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eyes, pixie hair, even a little black sweater and narrow black pants. Mrs. Foreman looks pampered and classily understated. Tiny diamond studs. Delicate gold necklace. I glance at her left hand. Someone’s college education sparkles on her ring finger.
    “Charlie McNally,” she says. Her voice is gentle, and seems weary. “They told me you were coming. I’m Melanie Foreman.” She offers a tentative smile. “Melanie. Come in.”
    We step through the door into a tasteful and immaculate buttery-yellow entry hall. Bandbox white moldings, indirect lighting, a well-worn Oriental covering the high-gloss hardwood floor. I sneak an assessing squint at the intricate designs. The rug’s almost threadbare in places, but it’s real.
    Melanie closes the door behind us and turns inquiringly. “And this is?”
    “Walt. Petrucelli.” He gives her a nod. “Sorry for your loss.”
    Well, point for Walt. That’s civilized.
    “Set up in the living room?” he asks, hefting his equipment. Melanie gestures to the next room, and we follow herin. Walt quickly puts up his lights and clanks open his tripod. Even he must feel how uncomfortable this is. I get out my notebook, dig for a pencil, try to check my hair in a way that’s not incredibly rude.
    Melanie, however, seems off in her own world. She sits quietly, her alarmingly thin body scrunched all the way into one corner of the oversize cream-and-chocolate couch. She smoothes the fringes of a throw pillow, staring at her hands. I think I recognize the pillow’s plaid as Ralph Lauren, and it’s his latest.
    Then I notice the lumpily cushioned couch, the mismatched tables, and an outdated flame-stitch wing chair, all going a little shabby around the edges. Wonder if they have money problems? Or perhaps they’re simply comfortable with themselves.
    Except there’s no more “they,” I remember, as Melanie finally looks up.
    “Oh, sorry,” she says with a wan smile. “What is it you’d like to ask me?”
    Actually, I’d like to ask why she’s agreeing to do an interview with the grief-sucking creature called TV news. But I won’t.
    “Thanks for letting us talk with you, Melanie,” I begin. I’m using my sympathetic voice. Today, it’s genuine. Has she faced his closet full of clothes? His toothbrush? Closed the book he was reading? She can’t possibly have grasped, yet, how sinkingly alone she’s about to be. “What is it you’d like people to know about your husband?”
    Melanie replaces the pillow against the back of the couch. A tawny little terrier-looking dog pads across the rug to curl up at her feet.
    “My husband—Brad—is—was…” Suddenly she looks as if she’s going to lose it. Over my shoulder, I hear the motorized zoom of Walt’s camera lens. He’s going in for a close-up because he thinks she’s going to cry. Welcome to TV news.
    “Are you okay?” I ask this as slowly as possible. I know this is difficult for her, but if she’s going to dissolve into anguish, I’ve got to make sure we get the shot on tape. Vulture patrol. “Mrs. Foreman?”
    “No, I’m fine.” Melanie blinks and curls the pillow back into her lap. She sighs and starts again. “Brad was an honest, reliable person who just wanted everyone to play by the same rules.” She smiles for a moment. “You remember Jimmy Stewart? In the Mr. Smith Goes to Washington movie?”
    I nod. “Of course.”
    I hear the zoom motor pull back. Walt’s decided she’s not going to cry.
    “That’s exactly who he was like,” she continues. “Principled, devoted. Would you like to see a picture of Brad? Of both of us?”
    My inner reporter is salivating. We already have the photograph of him we used on the air when he was missing, but I’ll score big news points if we can get another one now. Especially if it’s both of them. Vulture patrol.
    “Of course,” I say sincerely. “Whatever you like.”
    She picks up a black-and-white photo, framed in etched sterling silver. It’s