Women Who Stay, 18

Chapter 1 ... Chapter 17

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Sheila took another bite of Janie's omelet. "You got your recorder thing handy? You might want to get this, too," she said. "Will probably be good for your book, or article, or whatever she's got you chasing this time."

I scrambled to turn it on. "What do you mean, this time?"

"Oh, she brings one of you here every couple of years," Sheila laughed, finishing with a rough smoker's cough. "Have to say, none of 'em have lasted quite so long as you. She's a tough nut to crack, that one."

The ironclad terms of my NDA recently refreshed in my mind, I asked my next question carefully. "Do you know what we're talking about?"

"Oh, sure, gotta be Antonio," she said. "Nothing more interesting than that has ever happened to little Janet Slewell."

"You... you knew her before?"

"Grew up in the brownstone next door!" She laughed again. "Oh, she thought she was so much better than all of us. Prissy bitch."

"But you seem to like her," I said. "I mean, I assumed you were friendly."

Sheila raised her eyebrows at me. "Boy, you're a dim one, huh?" She gave me a broad smile, transforming her dour visage so entirely, she looked like another person. "It's my 'Good Waitress' face. Brings in the tips. Keeps 'em coming back."

"So what do you really think about her?" She took another large bite of the omelet and appeared to think while she chewed.

"She's had a tough road. Can't have been easy, coupling up with that maniac. But I also can't imagine that anyone else, more normal-like, could've taken her on as a wife. For every lock a key, 'n all that."

"Do you think she loved him?"

She snorted. "I don't think she's capable of it. You heard what happened with her kids, yeah?"

"Vaguely. They're estranged, yeah?"

"Excepting Gordon. Little lamb never weaned properly, if you ask me. She'd bring him in and he'd sit in her lap, all the way up until he couldn't fit his legs under the booth. Twelve years old, by then. But the other two, they couldn't wait to get away from her. Oldest one's a little..." She twisted her left hand next to her ear and pulled a wacky face. "And she pushed the girl away, once she started posting pride flags on her Facebook page."

"Annabelle is --"

"Lesbian, yeah." Sheila raised her hands in a gesture of surrender. "Not a problem for me. Love is love. But for Janie, that hypocrite, it was such an offense. Used to lecture the girl here, in public, mind you. Had to ask her to keep that at home. She didn't come back for a few years after that."

"You said hypocrite?"

Sheila looked away. "Not my place to say. Got carried away there. All I mean's to say, Janie's not winning any congeniality prizes. She keeps bringing girls like you in, teasing 'em with her tale, then spitting 'em out when they cross her. So what'd you do?"

I cringed. "I sent her a rude email two nights ago. Lost my temper."

"If you want my advice, she won't come back. Better you don't, too." She got up, clearing her plate. Then she paused and turned her megawatt smile on me once more. "Unless you get another hankering for the best breakfast food this side of the Hudson River."

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The next morning my inbox chimed, interrupting my mopey lay-in. It was a Google alert. Something had been published about Janie.

Widow of suspected serial killer Antonio Robichaud found dead of natural causes.

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Read on to Chapter 19