I stared blankly at the menu at Carnegie Deli and secretly hoped that Detective Edwards was about to stand me up. What was I going to tell him? Helen was innocent because there was food in her fridge? Because she seemed nice? Wanting to be helpful and being able to be helpful seemed to be drifting farther and farther apart at the moment. But before I could sort it all out, he was sliding into the seat across from me, looking better than I was prepared for. “Good morning. I was afraid you’d stand me up.”

I tried a whimsical look, but it felt more like a twitch. “Why would I?”

“Better offer?”

“Didn’t get one. But I haven’t checked my messages in the last hour or so.”

“Please don’t.” He smiled lazily and pushed the menu out of the way without looking at it. I put mine on top of his. He clearly knew what he wanted. I didn’t have a clue, but I was developing a taste for figuring things out on the fly.

“How was Helen Reynolds when you left her?”

Oh, fine. Right to business. I actually felt a flicker of disappointment, but then again, I had been the one to insist that this was not a date. Served me right. “About the same. Her sister came in from Queens and that helped. You don’t still suspect her?”

“I thought we were having breakfast so you could tell me what you know.” He upped the wattage on his smile, but now there was a touch of warning to it, too.

“Helen didn’t do it.”

“What makes you so sure?”

I figured he’d scoff at the paella, so I went for a more psychological approach. “She wants vengeance on whoever did do it. And she wasn’t faking.”

“You know her that well?”

“No, I know real emotion when I see it.”

His smile loosened a little and I waited for the smart response, but the waitress intruded. He ordered an everything bagel, toasted, and coffee. I thought about doing the same, then thought about the number of times poppyseeds wind up between your front teeth, even when you’re being careful, and ordered a bowl of fruit and coffee. It seemed a shame to order so simply when the smells of steak and eggs and maple syrup and melting butter meandered through the whole place, but I wanted to make sure he understood that I understood that this was a working breakfast. And yes, I am also one of those girls who think twice about eating hearty in front of a guy in the early stages.

“Refresh my memory. How long had you known Teddy?” He was playing with his pen against his closed notebook, turning the pen end on end. He kept his eyes on mine, but I kept glancing down at the pen, less distracted than avoiding the Big Blues for a moment.

“Three years. I’d heard of him before that, but I came to the magazine three years ago.”

“Heard of him?”

“An old friend of mine, Stephanie Glenn, worked with him at Femme. That’s where he was before Zeitgeist. In fact, Yvonne worked there, too. They go way back, she’s the one that brought him over to Zeitgeist. He had a great reputation, business-wise. It’s his social skills that got mixed reviews.”

“What’d your friend think of him?”

“She thought he was a hoot. But she didn’t work for him, which is where you find most of the people who weren’t big fans.”

“Did she sleep with him?”

I almost laughed, imagining Stephanie with Teddy. “No way.” Edwards arched an eyebrow. “She’s gay.”

“I see. Do you know who did sleep with him?”

“Why are you back on that?” It was fine for me to be obsessing about the possibility of Teddy’s rancid romantic past, but I was doing it as a journalist and a student of human behavior. Edwards was doing it as a cop and that road could only lead back to, “You do still suspect Helen.”

“At this stage, I suspect everyone. Statistically, the wife goes to the head of the class.”

“You’re wasting my time.”

“So point me in another direction.”

“I think it was someone he knew pretty well. Someone who knew he worked weird hours. Someone who was furious with him.” Like his wife who had just discovered he was sleeping around on her, but not her. The thought clanked around noisily in my head, but I refused to say it and prepared myself for Edwards saying it.

Instead, he asked, “Why furious?”

This was a test, right? He knew the answer and wanted to see how keenly observant I was capable of being. Fine. I resisted the impulse to begin with “Well, duh,” and said, “Because she left the knife in his throat.”

Edwards stopped tapping his pen and looked at me oddly. Had I failed the test? Didn’t it make perfect sense that you’d leave the knife behind only to make a statement? Sort of like signing a painting. “If you stabbed someone in a moment of anger or passion, don’t you think you’d realize what you’d done and pull the knife back out, to clean or hide the knife if nothing else? To leave the knife in there--that’s rage. The ultimate ‘screw you, Teddy.’”

The pen started tapping again, but slowly and deliberately. “She?”

“What?” I’d hoped for an “exactly, my dear Forrester” or something a little more indicative of how well we were doing.

“You said ‘she left the knife.’ Why?”

“Because Teddy was a bully, but a coward. He wouldn’t have gotten close enough to an angry man for a man to stab him like that.”

Edwards didn’t react at all for a moment, then nodded. “Our analysis of the blood spatter indicates that Reynolds was in the doorway of his office, probably leaning against the frame, and was stabbed with an overhand thrust from a lower angle.”

I raised my hand, trying to figure that one out. “So she’s shorter than he was.”

Edwards watched my hand. Keenly aware that my nails were a mess, I dropped my hand back into my lap. Edwards’ eyes slid up to mine. “How tall are you?”

I almost told him, but for once, my brain worked faster than my mouth. “Excuse me?”

“How tall are you?”

“You’ve got to be kidding.” He didn’t shake his head, didn’t smile, didn’t look away. I felt like Carrie as the pig’s blood hit the top of her head. Of course Detective Edwards didn’t want to take me to the prom because I was cute. He thought I was guilty.

I tried to laugh derisively, but it came out as the mutant child of a sob and a hiccup. I could feel my cheeks reddening and realized I had transformed into some kind of scarlet frog, blurping and blushing madly. What would the detective make of that? Would he take it as a sign of guilt or would he be sharp enough to recognize that I really wanted to throttle him, but was restraining myself because I knew it would be completely counterproductive at this point?

“I don’t know what to say.”

“’I’m five-seven’?” he suggested.

“I’m five-eight in my bare feet, but I’ll look taller as I stand to leave.” I grabbed my purse and took a moment to arrange my feet beside my chair so I wouldn’t trip as I got up for my grand exit.