“Yes, I guess. I didn’t think I’d hurt Camille. I never wanted to hurt her, and I don’t remember hurting her, but . . . Jonas is smart, and I am messed up inside. And I did like scaring her.”
“That doesn’t mean you hurt her.” Natalie rose, walked to her desk, and took a business card out of her center drawer. “Tori Hendershot is a fantastic therapist, and I know she’d welcome you as a client.” She handed Lacey the card and sat in the chair next to her. “With your permission, I’ll call her and arrange for you to transfer to her. In fact, I can call her right now and leave her a message. She’ll get back to you today. I recommend that you see her as soon as possible.”
Lacey fiddled with the card. “Jonas . . . he didn’t want me talking about this to anyone.”
“This is about you, not Jonas. What do you want?”
“Are you going to tell the police I was stalking Camille and that Jonas thinks I . . . that it’s possible . . . ?”
“No. The only reason I could break confidentiality would be if I thought you or someone else was in danger. Do you think you’re in danger?”
“No.”
“Do you think anyone else is in danger?”
“I . . . don’t think so. I don’t know of anyone in danger.”
“I know you won’t like this suggestion, but I strongly recommend that you contact the police immediately. They’re conducting a murder investigation, and you know Jonas is not being honest with them.”
Lacey’s eyes were frozen blue patches of horror in her frozen white face.
“Will you think about it?” Natalie asked.
“Um . . . yes, I’ll think about it.” Lacey scanned the bent card in her hand. “Could you . . . wait a little while before you call Tori? I’m not sure I’m ready to start with a stranger. Could I maybe call you in a day or two and tell you my decision?”
“You were very agitated when you came in here this morning,” Natalie said. “Do you feel able to make a decision that will be best for you, especially if Jonas objects?”
“I feel a lot calmer now.” Lacey gripped the arms of the chair and hoisted herself to her feet. “I’m thinking . . . with all the stuff I wrote in my notebook, I never wrote anything about wanting to commit murder or wanting to hurt Camille. I don’t think I wrote anything like that. If it were in my subconscious, wouldn’t it have shown up in my notebook?”
“That’s something Tori will do an excellent job of exploring with you.” Natalie kept her tone kind, mentally grappling with the compulsion to sit Lacey down and wring out every trace of information she had about Camille’s death. Information Natalie wouldn’t be able to pass on to the police anyway.
Lacey took a tentative step toward the door. Natalie rose to follow her.
“I don’t think I wrote anything about hurting her,” Lacey repeated. “I wish I could read my notes again to be sure I’m not remembering wrong.”
“What happened to your notebook?” Natalie asked.
“I don’t know,” Lacey said. “Jonas won’t tell me what he did with it, and he won’t give it back.”
Chapter 19
Natalie stepped out of her shoes, dropped her purse and jacket on the table in the entryway, and slumped on the living room couch. She needed ibuprofen for her headache, she needed dinner, she needed something hot to drink, she needed a blanket. She needed Camille’s voice: “Gee, Nat, holding court in your Freud chair all day sure takes it out of you. Good thing you don’t have a job where you use actual muscles.”
Her own client—now former client—was Camille’s stalker, the stalker Natalie had assumed didn’t exist. What a train wreck, personally and professionally. She shouldn’t have talked with Lacey at all today except to tell her she needed to transfer to a different therapist. Jonas’s fear that the police would view Lacey as a suspect should have forewarned her that the connection between Lacey and Camille wasn’t a simple friendship. But when terrified Lacey had crashed into the office, could Natalie honestly have stuffed Tori’s business card in her hand and booted her out the door without even letting her speak? Or worse yet, told Jeanne to call the police on her? She’d consulted with Kirk after Lacey’s departure, and he’d agreed that she’d behaved appropriately, so that was some comfort. She’d also spent an extensive amount of time documenting every detail of her interaction with Lacey, knowing a judge’s subpoena might land those notes in court and Natalie’s interaction with Lacey would be legally dissected.
