Two Widows: A totally gripping mystery and suspense novel

by Laura Wolfe

  “I have some helpful information for the detective. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  “She wants to tell him Amanda used to rent her garage apartment,” Ethan whispered as I maneuvered past them.

  It only took a minute to pass on my clue to the detective. I made sure to include the part about the apartment door swinging open just before Joe moved in, although I admitted I may have been the one who’d left the door unlocked. When I told the detective Amanda had moved out of the apartment months earlier, he sighed. It was clear he didn’t give much weight to the information. Still, he smiled and thanked me before sending me on my way.

  Now Ethan, Beth, and I walked toward the door, away from the prying eyes of the receptionist.

  “What did you tell them?” I asked Beth once we were outside.

  “The same thing I told them last time.” She crossed her arms and shook her head. “I mean, we were just hanging out, having a couple of drinks the night she disappeared. Amanda was in a really bad mood. It was uncomfortable. I made a stupid comment about the backward people in this town. She took it personally and stormed out. That was the last time I saw her.”

  I patted Beth’s hand and felt it quivering underneath mine as we walked through the parking lot. She was shaken. I remembered feeling the same way after Charlie died.

  “I’m parked over there.” Beth tilted her head toward her truck.

  I crouched toward Ethan and lowered my voice. “Do you mind driving my car? I thought I’d ride with Beth. She seems traumatized.”

  “Sure.” He took the keys from me. “I’ll see you back at the house.”

  “I’ll ride with you,” I said, stepping toward Beth. “You look like you could use the company.”

  Beth nodded, her eyes focused on the ground as she neared her truck. It sat like a sparkling ruby in the morning sun.

  “I see you got a car wash.” I nodded my approval as I hoisted myself into the passenger seat.

  “It needed it.” She pulled onto the street and accelerated in the direction of the highway.

  I glanced at Beth. “I’ll try to think of more information to pass on to the detective.”

  “Please don’t.” Beth’s voice was blunt, her eyes trained on the road. Her words sent a prickle of dread through me, like spiders skittering down my spine. Her truck continued to pick up speed.

  “I guess you’re right. We’ll let the police do their job.”

  Beth stared ahead without looking at me. Her face was gaunt and her complexion had taken on the shade of milkweed. “The police are useless.”

  “Are you okay?” I asked, leaning toward her.

  “Yes, Gloria. I’m great. My life is fucking wonderful.” She turned and glared at me, her eyes as dark and empty as two holes dug in the dirt. “I know you think you’re helping, but you’re not. You need to stop talking.”

  I shrank down, shocked by Beth’s sudden change in demeanor. She’d turned on a dime yesterday in the coffee shop, but I’d never seen this ugly side of her before. Since the day she’d arrived on my land, I’d built her up to be a sophisticated and independent woman, someone who knew the world and how to deal with people, someone who had no use for silly self-help books, the kind of woman I’d never had the chance to become. Now I realized I may have ignored some red flags. I may have glossed over the parts of her that hadn’t fit my idealized images, like her late husband’s suspicious death, her desire to live off the grid, and her peculiar behavior. Once again, she wasn’t telling me her whole story. I pressed my shoulder blades against the seat as the truck squealed through a sharp turn. My purse tipped, spilling some of its contents at my feet.

  “Darn…” I started to say, but let my voice trail off. I bent over, straining against the seat belt to collect the pens and keys and compact that had toppled from my bag. Beth ignored me, accelerating onto the two-lane highway, and passing cars in the lane next to us as if they were standing still. My left hand clutched the center console, as my right hand reached down again to make sure I’d retrieved everything.

  Stretching my arm beneath the seat, my finger caught on something stringy and metal. I bent over to see what I’d discovered. A necklace hung in loops from my fingers. It was silver with a pendant shaped like a butterfly. Each wing had been crafted from two shiny jewels. Topaz, if I had to guess.

  The necklace wasn’t mine. It hadn’t come from my purse, but it looked familiar. I wondered if I’d seen it on Beth, but the dainty silver butterfly didn’t match Beth’s bohemian style. It didn’t fit with the wooden beads and messy tangle of black cords that normally encircled her neck and wrists. I was certain she wasn’t the one I’d seen wearing it.

