Not a Word

by Stephanie Black

  That was what Andrea was willing to do to her. What Andrea was trying to do to her.

  “None of her story is true.” Natalie forced herself to speak evenly, forced herself not to scream and pick up a chair and slam it into the wall again and again, breaking the chair, breaking the wall, breaking reality.

  Bartholomew ate another grape.

  “No, there’s one part that’s true, or I assume it’s true,” she amended. “I can’t verify personally that Dante was in financial trouble, but yesterday, Robert Chapman told me Dante had lost a lot of money in a real-estate debacle around that time. But I have never abused prescription drugs or used illegal drugs. I never even talked to Dante about the will, let alone threatened him. He never contracted with me to buy performance-enhancing drugs. And I did not murder Camille.” Natalie wanted to add more meat to these statements but wasn’t sure what else to say. She didn’t have an alibi for the time Camille had died, but Bartholomew already knew that.

  “Thank you,” Bartholomew said. “Tell me about your relationship with your mother. You had been estranged for several years. She’d made it clear you wouldn’t be a beneficiary in her will.”

  “Yes. Many times. It was a favorite weapon.” A weapon Natalie had always pushed away with words her mother had never seemed to hear: “I don’t care about your money, Mom. I care about you.”

  “Toward the end of her life, did she ever say anything about changing her will to include you?”

  “Not that I heard. Not according to Andrea.”

  “Did she show any desire to reconcile? Did she contact you?”

  The direction Bartholomew was leading this conversation surprised her. She’d expected questions asking her to prove her innocence. “She didn’t contact me or return my calls, but she did send me a birthday present.”

  “A birthday present?”

  “Yes. One of her hobbies was soap carving. She made lovely, detailed carvings, mainly of flowers. She sent me a basket of them.”

  Bartholomew’s long fingers fiddled with an empty grape stem. “Was this gift unexpected?”

  “Yes. She hadn’t acknowledged my birthday for several years, and out of the blue, she sent the soap carvings. No card or note, but it was her handwriting on the envelope and on the wrapping paper.”

  “How long was this before she died?”

  “About three months. I hoped this was a sign that she wanted to reconcile. She was proud; I thought she couldn’t humble herself enough to reach out with words. But when I tried to visit her after that, she still wouldn’t see me. Or answer my calls.”

  “Her will showed no sign of any desire for posthumous reconciliation?”

  “No, and from what Andrea said . . . not that Andrea’s word holds any credibility anymore . . . Mom hated me until the end.”

  “Thank you.” He rose to his feet. “I appreciate your cooperation. I know this is a difficult topic for you.”

  Was she being excused, or had Bartholomew hit a button to summon backup officers? “Would you like me to take a drug test? I’m willing to do that.”

  “I appreciate that,” Bartholomew said. “We’ll let you know if that would be helpful.”

  Meaning that a drug test now wasn’t going to prove she’d been sober two years ago. “Is that all the questions you have for me?”

  “For now. Thank you for coming in.”

  Grateful, Natalie stood. Andrea must have expected her to get arrested today on the basis of her lies, but apparently, a war between sisters with no proof on either side didn’t qualify as probable cause. Had Andrea considered that once the police started investigating her accusations, they’d find no proof? And once they found no proof, they’d explore—were probably already exploring—what she was trying to conceal by telling such whoppers?

  What was she hiding? Two hundred thousand dollars paid to Dante. Bartholomew’s questions about Natalie’s relationship with her mother. Andrea’s wild accusations.

  The pieces popped into place. The police were wondering if Andrea had bribed Dante, not over Natalie’s alleged crimes but over the will. Had she bribed him to keep Natalie out of it—even if that wasn’t Roxanne’s desire any longer?

  “Food for the road?” Bartholomew gestured at the boxes on the table.

  “Thank you.” Natalie took a strawberry and a cube of Swiss cheese, then Bartholomew escorted her to the lobby. She controlled her pace all the way to her car, feigning calm.

