I went upstairs and found Susan sitting at the kitchen table in her white teddy that accentuated her tan. She was reading a women’s fitness magazine while absently popping vitamins into her mouth and washing them down with carrot juice, which matched her hair.

She looked up from her magazine and said, “Good morning.”

I was a little sleep-deprived, and annoyed about the shotgun, and not in the best of moods on this gray morning, so I didn’t reply.

She asked, “What were you doing in the basement?”

“I was trying on your winter dresses.”

“John, it’s too early.”

I noticed a pot of coffee brewing, so I poured myself a cup.

Susan suggested, “Have some carrot juice.”

“Thanks, but I already had an injection of pomegranate juice.”

“It’s really too early for that.”

I asked her, “Are you sure you took the shotgun from Hilton Head?”

“Yes, and I remembered where I put it.”

“Good. And where is that?”

“In the attic.”

“You said it was in the basement, Susan.”

“Basement, attic. Same thing.”

“Really? Okay… so, if I go up to the attic-”

“I’ve already done that.” She pointed to the broom closet and said, “It’s in there.”

“Of course.” I opened the broom closet, and leaning against the wall between a sponge mop and a broom – where long things are kept – was a gun case.

I took the case out of the closet and removed the shotgun, then made certain it was on safety before I examined it.

It was a twelve-gauge, double-barreled, side-by-side, Italian-made Beretta. On the walnut stock was a brass plate on which was engraved Susan Stanhope Sutter, and the nickel finish on the receiver was engraved and gold-inlayed with an elaborate floral design. If I had to guess how much this model sold for, I’d say about ten thousand dollars. Maybe it was a wedding gift from Sally Da-da, with thanks to Susan for clipping Frank Bellarosa.

Susan straightened me out on that and said, “Dan gave that to me when I joined a local shooting club.”

Apparently Dan didn’t know what happened to her last boyfriend.

She suggested, “You can sell it, and get another one if you want.”

I guess I had to decide if the shotgun had any sentimental value for her – fond memories of her and Dan blasting clay pigeons out of the sky, or vaporizing ducks in a swamp.

She set me straight on that, too, and said, “He didn’t shoot. I did.” She added, “He golfed. And golfed.”

I assured her, “We can keep this. It has your name on it.”

She shrugged and went back to her magazine.

I broke open the gun to be sure she hadn’t left shells in the chambers, and peered down the barrels, which were clean enough, but probably the whole gun could use a cleaning and oiling. I asked her, “When was the last time you fired this?”

Without looking up from her magazine, she replied, “About two years ago.”

I commented, “It would have been nice to have this last night.”

She had no reply.

I asked her, “Do you have a cleaning kit?”

“I couldn’t find it.”

“Shells?”

“I’ll look for them.”

Well, the shotgun wouldn’t have done much good last night. I said, “I’ll just go to a sporting goods store today.”

She didn’t respond.

I put the shotgun back in its case and said, “I think we should get a dog.”

“I had a dog.”

“Is he in the attic?”

She ignored that and said, “Dogs are a lot of work. Why do you want a dog?”

Apparently we weren’t on the same page. I said, “For security.”

“Oh… well… all right. But let’s wait until after the funeral, and after everyone has left.” She added, “My parents don’t like dogs.”

I was sure their pet rats didn’t either. I reminded her, “They’re probably not staying here.”

“Would you mind if they did?”

“I’d be surprised if they did.”

She threw her magazine aside and said, “John, I don’t think they will react as negatively as you think they will.”

“I will be happy to be proven wrong.”

“Did I hear that right?”

I had this horrifying thought that today was the first day of the rest of my life. I suggested to her, “Cut down on your Vitamin Bitch pills.”

I walked to the refrigerator to see about breakfast, but before I opened the door she said, “For that remark, you have to eat this for breakfast.”

I looked back over my shoulder, and Susan was lying on the table with her spread legs dangling over the edge and her teddy pulled up to her breasts. My goodness.

Well… I was thinking about an English muffin, but…

After my breakfast of champions, Susan, I, and the shotgun went upstairs to the bedroom, and Susan informed me, “Sophie is coming today. So why don’t we put that in your closet?”

“All right.” I put the shotgun in my walk-in closet, resting it against the wall behind the open door. I told her where it was, then I got in the shower.

She opened the shower door and joined me, and I scrubbed her back with a loofah sponge, then as she scrubbed my back, I said to her, “Using sex as a means of controlling me or modifying my behavior is not fair.”

“All’s fair in love and war, John.”

“All right. Remember you said that.”

“Plus, it works.” She put her hand between my legs, gave John a little tweak, and got out of the shower.

As we got dressed, she asked me, “What is the purpose of Felix Mancuso’s visit?”

I replied, “To see if the FBI has any interest or jurisdiction in this matter.”

She stayed silent for a moment, then said, “He doesn’t like me.”

“It’s not personal. It’s professional.”

She replied, “I think it’s personal.”

It was time to dig up the dirty past, because Felix Mancuso would do that anyway, and Susan needed to be prepped for this, so I reminded her, “You killed his star witness in the FBI’s case against organized crime, and it’s not often that the FBI gets a man like Frank Bellarosa to sing.” She didn’t respond, so I continued, “Losing a witness to murder, on his watch, did not help Special Agent Mancuso’s career.”

She stayed silent awhile, then informed me, “He was very much against allowing me to visit.”

I knew that, but I was surprised she knew it, or that she was willing to discuss any of this. But I guess the time had come for her to unblock it. As for Felix Mancuso’s disapproval of letting Frank and Susan go at it, this was because of his own professional standards, as well as his sense of morality and propriety, and maybe his positive feelings for me, which not everyone around him shared.

And so, to that extent, Susan was correct; it was personal. In any case, what happened was certainly not Mancuso’s fault – no one could have foreseen Susan shooting don Bellarosa – but I’d had the impression at the time that Mancuso was the fall guy. Why? Because when the shit hits the fan, the guy who said “I told you so” is usually the guy everyone else pushes in front of the shit stream.

But rather than tell Susan that St. Felix basically thought she was a Mafia groupie and a tramp, I brought the discussion back to the professional issues and said, “Mancuso was also not thrilled that you walked free on the murder charge.”

She surprised me by saying, “That was more the fault of his superiors.” She added, “I was ready to pay the price.”

I looked at her, and I was certain she meant that. And she was right – it wasn’t her fault that the government took a dive on the case; the scales of justice are always tipped toward the best interests of the government, and sometimes that means burying inconvenient or embarrassing facts, and letting the guilty go free. It occurred to me that if she’d been indicted and took a plea for maybe manslaughter, she’d be getting out about now. And I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have divorced her, and that I’d have waited for her. Though I may have still taken that sail around the world.