“My first husband . . . ,” Marcie started again. “I didn’t . . .”
“I’m sorry I said anything. I’m very tired and upset. I’m sure you didn’t do, well, that to your husband. The law decided you were innocent and I have no reason to believe any gossip to the contrary.” She glanced over at Marcie. “But some people will. People who are fond of Jason. People who like to believe the worst of people for their own entertainment. Be prepared for that.”
“I know, Elizabeth,” Marcie said, as the tears came. “I’ve been here before.”
53.
Once they’d parked, Elizabeth hugged Marcie as she let it all out, stroking her hair and muttering soothing words as she cried, and Elizabeth smelled good—no expensive perfumes, just clean and fresh and motherly. Mama had never smelled like that, and Marcie almost regretted when her tears dried up and there was an awkwardness between them again, the sort that came after a moment of intimacy between relative strangers. Elizabeth didn’t take up the offer to come in for some coffee and by the time Marcie had gotten inside, her hard shell was locking into place and she was regretting the show of weakness.
It was strange to be back in the house knowing that probably only hours ago the police were still painstakingly going through all her things. She felt violated and dirty and headed straight to the shower. She was free. They didn’t suspect her anymore. Even here, safe in her decadently large bathroom, it was hard to believe the sudden change.
She tried to keep hold of her relief, but it was overridden by other concerns. What was going to happen to her now? Even if they didn’t charge Jason with William’s murder, there was all the financial fallout. Had Jason gotten the money to repay what he’d stolen if his investments with Emmett paid out? What would that mean for her? Would she get to keep what money they had? This house would have to go, but it was probably mortgaged to the hilt anyway. What would she do?
It was an endless round of questions she had no answers for and when she finally got too hot to stay under the water and was fed up with worrying, she dried herself off and her grumbling stomach reminded her that she’d had no breakfast and it was now the middle of the afternoon.
There was very little in the fridge—there never was much and what there had been was out of date—and she couldn’t face going to a restaurant alone, so she dressed in a pair of old jeans and a hoodie, dug out one of Jason’s baseball caps, and put on some shades before heading to the store. Something from the sushi counter would do, and a whole cooked chicken and salad. A tub of ice cream and a bottle of wine. The rest could wait.
No one recognized her and although there was a large TV up on the wall beyond the checkouts, it wasn’t showing the news, which was a relief. She had no desire to hear people tearing her and Jason apart. She’d been released, so maybe they’d ease up on her now. She wasn’t holding her breath. Gossip quickly became gospel, as she’d learned in Boise, and between her past and Jason’s present, they must be the talk of Savannah at the moment. Keisha, the outsider, was probably forgotten.
She waited while her items were bagged and then handed over her credit card, eager and ready to get back to the privacy of her own kitchen. The machine beeped—a little too long—and the checkout girl frowned. “Let me try again,” she said. Once again there was a long beep. Marcie, flushing with embarrassment, muttered something about there being a mistake and pulled a second card from her wallet. That too failed.
“Do you have the cash?” the girl asked, studying Marcie with something close to pity. Marcie didn’t. She never carried cash, not when she had Jason’s credit cards. Did anyone carry cash anymore? The girl nodded her in the direction of the ATM where she tried again. With each card a message flashed up telling her to contact her bank. Her pulse throbbed in her ears as the truth dawned on her. The police must have frozen all Jason’s assets while they investigated him.
She didn’t return to the shame of the checkout, but instead left the store by the farthest door and rushed to her car. Surely they couldn’t leave her like this? With nothing? She thought about calling Detective Anderson but decided against it. They’d only just let her go and, ridiculous as it was, she didn’t want to draw any unnecessary attention to herself in case that made them change their minds. She had no choice. She was going to have to borrow some money to tide herself over until all this was sorted out. She took a deep breath, swallowed her pride, and then dialed Virginia—let’s see how far your Christian charity extends, shall we?—as she drove, her whole body burning with shame. There was no answer. She tried again with Iris and it went straight to voice mail. Were they ignoring her? Virginia might be but that wasn’t Iris’s style. She was made of steel. She’d answer even if it was only to tell you she wasn’t taking your call.