  Once the door was shut and the engine running, she set her strawberry and cheese on the center console and texted Andrea, fury making her fingers so ungainly that only the phone’s autocorrect function made the message readable. Thanks for all the lies. You’ll be sorry to know they didn’t arrest me.

  Knowing Andrea wouldn’t respond, she threw her phone on the passenger seat and started to back out of her parking place.

  Changing her mind, she pulled back in, picked up her phone, and called Gideon. She didn’t know if sharing what had happened was wise; she didn’t know how he’d react; she didn’t know if she wanted him to see the dirt Andrea had dumped all over her.

  She did know that if she tried to deal with this alone, clear-headedness would darken to stifling misery, and she wouldn’t be able to help herself or anyone else.

  Chapter 26

  “Nice try, Andrea.” The disgust in Gideon’s voice heartened Natalie. “Doesn’t she realize the police will need concrete evidence—not just her word?”

  “I don’t think she does yet.” Natalie took a final bite of the salad Gideon had created with whatever vegetables he could find in Felicia’s fridge. “I think she’s panicking and struggling to take control. Lies are the only strategy she could come up with.”

  “Panicking because she’s hiding something.” Gideon picked up the rest of the grilled sandwich on his plate but scraped at a bit of crisped cheese stuck to the bread instead of taking a bite. “I’m sorry, Natalie. That’s a brutal blow—your own sister lying to the police about you.”

  “It hurts,” Natalie said. “Andrea’s not an amateur at spinning the truth, but this is outrageous.”

  “Have you talked to her about it?”

  “I tried. I called her before I came over here. She didn’t answer . . . not that I thought she would.” She smiled at him, a meager smile but genuine, unlike the smiles she’d faked all afternoon. “Thanks for listening to me vent.”

  “Anytime. Thanks for meeting me here this evening. I . . . was actually planning to call you.” Gideon rose to his feet and took his plate to the sink. Instead of returning to his chair, he stayed facing the kitchen window. From her seat, Natalie could see a few bright slashes of coral-pink sunset, but she doubted the beauties of nature had entranced Gideon.

  “You probably didn’t expect to get roped into straightening up Felicia’s house after a police search,” he said, still facing the window.

  “I’m happy to help, and it doesn’t look like it will be much work. The police were careful about it. Thank you for dinner.”

  He returned to the table and took the empty salad bowl and sandwich platter. “Felicia would appreciate your eating her food,” he said. “She’d hate it if the stuff in her fridge went to waste.”

  “True,” Natalie said. Gideon’s tone was casual but distant—he was thinking about something other than what he was saying. “If you were planning to call me, I doubt it was because you wanted help straightening drawers and finishing off Felicia’s radishes and arugula. Did the police find anything in the search?”

  His mien troubled, Gideon sat. “They asked about my father’s gun. He had a hunting pistol, an old Colt Woodsman, that they found in a drawer in Felicia’s desk. They asked me if that was where the gun was usually stored. I told them no. My father kept it locked in a box in the basement, and I’ve never known Felicia to so much as touch it.”

  Natalie swallowed. Imagining Felicia holding a gun on Camille made her feel as though the barrel of the gun were pressed against her own windpipe.


  “It’s not good news that she’d moved it,” Gideon said. “It wasn’t a self-defense thing because it wasn’t loaded. The ammunition was still locked in the basement.”

  “So if she used it to threaten Camille, she used it unloaded.” Natalie wished this were definitive evidence that Felicia hadn’t wanted to hurt Camille, but it was only definitive evidence that she hadn’t wanted to shoot her.

  “It doesn’t make things worse, I guess,” Gideon said. “We already knew she must have had some means of keeping Camille under control; an unloaded gun is a good prop. But it feels worse.”

  “It does.”

  “That’s not what I wanted to tell you though,” he said. “I spoke to my aunt and uncle this morning, to tell them what was happening with Felicia, including the part about you. I hope that doesn’t bother you.”

