Harold wasn’t in the habit of calling Mavis when he traveled, but when he didn’t call at Christmas, she tried to get in touch with his family, no luck. After New Years, she got a call from his boss. A crisis with one of Oracle’s major customers. Information on Harold’s laptop was critical. They were sending someone from the London office to Steinkjer. Two days later, another call. Harold’s parents hadn’t seen him; and his parents hadn’t been in an accident. Police in Boston and Oslo were notified.

That was the beginning of a series of calls. Twice a week: We haven’t found him; no, no clues. Then: he never passed through immigration. Once every two weeks: Still no clues.

* * *

Mavis seemed on edge; I was going into tax season, working ten hour days and half a day Saturday. We started having “issues.” She had pretty much moved in, and started changing things. Jill had done the living room in what she called Arizona Eclectic: Navajo zigzag rugs, Apache reed baskets, and Hopi black and orange pottery. Mavis thought the baskets and pots were clutter. And there was the big tin mirror we’d bought in Guadalajara on our honeymoon. One day it was gone. Asked Mavis what happened to it, and about the new lamps and rugs: Since I’m living here, why shouldn’t I have things I like. Me? I felt more comfortable having some familiar things around. And there was something about Mavis’s tone; like my furniture wasn’t good enough.

She was around all the time. Winter’s not high season for interior decorators, but she didn’t seem to be looking for clients either. Asked how her business was going, her eyes narrowed and her freckles merged into one bright red splotch.

“It’s not! Why? Because I’m taking care of Jason and Kara, cooking dinner, and running the house?”

Didn’t seem to interfere with her sessions at the health club though. She was petite, but could pick up both of my forty-pound five year olds at once.

And the toys she bought; every other day something new. Finally I put my foot down. “No more; they’ve got to know they can’t have everything they see,” I told her. “This is not how my children are going to be raised.”

I didn’t have lots of stuff when I was growing up. I did fine.

She went custardy. “I’m new at taking care of kids, Brad. I really want to do it right.”

* * *

The first ten days of March were tropical in Boston. That’s when Harold’s body was found. It was a Friday, March 7th. Inside an abandoned dumpster, alley back of Centerfolds. Lying face down on a mound of trash. Body had begun to thaw, and smell. Rats had begun to gnaw. Briefcase contained his laptop and thumbed copies of Hustler and Taboo. No passport or suitcase. He’d been hit on the head, then shot. That’s what the police told Mavis.

Three days later two men walked into my office and flashed their badges. “Mr. Leiter, we want to talk to you about the deaths of your wife and Harold Anderssen.”

It was a scene out of a TV cop show. Suspect’s line: This isn’t a good time to talk. I have a client coming in. Didn’t, but in case. Police line: It’s here or downtown at our place. I chose their place, a small room painted overcooked-asparagus green, a smeared window, four chairs, and a liver-gray metal table.

“The bullet that killed your wife and the one that killed Anderssen were fired from the same gun, a .45 with a silencer.”

“How’s that possible?” I said. “What’s the connection?”

“You. We know you and Mrs. Anderssen spent afternoons together, even before your wife was murdered. And after she died and Mr. Anderssen ‘went on his trip’ you and Mrs. Anderssen started living together.”

Then they added, “The two of you have made for interesting conversation in the neighborhood.”

I knew where they were going with this and tried to explain that usually I got home before Jill, and sometimes Mavis had filled in for the baby sitter. After Harold went to Norway, Mavis was there every day after school for the twins. Child care.

Cops didn’t buy it. “Come off of it Leiter. Where were you when your wife was killed?”

“I’ll never forget. I was at the office writing an e-mail to Bill Riley at Bromfield Art Gallery. It was about withholding tax. You can ask him.”

“Look Leiter, we know you can schedule e-mails; we want your computer.”

But it wasn’t the same one. What with everything after Jill’s death, the old one got infected with a virus and I had to junk it. The cops didn’t like the coincidence, but all they had was their theory about Mavis and me, and two bullets.

We went back to my house and they searched it. Took three hours. Pulled out drawers, opened cabinets, pulled cushions out of the chairs, looked in the toy box. Found nothing of course. Same result when they searched Mavis’s house a couple days later.

* * *

We were sitting on the grass in the park. The twins were playing on the swings. Mavis looked over at me.

“A lot has happened, and I know it seems soon, but for the twins . . .”

That’s how the idea of us getting married came up. It seemed natural: she was a great stepmother for Kara and Jason, loved them to death, and sure, had her faults, but for the twins I’d do most anything. Of course I agreed we’d have children of our own. With what we’d been through we decided to make the ceremony a time for just the two of us. The twins stayed with parents of school friends.

We married in a small colonial chapel in Newport as a golden sun set into the water. She wore a cream colored gown that looked good with her long strawberry hair and tanned shoulders. In my tux I probably looked more like the chauffer than the bride groom: 5’10”, 170, plain pale face, washed blue eyes, balding, average-average; but the wedding pictures were good; everyone looked at the bride.

The next week I helped her arrange the finances. Hers were a mess, so I set up joint accounts that covered everything we owned. Had no idea Harold had been worth millions. Mavis said she didn’t either til the Oracle people told her about his stock options. So I set up everything (powers of attorney, wills) to take care of the twins. The only thing left to do was sell her house, but she wanted to wait a while. Had some decorating ideas that would make it more attractive, she said.

* * *

One Saturday I was driving Kara to dance lessons. She asked, “Is it true that Mommy is our real mother and the lady who died was just here while Mommy was away getting better from being sick?”

I turned toward her, and I guess I must have looked a little strange because she said, “What is it, Daddy? What’s the matter?”

“Why do you think she’s your real mother, honey?”

“Well, cuz that’s what she told me and Jason.”

I confronted Mavis.