She closed her eyes and pressed her fingers against her eyelids, trekking through a futile attempt to process what had happened without getting mauled by guilt. Was Lacey Camille’s killer as well as her stalker? Lacey strangling Camille? Lacey was a tall woman but wispy; in a struggle, Camille could have flung her halfway to Long Island. And Natalie was dubious about the dissociative-amnesia label Jonas had apparently pinned on Lacey’s lack of murderous memories. Jonas might be panicking or even gaslighting her, using her alleged guilt to control her.
Whether or not she’d killed Camille, there was nothing Natalie could do about it but try to persuade her to talk to the police and meet with Tori. No matter what she’d done, she needed help. If she’d had the guts to see Natalie against Jonas’s wishes, maybe she’d have the guts to see Tori even if Jonas didn’t want—
Jonas didn’t want her to talk to a therapist? He’d been the one to haul her to Natalie’s office in the first place, but now he wanted to keep Lacey away from her. Did he think he was protecting Lacey, that Natalie would betray her to the police? Or was he afraid a professional would prod Lacey to question his accusations—or even question his innocence? Had he “found” Camille’s body because he’d killed her? How seriously were the police investigating him?
She stood, shuffled into the kitchen, and opened the fridge. A Ziploc bag filled with leftover pizza awakened thoughts of learning mid-pizza-prep that Camille was dead. She reached for the bag anyway. Shoving it to the back of the fridge wouldn’t reduce her grief. She was hungry and tired, and pizza was quick.
Her phone rang. She returned to where she’d left her purse in the entryway and retrieved her phone.
Andrea. Just what she needed. “Hello?”
“Why on earth didn’t you tell me about Camille?” Her sister’s voice sprayed over her like lukewarm water, sympathetic but not quite warm enough to be comfortable. “I found out from my cleaning lady, for crying out loud!”
“I didn’t feel up to talking about it,” Natalie said. “I was going to call you later.”
“That’s such a horrible thing to happen to her,” Andrea said. “Do the police know who did it?”
“I don’t think so. The news reports haven’t said much.”
“You must have theories about what happened. Did she have a jealous boyfriend?”
“No. She wasn’t dating anyone.”
“Why not? She’s always had guys chasing her.”
“It hadn’t even been two years since Dante died. She didn’t feel ready.”
“That’s a long time to wait.”
“People mourn in their own ways and at their own pace.”
“True. And I can see why she was heartbroken over Dante. He was a prize. Mom always told him if she were thirty years younger and not dying, she’d sweep him away to the Bahamas.”
Natalie made a small effort to think of something about that statement that wasn’t either creepy or morbid. “He was a charming man.”
“And gorgeous!”
“Yes.” Natalie chose three small slices of pizza and put them on a plate.
“I can’t believe Camille got murdered. I know there are scary people everywhere, but you only expect strangers to be victims.”
“It’s surreal.” Natalie set her plate in the microwave.
“Are you okay? You must be freaked out.”
“I’m sad, not scared.”
“Do you think it was a robbery? Camille had expensive tastes. Did she own a lot of valuable stuff?”
“Some. She only bou
ght what she could afford.”
Andrea laughed. “I don’t think Dante held back. I saw that pile of diamonds on her hand!”
“I don’t know if robbery was involved,” Natalie said brusquely.
“I’m sorry,” Andrea said. “You must be heartbroken. You two were besties since you were kids. Can I do anything for you?”
“You’re sweet to ask, but I don’t need anything right now.”
“You must be lonely. Do you want to come stay with us for a week or two? Being with family might help you feel better.”
“Thank you, but I’m okay.” Natalie hoped her voice didn’t reveal too much of what she was thinking: Two weeks of you sounds anything but comforting. I’d rather sleep in the graveyard.
“Are you sure? Charlotte misses her Aunt Natty.”
“I’d love to see her. I’ll come by sometime soon.”
“Did you see that picture I posted of her? Can you believe that expression on her face?”
