A few minutes before three o’clock a man and woman walk in with a little girl. She’s about seven, Celeste guesses (she has become proficient at pegging children’s ages, often down to the month). The little girl has Shirley Temple curls, the kind you want to pull straight just for the sheer joy of watching them bounce back. The couple are giving off static and Celeste gathers from the set of the woman’s jaw and from the angry whispers that are flying over the little girl’s head that they’re arguing. As Celeste reaches into the first tank to retrieve Molly the milk snake, she eavesdrops. The woman wants the man to meet “Laney and Casper” for dinner at Root and Bone tonight, but the man reminds her that he has promised to have dinner at his parents’ apartment because his parents are leaving for Barbados on Monday and will then be in London through the holidays so he can’t cancel or postpone.
The woman—her hair very blond with tinges of silver but intentional silver, not aged silver, which makes her look like she belongs in a science-fiction movie—says, “You act like a minion around your parents. It’s pathetic to watch.”
The little girl turns her face up. “Who’s a minion, Mommy?”
Science-fiction Mother snaps, “I wasn’t addressing you, Miranda. I’m trying to conduct an adult conversation with Benji.”
Benji catches Celeste’s eye and smiles apologetically. “This nice woman is going to teach us about snakes, Miranda,” he says.
Miranda’s eyes widen. The mother huffs and Celeste smiles indulgently as if to convey that she knows how tedious trips to the zoo can be. The things parents do for their children! The fighting couple are expensively dressed, lots of suede and cashmere, a nice watch on the man, ballet flats on the woman, and she carries some kind of designer bag. (Merritt would be able to identify not only the designer but also the year; she feels about bags the way that most men feel about Corvettes.) Genus: Manhattan, Celeste thinks. Species: Upper East Side. Their natural habitat includes doormen and cabs, private school and Bergdorf’s.
It’s a typical sighting here at the Bronx Zoo.
Just as Celeste is about to begin—she reviewed Blair’s notes over her lunch break—a group of boys in their late teens wander in; they carry the unmistakable scent of marijuana smoke. Celeste raises her eyebrows. “Are you guys here for the snake talk?” she asks. It seems like they might have been lighting up elsewhere in Pelham Park and stumbled into the World of Reptiles by mistake.
“Yeah,” the one wearing a fluorescent-orange knit hat says. “You’ve got an anaconda in here, right?”
“We do, but I don’t handle him,” Celeste says. “He’s way too big.”
“I have a big anaconda too,” the boy says. “But you can handle it anytime.”
Celeste smiles patiently. No wonder Blair is so prone to migraines.
Benji turns on the kid and says, “Hey. Respect the lady, please.”
My hero, Celeste thinks. She doesn’t want the situation to escalate so she says, “Let’s get started. I’m Celeste Otis, the assistant zoo director, but today I’m wearing my World of Reptiles hat. And this is Molly, one of our two milk snakes. Milk snakes aren’t venomous or otherwise dangerous to humans; however, they do closely resemble coral snakes, which are deadly. This resemblance, known as Batesian mimicry, is one of the ways the milk snake protects itself in the wild.”
She moves point by point through Blair’s spiel. All snakes are cold-blooded. Does anyone know what that means? She smiles at Miranda’s mother, but Miranda’s mother is in silent-treatment mode, eyes drilling holes into the concrete somewhere over Celeste’s shoulder, arms locked across her chest. She keeps sneaking sideways glances at Benji, as if willing him to notice just how angry she is, realize just how unfair it is that he won’t go to dinner with Laney and Casper because he committed to his parents. Benji’s attention, meanwhile, is fixed on Celeste. He listens as if every word she says is wildly fascinating. Snakes shed their skins once a year and when they do, their eyes grow cloudy. Snakes smell with their tongues. Snakes don’t have ears.
Benji leans down to Miranda. “Isn’t that crazy? Snakes don’t have ears.”
Miranda giggles.
“Some people think snakes are slimy,” Celeste says. “But actually, their skin is dry and cool. Would anyone like to touch Molly?” Celeste holds Molly out to Miranda’s mother, who backs up a couple of steps.
“No, thank you,” she says.
