anymore and that we behaved a lot more like roommates instead of husband and wife.”
“How did you react?”
“I tried to fix it at first. I thought back to the things we did when we met, and I made an effort to spend more time with her. I planned date nights and a weekend trip.”
“Did it help?”
“For a while,” he admitted. “But it didn’t last long.”
“Why not?”
“Things between us just felt … I don’t know … awkward.”
The waiter returned. “Can I get you started with drinks and something to eat?”
Cooper ordered a grilled chicken sandwich and a soda, and I chose a shredded beef salad and a glass of iced tea.
When the waiter walked away, Cooper continued.
“The separation wasn’t meant to be permanent,” he said. “At least not at first. We agreed to take some time apart to see how we felt.”
“A trial separation.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“How did you feel about that?”
“I worried that once we were apart, we’d drift even farther away from each other.”
I paused, then said, “That’s not what you told the police.”
He blinked at me. “What do you mean?”
“Chief Foley and Detective Whitlock told me you said the separation was mutual and that it had been the right decision.”
A flicker of discomfort crossed his face. “I suppose I did say those things.”
“I’m confused. Which version is the truth? The one you just told me, or the one you told them?”
He sighed, rubbing his hands together. “When the police came to see me, I’d just learned about what happened to Wren.
Everything was a blur. I don’t remember half of what I said.
What I meant by my statement was, if Wren wanted space, I was willing to give it to her.
It didn’t mean I wanted our marriage to end. ”
I wanted to believe him, because he looked pained, like a person tormented by a loved one’s death. And because in high stress situations, people often spoke first and processed later.
“After the separation, did you ask Mia to help you and Wren get back together?” I asked.
He nodded. “I was hoping she’d talk Wren into giving our marriage one last chance.”
“What did she say?”
“She was willing to try. She made it clear that she would talk to her, but she wouldn’t push.”
The waiter returned with our drinks, setting them down and letting us know our food would be out in a few minutes.
“Cooper, can you think of anyone who might have had a reason to harm your wife?” I asked.
For a moment, he remained still.
Then a sob poured out of him, loud enough to turn heads across the restaurant. Tears streamed down his face, and he turned to me.
“I loved her,” he choked out. “I’ll always love her.”
The hostess rushed over with a box of tissues, looking concerned.
“Oh my goodness,” she said, placing the box on the table next to him. “Sir, are you all right?”
“I … yes,” he said. “I’ll be fine. Thank you.”
She gave me a brief side-eye as she stepped away, the look suggesting she thought something I’d said had caused his sudden outburst.
Cooper grabbed several tissues and pressed them to his face.
“I’m sorry,” he said between breaths. “I just can’t believe she’s gone.”
His grief was convincing enough that the entire restaurant had gone silent.
But I was still questioning things.
Foley and Whitlock had described Cooper as a good man. A gentle man.
Maybe he was, or maybe he knew how to play the part when it suited him. It didn’t seem like a part, though—or an act, for that matter.
He blotted his eyes a few more times and set the crumpled tissues aside.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “It’s a lot to process.”
“I understand,” I said. “We can take a break if you like.”
“It’s okay. I’d like to keep going.”
That suited me just fine.
“Did you and Wren argue often?” I asked.
“No.”
“Did either of you have an affair during your relationship?”
“No.”
“Did Wren ever mention being followed, threatened, or harassed by anyone?”
“Not that I recall.”
“What about Clive Simmons, a man who worked at Golden Harbor Senior Care?”
“What about him?”
“I heard he made some threatening comments to Wren when he was fired.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Clive was let go because he was messing up some of the patients’ medications. Wren never mentioned it to you?”
“No. Not a word.”
The waiter returned, setting our food in front of us. I reached for a fork, but Cooper just sat there, staring at his food like he’d lost his appetite.
I studied him, trying to decide what to say next.
“There’s something else I need to ask you,” I said.
“Go ahead.”
“When was the last time you saw or spoke with Wren?”
There was a long pause.
“I didn’t speak to her,” he said. “I stopped by Mia’s house that night.”
My fingers tightened around my glass. “What night?”
“The night she was … you know …”
“Murdered?”
He nodded.
“What time were you there?” I asked.
“Around dinnertime, I guess.”
Silence settled between us, and in a sharp turn of events, the grieving husband sitting across the table from me didn’t appear as harmless and innocent anymore.