  The silver strand balanced in my palm as the truck screeched around a turn into the entrance of my driveway, pinning my body back against my seat. My hand clenched the necklace as my brain caught up, an image of Amanda on the local news flashing in my mind. My stomach lifted and crashed as the memory formed. The picture flickered before my eyes, as clear as if I’d recorded it and was now watching it back on the television screen. In the photo, Amanda had been wearing a black V-neck sweater. I squeezed my eyelids shut, conjuring up another detail… one I didn’t want to see. She’d also been wearing a necklace. A silver necklace with a turquoise butterfly, identical to the one in my hand.

  I hoped Beth wouldn’t notice the perspiration covering my brow. With the smallest movement I could manage, I slipped the necklace into my purse and zipped it closed. By the time the truck skidded to a halt in front of my house, it felt as if all the blood had leaked from my body. The pieces of Beth’s past fluttered through my head and settled on a disturbing picture: Beth’s dead husband, her off-the-grid tiny house that held no photos or clues to her past, her dyed hair, her changed name, her mysterious nightly excursions, her erratic behavior the last few days. And now, her new friend—who I’d introduced her to and who’d been angry with her—was dead, and the missing woman’s necklace was under the seat of Beth’s truck.

  “I didn’t mean to yell at you, Gloria.” Tears welled in Beth’s eyes, but she stared straight ahead clutching the steering wheel. “I’m not a bad person. It’s just that my life didn’t turn out the way I thought it would.”

  “Oh, that’s not—” I started to say.

  Beth held her palm up to my face. “You don’t need to pretend to be my friend, Gloria. I don’t deserve it.”

  I had a thousand questions for Beth, but I was too terrified to learn the answers. My parched throat constricted and my heart thudded so loudly in my chest I could barely hear my own thoughts. Instead of speaking to her, my fingers fumbled for the door handle, opening an exit route. Without looking back, I jumped from the truck, hoping Ethan was right behind us.

  “Maybe you should take it to the police, Mom.” We huddled in the living room, the curtains drawn, the doors and windows locked. We’d placed the necklace in a zip-lock bag to preserve any evidence. Ethan pinched the corner of the bag and held it next to the police photo of Amanda he’d pulled up on his laptop. The resemblance between the two pieces of jewelry was heart-stopping. Just as I’d suspected, they were identical.

  “I don’t want to jump to conclusions.” I massaged my forehead as I paced behind Ethan, Rascal biting at my heels. Although Beth had been rather rude on the drive home, I had no real reason to betray her trust. My imagination had been on overdrive. It was only a day or two ago that I’d been ready to accuse Joe of kidnapping and hiding bodies in his closet. I paused in front of the window and peeked through the curtain. The back of Beth’s truck was visible beyond the tree line. Hopefully she was inside her tiny house drinking some tea and calming down. “Did you see Beth arrive back here the other night after you two left The Castaways?”

  Ethan tipped his head back and sighed. “No. She drove separately. Said she had to stop for gas on the way home. I wish I’d been paying attention. I have no idea when she got back.”

  “When I knocked on her door the next morning, she looked like she’d
slept in her clothes. Why didn’t you drive together?”

  “We were going to, but Beth texted me and said she needed to run a couple of errands first. I told her I’d meet her at The Castaways at eight. She was already there when I got there.”

  “Was she acting like her usual self?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve only known her for a few days.”

  “Think, Ethan. Did you notice anything unusual?”

  Ethan stared toward the window. “Yeah. I guess she seemed distracted. She kept looking around the restaurant, almost like she was waiting for somebody else.”

  “But no one else approached her?”

  “No.”

  I clasped my hands together, remembering Beth’s misguided hope that she’d run into Amanda at the restaurant again. “She mentioned Amanda was mad at her the night she disappeared. I don’t know what their tiff was about, but they were spending a lot of time together. Amanda’s necklace must have fallen off at some point when Beth gave her a lift. Or maybe Amanda lent it to her. Besides, what possible motive could Beth have?”

