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shoulders and a firm grip. At first glimpse, he had a commanding presence. His eyes, though—they were red and swollen, full of shadows, full of pain.
    “I’m terribly sorry for your loss,” Roelke said. “And I’m sorry to intrude at such a difficult moment. I hope you can understand that I need to ask a few questions.”
    Sabatola ushered him into the living room. “Would you like anything? Coffee?”
    Roelke declined the coffee, and perched on the edge of a black leather sofa. Sabatola sank into a matching chair. A framed wedding portrait of Simon and Bonnie Sabatola sat on a glass end table beside him. She’d posed snuggled against her husband, chestnut hair arranged in curls, face glowing with joy beneath her bridal veil. Roelke felt a tightening in his chest. She was—had been—stunning.
    “Have you learned anything about my wife’s death?” Sabatola asked.
    “I have no new information,” Roelke said carefully. “As I’m sure you were told, your wife died by a self-inflicted gunshot wound.” He paused. Some people in this situation wanted all the details. Some wanted none.
    “It still seems so … unreal.” The other man’s eyes filled with tears. “I keep thinking it’s all a mistake.”
    Roelke never knew what to do with men who cried. He avoided Sabatola’s gaze for a moment, giving the other man time to compose himself. “I can only imagine the shock, sir. But … had Bonnie seemed distressed lately?”
    “No, nothing like that.” Sabatola spread his hands, palms-up, in a gesture of bafflement. “I mean … obviously she must have been upset about something, or she wouldn’t have done such a thing. But whatever it was, she managed to hide it from me.”
    “Was she being treated for depression?”
    “No.”
    “Forgive me, sir, but I need to ask. Had the two of you been having marital difficulties?”
    “What? No!” The other man looked shocked. “Our marriage was perfect.” He rubbed his eyes with his fingertips. “I knew the moment I saw Bonnie that she was the one for me.”
    “What did your wife do?”
    Sabatola blinked. “Do?”
    “Did she have a job? Do volunteer work? Have a hobby?”
    “Bonnie chose not to work, after we married.” He leaned over, arms on his knees, too restless to sit still. “She sometimes did charity work. She loved to cook, and to garden.”
    Roelke thought of the huge garden he’d glimpsed at the Burke house. It wasn’t surprising to think that Bonnie had a green thumb. “Did your wife keep a diary?”
    Sabatola shook his head. “I went through her things after I got home last night. I didn’t find a diary, or a letter, or anything else to explain what she did.”
    Roelke flipped open his little notebook so he could jot down key points. “Your wife shot herself with a 9 millimeter Smith and Wesson, Model 39. The gun was yours?”
    “Yes. We only had it for self-protection. I never dreamed Bonnie …” He swallowed visibly.
    “I understand you were golfing?”
    “Yes.” Simon Sabatola stood abruptly and walked to a bar that stood near the back corner of the room. He used tongs to put a few ice cubes in a glass, then added a splash of whiskey. “I beg your pardon,” he said, as he seated himself again. “I’m not an alcoholic. But a little Glenlivet does help.”
    “No need to apologize, Mr. Sabatola.”
    Sabatola sipped before resuming the conversation. “Anyway, I was in Lake Geneva, playing a round with a man I hope to do business with. A parts manufacturer.”
    “You work for a company called AgriFutures?”
    “I do.” Sabatola nodded. “My stepfather started the company forty years ago, in Elkhorn. After he passed away we probably should have moved the company to Chicago. But my wife’s family was in Eagle … well, you know that, of course. She didn’t want to leave Wisconsin.”
    “So you put family first.”
    “It’s always a balance,” Sabatola said. “I’m going to be named CEO of AgriFutures soon. Bonnie and I