The club. That’s where they’d be. The younger members may flout the rules of no cell phones in the clubhouse or on the course, only by the pool, but the old stalwarts were strict with themselves. Virginia’s and Iris’s phones would be switched off in their purses. She felt a pang of jealousy that the four of them were no doubt having an early dinner, maybe after visiting William, observers of all the action, not participants, no stain from these events spreading to them. Her heart sank at the thought of walking into the club on her own, but she had no choice. She needed to see her friends—they were the only people likely to lend her any cash. Maybe it would be all right once she got inside and everyone saw that she was free and innocent; they might feel some pity for her.
“Ah.” Catherine, as her name badge declared, one of the interchangeable women in black who took turns at the club reception desk, stared at the screen that was discreetly hidden behind the mahogany counter. “Can you wait here for a moment, Mrs. Maddox?”
“Is there a problem?” Marcie asked.
“Probably an error.” Catherine kept hold of the sleek membership card between her perfectly manicured red fingernails as she glanced back at an older man working at his desk. “Sir?”
It was Ernesto, one of the day managers, and Marcie felt a flood of relief. She knew him well. He’d straighten this out. Ernesto didn’t give her his usual smooth smile, however; he came around to the front of the desk before taking her to one side and keeping his voice low.
“I’m afraid your husband’s membership has been suspended, Mrs. Maddox.”
She stared at him, confused. Jason paid the extortionate fees annually so it couldn’t have to do with the accounts being frozen. “I don’t understand.”
Ernesto coughed quietly behind his hand as if it were hard to get the words out before saying, “We have a policy regarding members who become involved in activities that may bring the club into disrepute. Until this current situation is . . . resolved . . . the committee has made the decision to suspend Mr. Maddox’s membership. I hope you understand.”
“As you can imagine, this is a very difficult time for me,” she said. “But I have done nothing wrong and—”
“Sadly at this present time only men hold full memberships. Therefore, while your husband is suspended, your associate membership is not valid.” He shrugged, as if it were all out of his hands.
Marcie bit her lip to stop herself from screaming obscenities she might regret at the aloof man and forced herself to smile. “I understand. But if you could ask Iris Cartwright or Virginia Habersham if they could come speak to me I’d be grateful.”
“Of course, of course.” Ernesto retreated behind the counter and picked up a phone.
“I’ll wait out front,” Marcie mumbled. So this was it, she thought as she headed back out into the heat. She’d been ostracized already.
Both Iris and Virginia came, their expressions dropping as they took in her clothes, as if her scruffy look was the worst crime committed by their friendship set this week.
“Oh good lord, Marcie.” Virginia clapped her hands together. “So it’s true. They have let you go.”
“I didn’t do anything. I didn’t know about anything.”
“Oh, of course not, h
oney.” Her words were a flurry of excitement. “I mean, it was quite a surprise to find out about your first husband—but I’m so shocked about Jason. I hear that’s true. And now they think he could be responsible for all of it?”
“Let the girl breathe, Virginia. I told you to stay inside. Why don’t you go back to the table, your shrimp will be getting cold.” Virginia wasn’t happy but she did as she was told. Iris waited until she’d gone. “That woman loves to know everything.” She paused. “Would you like to come in, Marcie?”
“No.” She shook her head, noting Iris’s relief. The Cartwrights did not like gossip and scandal, and now they were surrounded by it. There would be no more Magnolia invites for Marcie. “I just need some . . . some help.” Her eyes blurred again. “They’ve frozen our accounts. I couldn’t pay for my groceries.”
“Of course. Here, take this for now . . .” Iris rummaged in her purse and handed over $150. “Go home and let me speak to Noah. I’ll come to your place in an hour or so with more.”
“Thank you,” Marcie said. “Thank you so much.” Cash. Of course Iris carried cash and thank God for it. At least she could eat today.
