Weston Otis sat in his study, the ticking of the old grandfather clock in the corner echoing the meticulous rhythm of his thoughts. He felt a strange mixture of betrayal and lack of surprise toward his wife, Camilla. The woman he had adored and cherished once upon a time was now entangled in a scandal that seemed pulled straight from the sordid pages of a dime novel. What had she been thinking, committing a crime in such a brash, public manner? They had their list of indiscretions, the both of them, but he always looked the other way for Camilla's, and she always looked the other way for his. That had been their unspoken arrangement for years. And it had worked.

But now all of New York knew she'd been dallying with the juvenile son of an Italian mob boss behind his back. The murder, the affair, the name of the other man, it was all public knowledge, thanks to that revealing Times article. Whatever happened to discretion? Camilla's affair with Mario Castellano, Weston could forgive. In truth, he had long since stopped caring who his promiscuous wife took to bed. But her behavior turning him into a known cuckold? That he could not and would not absolve. She was finished. He could wash his hands of her. At last.

A vase of long-stemmed yellow roses sat on the corner of his desk. Those were new. Perhaps the maid had put them there. Yellow: the color of sunshine and cowardice. Weston sniffed, unable to decide if the hue was fitting or insulting.

Just then, a sharp knock on the door jolted him from his brooding. “Señor Otis?” called the voice of the maid, Elena. “Los Oficiales are here to speak with you. About Señora Otis.”

“Right,” Weston huffed. He glanced at his reflection in the large oval mirror on the wall. Although advancing in years, he was still a handsome man. Resembled James Stewart, some said. Satiated at the thought, he smoothed his hand over his silver hair and straightened his tie. “Yes, send them in.”

As the pair of officers (comically named Jack Marlowe and Jack Spade — again, so very dime novel-esque) entered his study, he briefly wondered why it was Elena who had escorted them through the manor rather than the butler. But what did it matter? Elena likely had little to do now that Camilla was incarcerated.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Otis,” the dark-complected policeman greeted him. “We spoke on the telephone earlier. I'm Officer Marlowe, this is Officer Spade.” He gestured to the sandy-haired man next to him. “Is now a good time for a few quick questions?”

Weston scrutinized the men in front of him. Both looked athletic and capable, yet far too young to be questioning him. It was rather insulting. But better to just get this over with. He had little to say on the matter, anyway.

Rising from his chair, Weston adjusted the lapel of his navy suit jacket and gestured for Marlowe and Spade to make themselves comfortable. As they settled onto the plush leather armchairs across from him, he couldn't help but notice the keen intelligence that flickered behind their eyes. Their chiseled faces were etched with a curious mix of skepticism and determination. Perhaps not such greenhorn imbeciles after all. He must play the part of the dutiful, wronged husband.

“You've come at a tumultuous time, gentlemen,” Weston began, his voice steady and authoritative. “My wife's actions have cast a dark shadow over everything I once thought I knew.”

Marlowe leaned forward, his gaze unwavering as he spoke, “Don't worry, Mr. Otis. We're here to uncover the truth, no matter where it may lead.”

“The truth?” Weston echoed.

“That's right. We're looking for the truth. Nothing more, nothing less,” Spade added.

Weston nodded. The truth was good. The truth would make Camilla look like the lying ingrate that she was. The truth could help him. Just not the whole truth.

“Whatever you need to know,” he said to the pair of officers. “Just ask.”

Marlowe dipped his head in thanks and took a small notepad from the breast pocket of his uniform. “How would you describe your marriage with Mrs. Otis?” he asked. “Did you two get along? Ever argue? Fight, maybe?”

Weston let out a little huff of impatience. Such base questioning. Did these two just graduate from the police academy? “All married couples argue, Officer Marlowe,” he answered, his tone flirting with condescension. “Argue, disagree, shout, go to bed in separate rooms? Of course. But I never imagined Camilla had kept such secrets from me. Or that she had the temperament to shoot a man. These past two days have made me wonder if I ever really knew my wife.”

Marlowe scribbled down notes as he listened to Weston's response.

Spade, on the other hand, fixed Weston with a penetrating stare, as if trying to spot hidden cracks beneath the veneer of an expensive cabinet. He leaned forward slightly, his voice low and deliberate as he asked, “Do you have any idea why your wife might have gotten involved with Mario Castellano, Mr. Otis? Why she felt the need to seek extramarital affection? Any suspicions or hints as to her motives?”