  “I have no idea.” He closed out the screen and turned toward me. “Still weird, though. The fact is, Amanda is the second woman in this small town to be murdered in less than a month. There were no murders before Beth arrived.”

  We sat in silence for a moment before Ethan began typing on his laptop. “What magazine did you say Beth is working for?”

  “American Traveler. They commissioned her to write an article about northern Michigan resort towns.”

  “I’m going to call them.”

  “What? You can’t just call them.”

  Ethan raised his eyebrows at me, pressed some numbers on his phone, and then switched it to the speaker so I could hear the ringing.

  “American Traveler, can I help you?” a woman asked.

  “Yes,” Ethan cleared his throat and lowered his voice, “my name is Tom Weller. I own a hotel in Petoskey, Michigan, and I was approached by a journalist named Beth Ramsay who says she’s writing an article for your magazine. I just wanted to verify that she’s been commissioned by you before I agree to an interview.”

  “Of course, sir. You said Beth Ramsay?”

  “Yes. Or it might be under Elizabeth Ramsay. Or Elizabeth McCormack.”

  “Just a minute, please.”

  Music played over the speaker and Ethan smirked at me.

  “Do you really think this is necessary?” I asked him.

  He shrugged. “We’ll see.”

  A minute later, the music cut out and the woman returned. “Sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “No one by Elizabeth Ramsay or McCormack has a contract with us.”

  My heart sank as a chill traveled over my skin. No contract? Beth had been lying to me this whole time. I remembered the awkward encounter with Wes at the coffee shop. She hadn’t gotten the name of his bike shop wrong at all. She’d lied about the whole thing. That was why she never followed up with him for an interview.

  “Okay. Thank you.” Ethan hung up, his mouth gaping open. He flopped back against the couch and I lowered myself down next to him.

  “Holy shit.”

  “Ethan!”

  “Sorry, Mom, but this is messed up. Beth is a liar.”

  I closed my eyes, feeling as if I’d been duped. If Beth hadn’t been researching local attractions for her article, what was she doing here? Where did she go every day? Why was she really parked in my field? I straightened my shoulders, remembering the Beth I knew, the good friend she had become.

  “This doesn’t prove she had anything to do with Amanda’s disappearance. Maybe she writes under a pseudonym.” I squeezed my hands together, a stubborn knot of loyalty within me refusing to believe my new friend had transformed into a lying murderer. There was probably a logical explanation.

  Ethan raised his voice. “You need to keep your distance from her. We both do. At least until they arrest someone else. Beth is nice on the surface, but we really don’t know her at all.”

  I rested my head on the cushion behind me, wondering how I’d keep my distance from someone who lived just a few hundred yards away.

  Ethan leaned forward, a concerned look in his eyes. “Listen, I’m supposed to go camping with Wes and Vicki tomorrow. I’m going to cancel the trip.”

  “No. Don’t do that.” I shook my head and patted Ethan’s knee. “You’re worrying too much. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. Besides, you deserve to have a little fun while you’re here. You should go and get your mind off all this.”

  Ethan stood up and paced across the room. He peeked out the window and then let the curtain drop. “Do you promise to keep away from Beth while I’m gone? Stay inside, keep the door locked?”

  “Oh, honestly.” I shook my head. Ethan was acting ridiculously. “Yes. I’ll keep to myself as much as I can. Rascal will have to go in and out, of course.” I thought of the house key I’d given to Beth and my insides quaked. Locking my door wouldn’t do any good, but I wouldn’t mention that to Ethan. I shoved my hands into my pockets and tightened my jaw. Beth may have lied about writing an article for the magazine, but it was absurd to think she planned to harm me. I didn’t want Ethan to miss out on his camping trip.

  A throbbing pain squeezed through my head, coupled with an unrelenting ache in my back. My suspicions and unanswered questions were taking a toll on my body. “I’ve got a headache. I’m going to go lie down.”

  I scooped Rascal up in my arms and carried him upstairs. He might not have learned any of his manners yet, but he was the closest thing I had to a guard dog.