Iris nodded and turned away. She wasn’t filled with the sympathy she’d had for Marcie before she’d been arrested, but she wasn’t icy and at least she was going to help.
Alone again, Marcie took a deep shaky breath and headed for her car. She was halfway across the lot when she heard laughter behind her. Several women had emerged, still in tennis skirts, unnecessary pastel sweaters tied around their shoulders, tanned faces Botox-smooth, looking like an ad for a Tybee Island resort.
She stared as one face looked her way. Dark hair and feline features. Their eyes met and the woman’s smile grew broader. Victorious. And then the moment was gone, the woman’s attention back on the gaggle of friends slipping into convertibles, no doubt heading for a cocktail somewhere on their way home.
Still, Marcie’s whole body smarted.
Jacquie.
54.
Iris brought her five thousand dollars. It didn’t seem very much at all, but Marcie accepted it gratefully as they stood in the vast entry hall of her mausoleum of a house.
“I’m sorry for the awkwardness at the club earlier,” Iris said, her hands clasped in front of her. She was beautifully dressed, her hair swept up in a chignon. She and Noah, who was waiting in the car outside, obviously had dinner plans. Life moved on, despite William being hooked to machines and Jason and Keisha locked up. Marcie understood. Iris and Noah were smoothing out the wrinkles that had appeared in their perfect lives by continuing as normal.
“But in this town, dear,” she continued, “murder is considered classier than embezzlement. Several of William’s clients are club members. So, you can imagine.” She looked around at the marble stairs and the expensive decor, no doubt mentally totting up the cost that came out of other people’s money. “You won’t remember this, but there was a lot of sympathy and help for Jason after his father got himself into trouble. This is not how people like to be repaid for their kindnesses. And sadly, although it’s understandable why you would have liked to keep your past private, that has added another layer of deception that will take some time to forgive. But we have big hearts in this city, and Jason’s sins aren’t yours. Things will settle down.”
Until things settled down, Marcie decided later, she was going to have to liquidate some assets. Once, five grand would have seemed like a fortune to her, but she was now capable of spending that during a half-hearted boutique browse. Maybe she’d have to get a job—a thought that filled her with dread, the ghost of the stench of diner fat rearing up in front of her, ready to sink into her skin.
She couldn’t sleep. She’d lain awake staring at the ceiling in the dark, the sheets beneath her cool, no longer tangled and warm with passion from either Jason or Keisha. The bed was like an abandoned wasteland of love with only one survivor. A grave not yet filled.
When they’d bought the house, she’d loved its vastness, but now the size made her nervous. She found she was listening for unusual noises, afraid of any hint of an intruder somewhere inside. Someone was out there, someone who was determined to destroy Jason and Marcie and seemed prepared to kill to do so. Would they come here and try to kill her? Now that she was so alone?
She got up, going to the window and looking out at the street. The house opposite, the house that had saved her, was silent and the sidewalks were empty, as they always were after midnight. She half-expected to see Jacquie looking up at her. Everything had started going wrong when Jacquie resurfaced. Could Jacquie really be behind it all? If so, what did she want? Surely she wouldn’t have gone as far as to poison William to get her revenge on Jason for being rejected? But then, history was littered with stories of the revenge of women scorned.
But Jacquie couldn’t have poisoned William. How would she have known where to find the needles Eleanor had hidden away? Could someone have told her? But why? Too many unanswered questions and for now she had more immediate concerns. Her mind turned to money again, and she headed to her dressing room. They couldn’t take her jewelry. Not if she’d sold it. And the same went for Jason’s cuff links and watches and some of her more expensive one-off dresses.
As she started stacking the tiny beautiful boxes that summed up their affair and a marriage’s worth of gifts, she calmed down. Even if she sold it at cut-rate prices she’d have plenty left over after paying Iris back. She reached into the next drawer for her Versace scarves, suddenly feeling a sense of liberation. With Jason she thought she’d built herself a wall of protective wealth. What good had it done her? It hadn’t been her money. Next time, when she married another rich man, she’d make sure she had bank accounts of her own and cash secreted away in case of emergencies. If anyone would marry her.
