by Margot Hunt
I looked down at the card. “Why?” I asked. “Do I need an attorney?”
“I know you have questions,” Donnelly said, holding up a hand. “But this isn’t the time or place. We’ll get into it all tomorrow.”
He turned and, hands stuck jauntily in his pockets, headed toward a large silver Mercedes sedan parked in front of the police station. I stood and watched as he pulled out, narrowly avoiding hitting a fire hydrant before he drove off.
I didn’t check my phone until I was safely sitting in my car. Surely Kat must have called me back while I was being interviewed, or at least responded to my texts. But the only messages I had were several texts from Todd:
Are you still at the police station?
What’s going on? Should I meet you there?
??
??????????????????????
I texted him back:
Everything’s fine. Just leaving now. Why did you hire the attorney?
I wondered if I should try calling Kat again. The police hadn’t told me not to speak to her—I doubted they had the right to—but I wondered if calling her immediately upon leaving the police interview would look suspicious. I didn’t know how easy it was for them to access phone records, but I had to assume, going forward, that any contact between Kat and me might be monitored.
Screw it, I thought. I needed to talk to Kat. I needed to hear her voice, to ask how she was handling her newly widowed state. Most important, I needed to find out what she knew about the police investigation.
The phone rang several times before her voice mail recording was suddenly playing in my ear:
“Hi, this is Kat Grant of K-Gallery. Leave me a message and I’ll call you back.”
Her tone was light and playful and almost painfully familiar. It was the same voice she used when suggesting something decadent, like having champagne with lunch.
I left her yet another voice mail message:
“Kat, it’s Alice. I’m just leaving the Jupiter Island police station, and I need to talk to you as soon as possible. Please call me back.”
I hung up, set the phone down on the car’s console and reversed out of my parking spot. I signaled left out of the parking lot, then right onto South Beach Road. I hadn’t gone far when my phone rang. I grabbed for it, again hoping it was Kat. But, no, it was Todd. I swallowed down my disappointment as I accepted the call.
“Hi.”
“Jesus, I’ve been worried. What’s going on?” Todd barked in my ear. He always became angry when he was worried.
“I just sent you a text.”
“I know. That’s why I called. What did the police want?”
“They were mostly interested in getting background information on Kat and Howard. They asked a lot of questions about their marriage.”
“What did you say to them?”
“Can I tell you about it this evening?” I asked. “My head is still spinning from all of the questions. I was actually glad to see the attorney you sent, because he got me out of there. Where did you find him, anyway? He was very slick.”
Todd hesitated. “What are you talking about? I didn’t hire an attorney.”
“What do you mean? Who else would have hired him?”
“What’s going on? This is crazy. Look, I’m heading home now. I’ll meet you there, and you can tell me everything then.”
Todd hung up before I could talk him out of coming home. The last thing I felt like doing right now was rehashing the past few hours. Instead I wanted to sit quietly, clear my head and try to piece together what was going on.
At least Todd missing work was less of a problem than it would have been in the not-too-distant past. After spending a year working in short-term contract positions with various architecture firms, mostly in Miami, Todd had decided to go out on his own. He’d opened Campbell Architecture four months earlier, with an office in a modern commercial strip building downtown and the obligatory black-and-white logo in Helvetica font. His new firm was getting a slow but steady drip of work, mostly referrals from clients he’d worked with in his S+K Architects days. We weren’t wealthy, not by a long stretch, but for the first time in a long time, we were doing okay.
When I arrived home, I found Todd standing barefoot in the kitchen, reheating a mug of coffee.
“Why don’t you make a fresh pot?” I asked just as he pulled the coffee out of the microwave.
Todd started, and the mug slipped from his hand. It fell to the floor, shattering on the travertine tile, splattering hot coffee everywhere.