“Oh, come on, Jules,” Benji says. “Be a sport.”
“I don’t want to touch the snake,” Jules says.
“There’s no reason to be afraid,” Celeste says. “Snakes have gotten a bad rap since biblical times, but Molly is quite lovely.”
“I’m not afraid,” Jules says. “How dare you suggest such a thing.”
“Whoa,” the stoner in the orange hat says.
Celeste thinks of apologizing but she doesn’t indulge bratty behavior in children and she won’t indulge it in their parents either. To prove a point, she holds the snake out to Miranda. “Let’s show Mommy how brave you are,” she says.
Miranda eagerly reaches out a hand to stroke Molly.
“Look at that,” Celeste says. “I think she likes you.”
Jules storms out of the World of Reptiles.
Celeste sighs. She has a long-running joke with her boss, Zed, about fund-raising to build a cocktail lounge next to the cafeteria for parents like Jules. It would make all of their jobs a lot easier.
The Swedes must think the talk is over because they follow Jules out.
“Can we see a boa now?” the stoner asks.
Celeste brings out Bernie the boa and she wraps up her talk with a stroll past the poisonous snakes—the puff adder, the rattler, the pit viper, and, a perennial favorite, Carmen the cobra. Celeste taps on the glass, and Carmen rises up like a plume of smoke and unfurls her hood—and everyone takes a step back.
“That concludes our snake talk,” Celeste says. “Enjoy the rest of your Saturday.”
The stoners tap on the glass of Carmen’s tank, trying to get her to strike, while Celeste heads to the utility sink to wash her hands. She finds Benji and Miranda lingering before Molly’s tank, and in an attempt to make amends for provoking Jules, Celeste joins them.
“Molly just shed her skin this week,” she says. “That’s it right there.” She points to the gray tube of skin, as delicate as filigree, still mostly intact.
Benji smiles. “Thank you for all this information. I’m sorry Jules stormed out. She’s upset about something else.”
“No worries,” Celeste says. “I’m just filling in for the usual snake expert. My job is mostly administrative these days. It’s fun to be hands-on, although I hardly expect real-world problems to vanish when one walks into the World of Reptiles.”
“Do you have a card?” Benji asks. “I have a friend who sets up excursions for businessmen traveling to New York from overseas. I want to suggest he bring people here to the zoo.”
“Like a field trip for adults?”
“Mostly they like casinos and strip clubs,” Benji says. “I think this would be something new and different. Something educational.”
“I have cards,” Celeste says. “But they’re in my office. You can call the zoo’s main number and ask for me. My name is Celeste Otis. Or, if you’d like, you can put my direct line into your phone right now?”
“I’d love that,” Benji says. He pulls out his phone. “Go ahead, I’m ready.”
Saturday, July 7, 2018, 7:00 a.m.
Initial questioning, Abigail Freeman Winbury, Saturday, July 7 (continued)
While Abby is in the bathroom, Nick listens for voices from the rest of the house. He hears nothing and sees no one out the glass doors. This room is perfect for questioning; it’s almost hermetically sealed off from the rest of the house. Sitting here with the sun streaming in and the hydrangeas visible out the window, you wouldn’t know anything was wrong.
Abby comes back in, arms crossed over her chest in what Nick perceives as a d
efensive attitude. She knows or suspects something about Merritt’s romantic life; Nick just needs to get her to spill the beans.
“Where were we?” he asks.
“I’m not sure?” Abby says.
“Why don’t you tell me about last night,” Nick says.
“Well, the first thing that happened,” Abby says, “was that the rehearsal was canceled.”
“Canceled?”
“I guess Reverend Derby—that’s the Winburys’ minister from New York—called to say his flight had been delayed and he wouldn’t get to Nantucket until very late. I figured we would go to the church anyway and run through the ceremony with Roger, the wedding planner. But Celeste and Benji decided to cancel it altogether. It was almost as if…”
“As if what?” Nick says.
“As if they knew… they wouldn’t be getting married,” Abby says.
“What do you mean by that?”