Weston hesitated for a moment, weighing his potential answers carefully. Now that he thought about it, Camilla had been growing increasingly distant in recent months. Perhaps he hadn't noticed before because his own attention lay elsewhere.

“I can't say for certain,” Weston began slowly, choosing his words with vigilance. “But Camilla...she has always been insatiable. She's much younger than me, as I'm sure you know. But our marriage was always a civil one. Happy, even. Or so I thought. The news that she was having an affair is still shocking to me. She's an outspoken woman. I figured if she was ever unsatisfied or unhappy, she wouldn't hesitate to tell me.”

“So, you're angry about her secrecy, huh?” Spade asked as he continued to scrutinize Weston's face. “That why you're leaving her to rot in a cell instead of paying her bail?”

Weston fixed Spade with a look that could wilt roses. “Officers, did she, or did she not, shoot a man in cold blood?”

“She did,” Spade confirmed, unmoved.

“Right. Therefore, she's a murderer,” Weston summed up.

“She is,” Marlowe concurred.

“Right,” Weston repeated. “And it has always been my understanding that murderers belong behind bars.”

“That's fair,” Spade said with a shrug. “Cold, but fair.”

“Exactly my point,” Weston said. He'd never claimed to be a warm man. Camilla had accused him countless times of withholding affection simply to vex her. But these officers needed to know nothing of that. “Camilla got herself into this mess. I don't see why I should get her out of it. Or,” he gave the officers a pointed glare, “be made to stand trial in my own home.”

“You're not on trial, Mr. Otis. Not yet. And this isn't about fairness,” Marlowe interjected, his tone soft yet firm. “It's about justice. And sometimes, justice requires us to look below the surface and delve into the depths of a person's motives, their fears, their desires. Their plans.”

“Are you suggesting there's more to this than what appears?” Weston asked, his eyes darting between Marlowe and Spade. “She killed a man. Now she's in jail. On paper, it all seems quite straightforward.”

Marlowe leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers in front of him as he observed Weston. “On paper, sure. But we've seen our fair share of cases that turn out to be much more complex than they initially seem. People are not straightforward or one-dimensional, Mr. Otis. People are a million shades of gray. There's always more to the story.”

“More, you say?” Weston tutted.

“Yep. Lots more,” Spade piled on. “Be it motive, state of mind, desire... Potential gain.”

“Potential gain,” Marlowe repeated.

Weston scoffed as Marlowe and Spade exchanged a knowing glance. If there was anyone in this world more motivated by the possibility of potential gain than he himself, it was his conniving minx of a wife.

“I can assure you, gentlemen, that I have no knowledge of any ulterior motives my wife may have had,” Weston stated firmly. “Our marriage, while not without its flaws, was built on trust and mutual respect. Camilla broke that trust and lost my respect when she decided to have her tawdry little affair and publicly execute her lover. So, as I told your deputy over the telephone, no, I will not pay her bail. She can rot.”

Marlowe raised an eyebrow, a ghost of a smile flitting across his lips. “A valid reason, Mr. Otis. And noted.” He made a show of jotting down some words on his notepad.

“We'll just be on our way, then,” Spade added. “Thanks for your time.”

“Of course,” Weston said, gracing them with a solemn (and very artificial) smile. “Good day to you both.”

The pair of officers rose from the chairs and made their way to the door. As Spade opened it, Marlowe glanced back over his shoulder at their host.

“For the foreseeable future, don't leave town,” Marlowe instructed. “I hope that goes without saying.”

“It does, yes,” Weston snipped, his eyebrow arching in irritation. “I wouldn't leave town while my wife is in jail. Common sense doesn't elude me the way it does her.”

Marlowe smirked. “Common sense ain't common, Mr. Otis. Not at all. You have a nice day, now.”

The door closed behind them, and Weston was once again alone in his study, the ticking of the grandfather clock his only companion.

He scoffed again and sat down in the chair behind his desk. Those officers were no better than pups searching for their mother-dog's teat. Dilettantes. They knew nothing.

But now that they were gone, he could ring someone he actually wanted to talk to. If he was to be confined to New York, he may as well enjoy himself.