  “I’m part of the facts of the situation,” Natalie said. “Of course it doesn’t bother me.” That was almost true—his sharing straight facts didn’t bother her, but she couldn’t stop herself from wondering what commentary he’d added.

  “I mentioned how Felicia had come to suspect you, both because of your friendship with Camille and because Dad had mentioned you—out of nowhere, Felicia said—on the day he died. Uncle Ron recognized your name. He—” Abruptly, Gideon stood. “Come into the living room.”

  A new surge of dread flooded Natalie as she rose to her feet. If this was momentous enough of a discussion that Gideon didn’t want to have it while staring at dirty dishes, that was a bad sign.

  They sat on the couch. Perched stiffly on the edge of a cushion, Gideon said, “You know how my dad and your mom had the same physical therapist? The guy I met at your house?”

  “Yes, Skyler Hudson. My mom recommended him after your Dad’s concussion.”

  “My dad told Ron that . . . uh, once near the end of your mother’s life, in the waiting room, your Mom started talking to him. About you.”

  “Lovely,” Natalie said. “Your uncle must think I’m a demon.”

  “Not at all. But your mother told Dad—they were alone in the waiting room—that she had a secret, but he had to swear not to tell anyone, even Felicia. He gave his word.”

  “Because he was too polite to tell her he had no interest in her dramatic secrets,” Natalie added.

  “Yeah, that’s probably true. She told him . . .” He flashed a rueful smile. “It feels weird telling you this, but I’m sick of secrets, and considering what Andrea’s up to, you need to know this. She told Dad she was changing her will, that she’d decided to split things fifty-fifty between you and Andrea.”

  This knockout blow left Natalie flattened. She couldn’t even focus on Gideon’s face, let alone speak.

  “She said you didn’t know. She didn’t plan to tell you; she wanted to surprise you after her death,” Gideon said. “So Dad kept his mouth shut, like he’d promised. After the estate was settled and everything went to Andrea, he figured your mother had been toying with him, just enjoying the attention—maybe hoping Dad would tell Felicia and then Felicia would end up disappointed for you.”

  Natalie groped to locate sensible words to speak. “That might be the case. She and Felicia were cordial, but they didn’t like each other.”

  “He confided in Ron but never did tell Felicia,” Gideon said. “He figured it would just hurt both of you if he shared your mother’s malicious joke.”

  “I can understand that.” At least Roxanne hadn’t been malicious enough to give this false news directly to Natalie.

  “Dad also said some things to Ron about your sister. One of the things your mother mentioned to him was how livid Andrea was about her plans to change the will, and when Andrea arrived to pick her up, Dad could see there was tension between them.”

  “That . . . wasn’t abnormal.” Natalie wished her heartbeat would slow.

  Gideon hunched forward, elbows digging into his thighs, hands locked together so tightly that his fingertips dug into his skin. “Ron said the whole deal bothered Dad. He didn’t like drama, was annoyed at everything about the situation, and felt sorry for you. Your mother and Andrea both rubbed him the wrong way. Ron remembered Dad joking—Ron thought he was joking—about how Andrea was so proud of showing off her wealth that maybe Roxanne had meant to change her will but Andrea had killed her before she could.”

  Natalie winced. “I can’t imagine her committing murder. Unless she rationalized that Mom was dying anyway and it was a mercy killing. Which . . . isn’t as impossible to believe as I wish it were.”

  “I told Ron it was something he should pass along to the police. Maybe they could find out if there was any evidence that your mother’s death could have been hurried along. But after what you told me, it looks like there’s an additional angle. The money Andrea paid Dante Moretti.”

  A bribe? Or blackmail? Had their mother told Dante of her plans, but when she died before she could change the will, Dante got suspicious?

  “I feel guilty even wondering if Dante could have been involved,” Natalie said.

  “Because of Camille, yeah. How well did you know Dante?”

  “Not well.” And Dante had been in financial straits at the time of her mother’s death. Two hundred thousand dollars might have sounded tempting. “I have a hard time believing Camille would be naïve enough to marry someone that cold-bloodedly unethical.”