Abby takes a sip of her water and trains her gaze on the front of the Nantucket coffee-table book. The cover is a photograph of the Rainbow Fleet rounding Brant Point Lighthouse during the Opera House Cup. “Nothing,” she says.
“Was there any indication that this wedding might not happen?”
“No,” Abby says.
“So, no rehearsal, then,” Nick says. “But there was still a rehearsal dinner, right?”
“It was a beach picnic here,” Abby says. “A clambake. There were raw clams and oysters, which I didn’t eat because I’m pregnant and raw shellfish can carry listeria. It’s in lunch meat also.” Abby takes another sip of water and Nick struggles against his instinct to categorize Abby as painfully self-absorbed and utterly useless to this investigation. “There was chowder, boiled lobster, sausages, potatoes, corn bread. Different kinds of pie for dessert. Oh, and there were cheddar biscuits. I ate about twelve.”
“Sounds delicious,” Nick says with a tight smile. “The clambake was catered?”
“Catered, yes. By the same people who were supposed to do the wedding reception tonight. Island Fare.”
“Was there alcohol served?”
Abby laughs. “This is the Winbury house. These people brush their teeth with vintage Dom Pérignon.”
“Were people drinking heavily?”
“The picnic had a signature cocktail,” Abby says. “It was a blackberry mojito with big fat ripe blackberries and fresh mint from Bartlett’s Farm and lots of rum. People were talking about how delicious they were. They were a gorgeous purple color and it was so hot last night that I’m sure they were hard to resist. And let’s see… Greer was drinking champagne; she always drinks champagne at parties. But everyone else was into those mojitos. Oh, and there was a keg of Cisco beer too, so after a while the guys were drinking that.”
“Did you notice Merritt drinking?” Nick asks.
“Not specifically,” Abby says. “But I’m sure she was. She acts like one of the guys. Acted; sorry. She listened to the same music as the guys—by which I mean Tay-K, not Taylor Swift—and she doused her food with hot sauce. She knew every player on the Yankees roster. It was her thing—she wanted to act like a guy but look like a woman.” Abby pauses. “I found it a little hard to take, honestly.”
“These are exactly the kind of details I’m after,” he says, and Abby smiles at the praise. “Tell me what happened during the picnic.”
“After we ate, people gave toasts. Celeste’s father went first. Mr. Otis’s toast was all about Celeste’s mom, which seemed strange, but he brought it back around to Celeste and Benji eventually. And then after that, Thomas gave a toast. Thomas, my husband, the groom’s brother.”
“And he’s the best man?”
Abby huffs. “He’s not the best man. Benji asked Shooter instead. Shooter Uxley.”
“Shooter. That’s right, that’s right. Tell me about Shooter.”
“How long do you have?” Abby asks.
“All day,” Nick says.
“You know how some people are so charming and magnetic that they can get away with anything?”
“My cousin Phil,” Nick says. “Six-foot-two Adonis. My ya-ya’s favorite. Everyone’s favorite.”
“Exactly,” Abby says. “Shooter is this wedding’s version of your cousin Phil.”
Nick smiles. He likes Abby a little better. “So… after your husband, Thomas, did anyone else make a toast?”
“No. I thought maybe Tag would speak but he didn’t, for some reason. And Merritt… you know, I don’t remember seeing either Merritt or Tag during the toasts.”
Nick makes a note: MM not present at toasts.
“Maybe she was in the restroom?” Nick says. “Did she reappear?”
Abby bites the corner of her lip. “Yes, yes,” she says. “I saw her later. Thomas went over to bum a cigarette from her.”
“Merritt smoked?” Nick says.
Abby shrugs. “When she drank, I guess. Like everyone else. Except for me now.”
“What time did the party end?” Nick asks.
“The band stopped playing at ten. That’s a law, which you probably know because you’re in law enforcement.” She winks at him and Nick starts to feel optimistic. They’re building a rapport here and any second Abby is going to give him what he’s looking for. Come on, Abby! “I was exhausted, but Thomas said he wanted to go to town with Benji and his friends. So then we had a fight.”
“A fight?”
“He told me early in our marriage that the way to keep him happy was to give him freedom. He goes out with his friends, he takes guy trips, and the rest of the time, he’s at work.”