From Jason’s drawers she took out his four watches—two of which had been gifts from her, albeit paid for by him, so she felt no qualms in selling those—and then piled up his cuff link collection—three pairs were diamond studded and none of the others were cheap.
When she was done she got back into bed and stared at the cool spare pillow—Jason’s pillow—beside her. She thought of all the times in the early days that she’d lain beside Jason, breathless from sex, watching him sleep, just wanting to run her fingers down the firm muscles of his arms and chest. How obsessed she’d been with her handsome man. Then there was Keisha, dark skin against white sheets, who’d lain right here with her, warm flesh, hot wet mouth, a new ocean of sexuality to dive into.
Jason and Keisha. Keisha and Jason. One all masculinity, the other the opposite. Yin and yang. As the memories assailed her, echoes of sensation, she felt her body stir. Had Keisha killed William for her maybe? Marcie had kept telling her she wouldn’t be poor again—was this Keisha’s way of trying to secure both their futures so they could run away together with a fortune? Or maybe she had just been the scapegoat and Jason had poisoned William to free himself of his debts and save himself from prison? These two people she’d had sex with. Terrible people. The sheet brushed against her nipple and she shivered.
Jason and Keisha. Their wickedness began to drive her fantasy, the complete disregard for conformity, and then, as her hand slid down her own body, in her imagination all three of them were in the bed together, a twisting panting mess of limbs, each body eager for its own satisfaction.
Once she was done, gasping in delight as the orgasm ripped through her, she rolled over and finally fell asleep, and didn’t wake up until nine the next morning, when Detective Anderson rang the doorbell.
55.
Marcie was pretty sure Kate Anderson didn’t sleep. When she’d woken Marcie at nine, her skin was disgustingly fresh, even clear of makeup, and she had the energy of someone who’d been up for hours. Still, once she started speaking, Marcie woke up pretty fast herself. First, she told Marcie that they now had reason to believe the computer crash at the partnership had been caused by a remotely planted virus. She’d wanted to kno
w how proficient Jason was at computer hacking or if he had any friends or connections who he might have turned to. All their usual leads for tech crime were staying unsurprisingly quiet. It had made Marcie laugh out loud. Jason? A hacker? No, that wasn’t possible—his passwords were too easy to guess for him to be that IT savvy. She’d almost asked why on earth he’d want the crash, but then, as she started to wake up herself, the answer became obvious. To delay the audit. To buy himself time to put money back or at least make more mess to hide his crimes. No, even as she pleaded ignorance, Marcie knew that Jason might not have hacked the system himself, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t organized it. That day when he’d lied about where he was—had he been getting the virus removed?
Anderson’s second blow was her suspicion that perhaps Jason and Keisha were in it together. Jason had been to London the previous year. He’d told William the best places to go. Perhaps this had all been a long and elaborate plan. Could he have known Keisha before she arrived in Savannah?
Marcie had played her usual distraught Southern wife until Anderson left, with the final bombshell that Jason had been charged with several counts of financial fraud and embezzlement and had a bail hearing due, but given that he was also being investigated for attempted murder, getting bail was unlikely.
As soon as she’d closed the front door, her head spinning, Marcie had burst into action. Jason still had influence. Therefore as his wife, so did she. And what was the point of being married to a lawyer if you didn’t use your connections to pull a few strings? She needed to ask questions for herself. She needed to know for herself. Could Keisha and Jason be in it together?
And so now here she was, at the police station, about to have a visit with her husband, and then with Keisha, the weight of Savannah’s legal power having forced Anderson’s hand. Marcie wiped her palms on the thighs of her pants, suddenly nervous. Tread carefully, her eyes said to Jason as a guard let him into the room. They’ll all be listening.
Dead to Her Page 27