“They are my children,” she insisted, “Don’t you remember Mass General? That awful mustard yellow room. You were there beside me, squeezing my hand, pushing with me. You had on that old gray cardigan I never liked. Jason came first. Once he made up his mind he just popped out. But little Kara really wasn’t ready to see the world. We had to wait forever. And then afterwards, we lay on the bed, the four of us.”

The look in her eyes; she believed this.

* * *

I started getting headaches, feeling lightheaded, and wasn’t getting much sleep. I was so tired and sleepy I didn’t argue when Mavis suggested she take Kara and Jason to her house for a while. She brought me soup every evening; I went to bed early, but nothing seemed to be working.

One day, early August, I stopped by the doctor’s office to check test results. He asked if we’d been remodeling: sometimes in old houses you get lead paint. I said no. Doctor said he was seeing traces of arsenic a bit above normal. Could be the cause of the fatigue. Told me to have the water checked; sometimes old plumbing will do it too. Gave me some pills.

Couple of days later, I started feeling better; told Mavis and the twins I’d join them for dinner.

“I have an announcement,” I said. “I’m better now so we can all be together again. You can move back into your own home.”

“Aw Daddy,” Mavis said, mimicking Kara’s voice, “Do we have to go back? We all have our own rooms here, they’re much much bigger, and we have our own bathrooms too, don’t we?” She looked at the twins.

“Daddy, do we have to go back?” Jason asked.

I threw Mavis a glare; always that damn put down of my place.

“Well, maybe for a little while,” I said. “But it’s not forever.”

Mavis cried, “Kiss sandwich.” And my face was surrounded by three mouths.

* * *

Took off early one day. Went over to Mavis’s house. Knew she was out picking up the twins. First time I’d been there alone, so did what comes naturally, started looking around. Her bedroom: closet, dresser, desk. Tried to find the secret compartment the twins said she’d talked about. Didn’t take long. False bottom in the top dresser drawer. Slid back easily. That’s where to put it. Pistol with a silencer, clip two bullets shy of a full load. Then heard the front door.

Yelled down, “Hi guys, it’s just me up here, using the bathroom.”

The twins ran up the stairs, “Daddeee, Daddeee, look what Mommy got us,” Jason said. “Brand new Nikes, Air Max 95s for me and Dart Vs for Kara. Look, shiny green and gold stripes, aren’t they neat?”

“Now we can run fast, can’t we?” I said. And headed them out the door past Mavis.

“Where’s everyone going?” she called out. “Dinner’ll be ready in ten minutes.”

I shouted back, “We’re going out for pizza, twins and me. Give you a ring when we get back.”

Mavis was waiting for us back at my house. Not happy, but she put on a good face for the twins. I scooted them up to their room, convinced them their new shoes were not a good idea in bed, and got them to give it up for the day.

Downstairs, went to the window, saw the lights at the end of the block. Mavis got up from the sofa and hissed, “And just what are you doing? What kind of games are you playing with my children?”

They’d be here soon, so I said, “Mavis, sit down.”

She sat back down on the sofa, I remained standing.

“I saw something, over there, in your dresser, top drawer on the right, the secret compartment.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked.

“The gun.”

“What gun?” she asked.

“The one used on Jill and Harold.”

She leapt up. “You slimy son of a bitch, what are you up to?”

She didn’t have a chance to say more. The door burst open and three cops filled the living room.

“Mavis O’Brien Anderssen, you are under arrest for the murders of Jill Leiter and Harold Anderssen. You have the right to remain silent. . .

Mavis sat there, gaping. Gave me the chance to ask her, “Why did you do it? Why did you kill them?”

“Now it’s clear,” I said. “When I got to her house after Jill was shot, then after I took Harold to the airport, she’d just walked in the door.”

“Liar,” Mavis shouted. “I didn’t kill anyone.”

“The gun was in your house,” I said. “Makes me sick to think Kara and Jason lived there for a month with the murderer of their mother.”

I think I stayed pretty calm in the circumstances.

Mavis slumped in the policeman’s arms, started crying. “Brad, honey, how can you say that? Don’t you remember how we dreamed about our little family right here in this room: Mavis, Brad, Kara, Jason, the life we’d have together, how you’d arrange everything?”

I turned to the cop closest to me. “If you believe that, you should hear her fantasy about giving birth to the twins. Sometimes I had to just go along.”

“Okay lady, that’s it; we’re going down to the station,” one of the cops said.

“But this was about our life Brad,” she sobbed, “Our life with children.”

“What? Is that why you tried to poison me?” I asked. “That’s your idea of family? You wanted the twins all to yourself, didn’t you?”

“Poison you? I didn’t poison you,” Mavis cried. “How can you say that?”

I turned to the cops. “I have doctor’s records showing there’s arsenic in my blood.”

I wasn’t going to give her any chance to get out of this.

Mavis broke loose from the cop’s grip and ran at me, pounding my face and chest.

* * *

I started cooking again and began to feel better; the headaches disappeared. Had to stay in Boston to testify at her trial. Kara and Jason were excused because of their age, so it was up to me to tell the story: the fantasy she’d created about being the twin’s real mother; how she’d filled their heads with stories about her special secrets and the hidden compartments; her fraudulent attempts to adopt children. And of course the cops had found the gun in Mavis’s house. No prints; I guess the jury figured possession was enough.

* * *

I sold the houses in Boston and we moved out to San Francisco; we needed a fresh start now that Mavis was out of the way. The whole thing had been tough on the twins. Bought a place in tony Pacific Heights and put them in Drew School. They seem to be doing pretty good, considering. I’ve gotten involved in some of the school committees. Surprising number of divorced mothers. But I’m not doing anything special right now, mostly taking care of Kara and Jason. They’ll be eight next month.