Sounds like a real prince, Nick thinks.
“And I told him now that I’m pregnant, he has to change his ways.” Abby shrugs. “If he thinks I’m raising this baby alone, he has another think coming.”
Nick feels like he’s suddenly been thrust into the role of marriage counselor. “Did Thomas end up going out?”
“Yes,” Abby says. “But I wasn’t happy about it.”
“So who went out and who stayed home?” Nick asks.
“I stayed home. Mrs. Otis, Celeste’s mother, stayed home. And Greer stayed home. Tag and Mr. Otis had a drink in Tag’s study, which is a big deal.”
“Oh, yeah?” Nick says. “Why?”
Abby blows her bangs out of her eyes. “No one is allowed to set foot in Tag’s study without an invitation. I’ve never been invited so I’m not sure what’s so magical about it. I know he keeps really good scotch in there. Anyway, when he invited Mr. Otis for a drink in his study, it meant Tag was… accepting him as a part of the family, I guess. And I will point out, not that I care, but Tag never invited my father into the study for a drink.”
“Did Merritt go into town?” Nick asks.
“I assume she led the charge,” Abby says. “No, wait!” Abby’s voice rises so dramatically that Nick nearly leaps from the chair. “Wait, wait, wait! I saw Celeste and Merritt out in the rose garden after the party broke up! Our bedroom window looks right over the garden and I saw them when I went to pull the shade. Merritt was crying. Celeste had her hands on Merritt’s shoulders. They were talking. Then they hugged and Celeste walked toward the driveway and Merritt stayed in the garden.” Abby looks at Nick in astonishment. “I totally forgot about that until just this instant. If I had remembered, I would have started out by telling you that.”
Merritt and the bride in the rose garden. Merritt crying.
“In the scene you’re describing, did it look like Merritt was upset and Celeste was comforting her, or did it look like they were arguing?” Nick asks.
“The first,” Abby says. “I’m pretty sure Celeste went out with Benji, Thomas, and the others. But I couldn’t say for sure about Merritt. I pulled the shade and went to bed.”
Really? Nick thinks. Abby didn’t seem to miss much, and wouldn’t a former University of Texas sorority girl be naturally drawn to drama of this kind? She just described Merritt as “one of the guys,” so wouldn’t seeing Merritt crying make Abby very, ve
ry curious? “You didn’t peek again?” Nick asks. “To see what happened? To see if Merritt was okay?”
Abby looks him dead in the eye. “I was bone-tired. I went to bed.”
This is her reminding him, once again, that she’s pregnant. He nods. “From the looks of things under the tent, there was some late-night partying. Is it possible that the people who went out came home and drank some rum?”
“Possible,” Abby says.
“Do you have any idea who that might have been?” Nick asks.
Abby’s face shuts down. It’s as abrupt as a slamming door. “Nope.”
She’s lying, Nick thinks. This must have been when things got interesting.
“Was Merritt part of the group who had the nightcap?” he asks.
“I honestly have no idea,” Abby says. She couldn’t be less convincing.
Nick takes a sustaining breath. “When Thomas got back to your room, did you happen to notice what time it was? This is very, very important. Please think.”
“It was late.”
“Late like midnight?” Nick says. “Or late like four a.m.?”
“I didn’t look at the clock. I didn’t know…” Here, Abby tears up. “I didn’t know this would happen!”
“Please don’t get upset,” Nick says. “Let me find you some tissues.”
“I’m fine,” Abby says. And then, almost to herself, she says, “I can’t believe this is real. It’s real. Merritt is dead.”
“Abby, I have to ask: Did you hear anything else in the middle of the night? Did you hear anyone in the water? There was a two-person kayak down by the beach—”
Abby’s head snaps up. “A kayak? That would be Tag’s.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes,” Abby says. “Tag has two kayaks and he treats them like they’re his babies. They’re handmade by some guy in Alaska or wherever kayaks were invented. Tag has a one-person kayak and a two-person kayak and when he invites someone out on the two-person kayak, it’s a really big deal, like an even bigger deal than when he invites you into his study to drink his thousand-year-old scotch.”
The Perfect Couple Page 5