  “Maybe he regretted it,” Gideon said. “The sixteen thousand dollars marked for you? Was that the start of an effort to pay you back? The letter you never got to read? Could that have been a confession he was trying to get up the guts to deliver?”

  New ideas, connections, fears, questions all whirled through Natalie’s mind in dark, cold patterns. “Your father,” she said. “If he asked Felicia about me on the day he died, he was probably thinking about the will. Do you think he was considering telling me everything? Or even telling the police?”

  “Like he truly had started to suspect foul play?” Gideon frowned. “And died in an accident before he could share that suspicion?”

  “Or not an accident?” Natalie felt paranoid suggesting this. How had she ended up echoing Felicia?

  Gideon stared at Natalie. “You mean he told someone his intention, and they didn’t want him to go through with it.”

  “You don’t need to say ‘someone,’” Natalie said. “We both know we’re talking about Andrea. She did shop at MaryLisa’s occasionally. She could have been there that day.”

  “If Dad did suspect Andrea murdered your mother, he wouldn’t have been dumb enough to say so to her face and then let her go fool around in the back of his store.”

  “If he truly did suspect murder, he would have called the police long ago,” Natalie said. “He couldn’t have had solid suspicions about anything. You said Andrea rubbed him the wrong way. Maybe she got on his nerves, insulting his inventory or what have you, and he said something irritable about how Mom had mentioned changing the will and he wished she had? I don’t know.”

  Gideon shook his head. “It still doesn’t sound like Dad. He was always courteous to customers, even difficult ones.”

  “My imagination is getting carried away.” Bizarrely carried away—yes, Andrea was a liar, but that was worlds away from being guilty of double murder.

  “I’m meeting with Skyler Hudson tonight—that’s why I told you I needed to be home at eight. I have some questions for him about the dynamic between Mom and Andrea. His fiancée is out of town, so he has some free time.” Needles of embarrassment poked Natalie. Vicki’s business trip was irrelevant; she’d mentioned a fiancée to make it clear that Skyler and Natalie had no romantic connection. Even worrying about that seemed ridiculous at the moment, and she hoped the tangential comment hadn’t registered with Gideon. “Mom adored him,” Natalie continued. “She might have confided in him.”

  “Good thinking. Maybe he can help sort this out.” Gideon sagged back against the couch. “This whole thing is punching the life out of my brain.”

  “Mine
too,” Natalie said, knowing Gideon wished as desperately as she did that their intellects were the only part of their minds and spirits getting pummeled. No matter what these fragments of evidence meant, when they melded together, the full truth would be heart-shattering.

  * * *

  Natalie set a glass of chilled water and her phone on the lamp table and settled into her recliner. Before she could even start to relax her muscles or process what she’d discussed with Gideon, her phone rang. She picked it up and saw Jonas Egan’s number on the screen. A conversation with Jonas might escalate her emotional status from overheated to core melt, but the chance to assess his reaction to the police visit drove her to answer the call. “This is Dr. Marsh.”

  A female voice quivered through the phone. “It’s . . . it’s Lacey Egan. I’m sorry to call you when it’s not business hours.”

  “It’s fine.” A rivulet of hope cooled a part of her anxiety. “I’m glad you called.”

  “I thought about seeing the therapist you talked about. I’d like to see someone, and I’m sure the person you’re suggesting is great, but . . . I don’t think I’ll be able to go.”

  Natalie’s hope evaporated. She wished she’d given Jonas an unprofessional piece of her mind when she’d had the chance. “Why do you think you couldn’t go?”

  “Um . . . well . . . I . . . don’t think I’ll be free that long. I . . . called to tell you something.”

  “I’m happy to listen, but as I told you, it’s not possible for me to continue as your therapist. Is this something that would be better shared in therapy?”

  “I don’t care about that, if you’re talking about the confidentiality thing. Tell the whole world; you have my permission. It’ll be headlines soon anyway.” Lacey inhaled a noisy, hoarse breath. “I killed Camille Moretti. I’m so sorry.”