  Morning sunlight speared through a gap in the curtains and across the kitchen floor. Brakes screeched from the driveway. Rascal perked his ears toward the door and barked. I set down my second cup of coffee on the counter, my heart racing. I wasn’t sure if the deafening noise had come from Beth’s truck, Joe’s SUV, or a police car. My uncomfortable encounter with Beth the day before replayed in my mind. I sidled up next to the window, glancing back toward the empty staircase. Ethan had left an hour earlier with his friends to go camping, but only after I’d promised him, again, to keep my distance from Beth.

  A car door slammed. It wasn’t the police. It was Joe, a trail of dust floating behind his SUV. Rascal barked and raced in circles around me. Beth’s truck was gone.

  “Let’s get you outside, boy.” I shooed Rascal in front of me as I made my way through the door. I envisioned Joe’s paintings. He was a talented artist, that was certain, but some of his actions puzzled me—the gun-shaped bag, the midnight hikes into the woods, his urge to fix my windows, the scratches on his face, and the field trips to who-knew-where in the middle of the night. Now, in light of Amanda’s death, I had to be bold. I had to find answers; answers I hoped wouldn’t lead back to Beth.

  Rascal wove through the bushes next to the house while I waited near the garage. The apartment door swung open and I crossed my arms in front of me, my muscles strung as tight as shoelaces.

  “Hey, Gloria.” Joe bounded down the steps two at a time. “Beautiful day, huh?” He seemed blissfully unaware that the woman who used to live in his apartment had been murdered.

  “Yes.” I swallowed and buried my hands in my pockets, unsure how to begin.

  “I’m unloading a few supplies. Then I’ll get out of your hair.”

  “Joe,” I said, my voice hoarse. I cleared my throat and started again. “I was out here with Rascal the other night. It was late. More like early morning, really.”

  Joe stared at me, deadpan, and I shifted my weight.

  “Anyway, I couldn’t help but notice you coming out of the woods. It’s not hunting season yet, is it?”

  “What?” Joe set down the box he was lifting from his trunk. “No. You thought I was hunting?” He squeezed his eyes shut and bellowed out a laugh from his gut. “That’s funny,” he said, catching his breath. “I’m a vegetarian. Have been for years. I wouldn’t kill a bear if it was attacking me.”

/>   I exhaled, relieved and embarrassed that I’d misread him so badly. “Oh, that’s a relief. Your bag was shaped like a rifle, so I thought—”

  Laughter erupted from Joe again. “You mean my easel? I guess I could use it to whack someone on the head if I was desperate.”

  Giggling along with him, I glanced toward the trees feeling like a dimwit. Of course it was an easel. It was no wonder I’d spent my life as a housewife and not a detective.

  Joe lifted a box from his vehicle and placed it on the ground. “I’ve been working on a new technique: night painting. These woods are the perfect setting. It took me a few hours of wandering around in the dark to find the best spot, then I realized I needed a headlamp, not a flashlight. Duh!” He bonked his forehead with his palm. “I can’t hold a paintbrush and a flashlight at the same time. So I’ve made more than a couple of treks out there. At least now I know where to avoid the brambles.” His thick fingertips touched the scratches on his face.

  I nodded and raised my chin, trying to preserve my dignity. “That does sound like a lot of work. I’d love to see the finished product.”

  Joe motioned toward the apartment. “I’ve got a rough start upstairs if you want to take a look.”

  “Oh,” I said, caught off guard by the invitation. “Sure.”

  I followed him up the wooden steps and into the living room. Canvases were stacked against the far wall, a T-shirt and socks were strewn across the floor, and an open pizza box lay on the counter. The scene was a startling contrast to Beth’s pristine tiny house. The door to the walk-in closet was closed, but I was relieved to hear no frantic banging or cries for help coming from within.

  “Sorry about the mess.” Joe picked the clothes off the floor and tossed them into the bedroom.

  “Is the apartment working out for you?”

  “It’s great. Except for the whole Laundromat thing. But beggars can’t be choosers.” He smiled and turned toward the stack of artwork. “Let’s see.” He thumbed through some half-painted canvases and shook his head. “I must have put it in the closet.”