Reaching across the desk, Weston grabbed the telephone handset and dialed a number. There was no need to look it up; he dialed this number on frequent occasion. As he listened to the repetitive trill on the line, his mind's eye meandered languidly over the full red lips and rounded hips of the call's recipient. His latest business trip had kept him out of town for nearly a week. He'd missed her. Missed her sultry voice, her hooded ‘come hither’ eyes, her eagerness to sneak around behind her husband's back…

The other end picked up, and a seductive feminine voice greeted him: “Hello?”

“Hello, dolly,” Weston crooned in return. “I'm back in town and desperate to see you. Come over. Say, thirty minutes?”

༺ ○ ༻

Marlowe and Spade tipped their heads to the maid and followed her back through the labyrinth of hallways toward the front door. But to their surprise, rather than shooing them out of the house, she glanced both ways across the atrium, then ushered them into a parlor around the corner.

The parlor was quaint, and exuded a sense of opulence and mystery, with dim lighting casting shadows on the rich mahogany walls and heavy leather furniture. It was a space that seemed to hold secrets and confessions, just waiting to be disclosed.

“Something the matter, ma'am?” Spade asked as the maid softly shut the door behind them.

“Perdóname, Oficiales, I must speak with you,” the maid confided. Her vowels were exaggerated by her Spanish accent as she spoke, and she began to pace the room while wringing her hands. “It may not be my place, but Señor Otis does not tell you the whole truth.”

“Well, we figured that,” Spade said with a shrug.

Marlowe made a pacifying motion at his partner and addressed the distraught maid directly: “Can you shed some light on the areas of omission, Miss...?”

“Elena,” the maid said. “Call me Elena. And sí, Oficiales. Yes. Señor Otis is not a good husband. Not a nice man. Yes, Señora Otis was seeing the young Italian caballero, and I do not make excuses for her unfaithfulness. But Señor Otis also had another. Another lover. First — before la Señora met the Italian!”

“That right?” Spade exclaimed, his eyebrows shooting toward the ceiling.

Marlowe's heart rate increased threefold. Finally, something interesting! “Do you know who Mr. Otis was seeing?” he asked Elena.

“Shhhh-shhhh!” she hushed him. “We must keep our voices down.”

“Sorry,” Marlowe relented, his words more air than vox. He held his notepad and pen at the ready. “Got excited. Apologies. Do you know who Mr. Otis was seeing?”

Elena's eyes narrowed in disdain. “Not ‘was’,” she corrected him. “Is! He is still seeing her. And she's a friend! A friend of Señora Otis!”

“Alright, now that's just disturbing,” Spade groaned. “But I'm not surprised. Lemme guess: a friend from that fancy book club?”

“Yes,” Elena confirmed, her head bobbing in a fierce nod. “La Señora found out. She has known for some time. Angry, so very angry, she was. Then, when she met the Italian boy she fell hard and fast. I warned her he would cause her much trouble, but she said if her husband would not keep his wedding vows, she would not keep hers. They have both had affairs before, of course, but Señor Otis never with one of his wife's friends. So, Señora Otis planned to leave.”

Marlowe, who was writing frantically as to not miss a word, nearly dropped his notepad at this last reveal. “Mrs. Otis was planning to leave?” he hissed.

“Sí, salir,” Elena repeated in Spanish. She made a swooshing motion toward the door. “With Mario. She had made travel arrangements and had secured lodgings in Puerto Vallarta for them both. She had been working on this escape for weeks. So, when that taunting letter from Señora Montgomery came…”

“Holy smokes,” Spade said. He turned to Marlowe and they shared a look of unbridled shock. “Mrs. Otis must have felt like her entire world was collapsing around her. Betrayed by her husband, her friend, and her lover. That's enough to make anyone go nuts!”

“Well, flip my lid. Her husband and her lover, both cheating on her with one of her closest friends,” Marlowe tsked, shaking his head. “Marcella Montgomery claimed she didn't know that Mario Castellano was also seeing Mrs. Otis, and I believed her. But there is no way in hell she can skirt around knowing that Weston Otis is Mrs. Otis' husband!”

“Señora Montgomery?” Elena asked. Her youthful, pretty features twisted in confusion. “No, Oficiales, no, no… That is the wrong friend.” She shook her head. “No, Marcella Montgomery despises Señor Otis almost as much as Señora Otis does. She would have nothing to do with him. No, the lover of Señor Otis is Penelope Fitzgerald.”

꧁༺ ○ ༻꧂

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