“It was darling.” Given that Andrea posted multiple pictures of her baby every day, Natalie didn’t know which picture she was talking about, but it was safe to assume it was darling.
“Call me if you need anything,” Andrea said. “Even if you need money to hire help for a few weeks so you don’t have to worry about laundry and stuff.”
“Thank you. I appreciate the offer. Thank you for checking on me, but I need to hang up now. I’m exhausted.”
“I understand. You poor thing. I hope the police figure out who killed Camille before the murderer goes after someone else—like you. I could hire you a bodyguard.”
“Please don’t. I doubt we have a serial killer in town.”
“But you were her best friend, so the murderer might be worried you know something.”
Natalie tapped the microwave controls. “I don’t know anything.”
“Have the police questioned you? Are you a suspect? I know you’d never hurt her, but family members are always prime suspects, and she was like your sister. Do you need a lawyer? I’ll hire one for you.”
Could Andrea make it any plainer that she was ravenous for drama—and Natalie’s getting arrested would be the most thrilling drama of all? “Thank you, but I’m not a suspect. I’m going to eat dinner now. Say hi to Austin and Charlotte.”
“Natalie, you need to let me do something for you. You’re going to be adrift without Camille. You and Camille used to talk about taking a European tour. I could send you—”
“Thank you, but I’m too busy to leave anytime soon. I’ll keep it in mind though. Talk to you later.” Natalie hung up and took her reheated pizza to the table.
Are you a suspect? Andrea’s question reminded her of Felicia’s accusations. Selling out, whatever that meant. Devouring Gideon from the inside out—an accusation Gideon apparently believed, or he would have called her back.
She couldn’t help Felicia, but Gideon could, and he needed Natalie’s side of the story, whether or not he wanted to hear it. She’d ram it into his brain, walk away, and pray that he’d guide his stepmother to the help she needed.
She reached for her phone but changed her mind and kept eating her limp pizza. She wasn’t calling or texting him this time, another contact he could ignore. She’d talk to him face-to-face.
The doorbell rang. Natalie wiped her fingers on her napkin and went to answer it.
On the doorstep stood rangy, pale Detective Bartholomew and his older, heavier black companion, Detective Turner.
“Good evening, Dr. Marsh.” Turner showed her his badge. “We met at Mrs. Moretti’s.”
Natalie nodded. “Has there been progress?”
“We’re doing our best,” Turner said. “If you have a few minutes, we’d like to talk to you.”
“Come in.” Natalie tried not to let thoughts of Lacey’s stalking and Jonas’s suspicions escalate her stress. Even though she couldn’t say everything she’d like to say, she still wanted to talk to the police to learn everything they knew—or at least everything they were willing to tell her.
The detectives sat on the couch; Natalie sat in her easy chair. Detective Bartholomew opened his briefcase, took out a file folder, and brought it to Natalie.
“We’d like you to look at this,” he said in his remarkable bass voice. Fleetingly, Natalie pictured him on stage performing in The Marriage of Figaro. “It contains photographs of an envelope we found in Mrs. Moretti’s home.”
The letter from Dante. Apprehension and eagerness tussled inside Natalie; apprehension prevailed. She wanted to see the letter, but she didn’t want to discuss it with the police. Yes, Dante was my mother’s attorney. Yes, my mother despised me.
Bracing herself, Natalie opened the folder.
The first photograph was of a manila envelope, bulky with what was obviously not merely a sheet or two of paper. Her name was handwritten on the front.
The second picture was of the back of the envelope with the flap opened. Next to it were stacks of cash. Natalie squinted at the image. The top bills on each stack were twenties or fifties. How much money was this? Thousands of dollars?
“This money was in the envelope?” she asked.
“Yes,” Turner said.
Natalie scrutinized her name on the envelope. That wasn’t Camille’s handwriting. “Where in the house did you find this?”
“In a filing cabinet in the office formerly used by Mr. Moretti,” Turner said. “At the back of the bottom drawer.”
The filing cabinet Camille had finally started searching. She definitely hadn’t found this envelope.
“Why was there an envelope with your name on it containing $16,040 in cash in the Morettis’ filing cabinet?” Turner’s firm tone wasn’t accusatory, but it sent the message that anything but a full, honest answer would bring consequences Natalie wouldn’t enjoy.
“I have absolutely no idea. Camille . . . She told me . . .” Natalie exhaled hard, trying to vent emotion before it shook her voice. “The night she died, as I told Detective Bartholomew, we’d been at a party together. At the party, she told me she’d finally started searching through Dante’s old filing cabinet, and she’d found a letter to me. She wasn’t talking about this envelope. A plain letter, in an envelope from his office stationery. Did you find that in her house?”
“A letter to you from Mr. Moretti?” Turner raised his eyebrows. “We didn’t find anything like that. Did she mention where she put it?”
“No.”
“Why didn’t she bring it to you that night if she knew she’d be seeing you?”
“She thought about it, but she knew I might not be excited to see it. She offered to read it first so she could prepare me for it.” Wishing she didn’t have to explain this but aware the situation would be incomprehensible if she didn’t, she added, “Dante was my mother’s lawyer. My mother and I had a falling out, and she wrote me out of her will. I assumed if Dante had written me a letter, it had something to do with that.”
“I’m sorry,” Turner said. “When did your mother pass away?”
“Two years ago.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Turner said kindly.
“Thank you.”
“What was the cause of the estrangement?” Turner’s attitude, unyielding but infused with caring, reminded Natalie of her neuropsych professor—a man who’d do everything he could to help you pass but wouldn’t hesitate to flunk you if you were lacking.
“My mother was mentally ill,” Natalie said. “I urged her to get treatment, which she resented.”
“A difficult situation,” Turner said. “Regarding this letter from Mr. Moretti, if it was professional correspondence, what was it doing in his home filing cabinet two years after his client’s death?”
“I don’t know if it was professional correspondence, strictly speaking. I didn’t know Dante well—only through Camille—but he was a nice guy. I imagine he felt bad about my mother’s decision. Maybe he wrote me a note to say so but didn’t deliver it.”
“We didn’t
find it in Mrs. Moretti’s house or car,” Turner said.
“I suppose she could have shredded it. If she read it and knew it wasn’t something I’d want to see, she might have destroyed it.”
“Without your permission?”
“She knew me well. She’d be confident in deciding if it was something I’d want to read.”
“Mrs. Moretti’s wallet was missing from her house, along with her evening bag. I believe she was carrying a fancy evening purse at the Chapman party?”
“Yes, a beautiful, handmade purse.” Guilt slapped her at the thought of Lacey. “It’s missing?”
“Yes.”
“So it was a robbery,” Natalie said, feeling marginally less culpable. “A random crime.”
“We don’t know,” Turner said. “According to her sister-in-law, the purse is the only significant thing missing. Her jewelry was still there, cash, small electronics. You say she spoke of the letter while at the party. Could she have had it with her, in that purse?”
“I don’t know. It’s a small clutch purse; she would have had to fold the envelope to tuck it in there.”
Turner pointed to the pictures in Natalie’s hands. “Do you recognize the handwriting on that envelope?”
“I know it’s not Camille’s.”
“Our graphologist identified it as Dante Moretti’s. Do you have any idea why Mr. Moretti kept an envelope filled with cash and labeled with your name?”
“As I said, I have no idea. I don’t even have a ridiculous guess. But I’m sure Camille didn’t know about the cash, or she would have told me.”
“Did you ever have any business transactions with Mr. Moretti?” Turner asked.
“None. He was my mother’s lawyer, not mine.”
“He didn’t owe you any money?”
“No. I never loaned him money or sold him anything.”
“Thank you,” Turner said. “If you think of anything that would help us understand this, will you let us know immediately?”
“Of course,” Natalie said. “Could you do the same for me? I’d like to understand what’s going on.”
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