“Damn it, you scared the hell out of me!” Todd ran a hand through his dark hair. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“That was my favorite mug,” I said, staring down at it lying in shards on our kitchen floor. It had been hand-thrown by my mother’s husband, Robert, the white-bearded potter. They’d sent it to me the previous Christmas. I didn’t normally like homemade pottery, most of which was too hippy dippy, and reminiscent of tie-dyed shirts and crocheted plant hangers. But this mug had been beautiful. It was dark purple and perfectly oversize.
“I’m sorry,” Todd replied. “But you shouldn’t have sneaked up on me like that. When did you turn into a ninja?”
I smiled despite myself, despite the morning I’d just had. “I didn’t know I had developed ninja skills. It’s good to know. They could come in useful.”
“I’ll make more coffee,” he said.
“What I want is a stiff drink, but I’ll settle for coffee.”
Once the coffee was made—black for me, cream and sugar for Todd—we settled in at the kitchen table.
“How was your morning?” I joked with forced cheerfulness. “Anything interesting happen?”
Todd smiled faintly, but it didn’t mask his concern. “What’s going on? And why did you think I hired an attorney for you?”
“Because an attorney showed up while the police were interviewing me. John Donnelly.” I laid the attorney’s business card on the table and slid it over to Todd. “He barged right in and stopped the interview. And he wants me to come to his office tomorrow.”
“Why was he there?”
“If you didn’t send him, then by the process of elimination, Kat must have. She’s the only other person who knew I was going in for the police interview.”
“You finally talked to her?” Todd asked. “I thought she’s been incommunicado.”
“No, actually I didn’t speak to her. I left her a voice message and sent her a text. I still haven’t heard back.” I frowned. “Actually, it is sort of weird, isn’t it? Why wouldn’t she at least text me back to let me know she’d sent a lawyer to help me? I know she’s dealing with a lot right now, but still.”
Todd got out his phone. After tapping and scrolling it, he handed it to me. “Is this the guy?”
Todd had pulled up the website of the law firm Donnelly & Buchanan. There was a picture of John Donnelly wearing a single-breasted dark suit, a silver tie and a matching pocket square.
“Yes, that’s him. Why?”
Todd took the phone back and, frowning down at it, ran his finger over the screen, scanning through the text. “I don’t think he’s a criminal defense attorney. The firm’s website says they specialize in estate planning and probate litigation.”
“Assuming Kat did send him, maybe he’s a friend or someone her family knows.” I shrugged. “I guess I’ll find out tomorrow when I meet with him.”
“What did the police want to talk to you about, anyway?”
I sipped my coffee. It was bitter and too hot. I put down the mug and pushed it aside.
“The police have a theory that Howard didn’t fall off the balcony,” I told him. “They think he might have been pushed.”
Todd stared at me, his eyes growing wide. “Seriously?”
I nodded. “They say they have a witness who saw it happe
n.”
“But that would mean...they think he was murdered?” Todd asked. He shook his head. “Jesus. Did they tell you who the witness is? I wouldn’t think that many people would have a clear view of the Grants’ house.”
“That’s exactly what I thought. But the detective said it’s a guy who lives on the other side of the Intracoastal, apparently some sort of amateur astronomer. He was out that night with his telescope, supposedly looking at the stars.”
“But he had his telescope pointed at his neighbor’s house? That sounds less like astronomy and more like someone hoping to see his neighbors having sex. But what does any of this have to do with you?”
“Apparently I’m one of the few people who knows how to access Kat’s house,” I said. “And it’s true. I do. I know where she keeps the spare key and the code to their house alarm.”
“How do the police know that?”
“I assume Kat told them.”
Todd shook his head. “Let me get this straight... Howard’s death might have been a homicide. And Kat told the police that you had access to her house. And then she sent in a lawyer to stop the police from interviewing you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous—”
“How am I being ridiculous?”
“You’re making it sound like Kat’s out to get me,” I protested. “Nothing nefarious is going on here.”
“Other than Howard being murdered, you mean.”
“If he was murdered. I don’t know that I would automatically trust the word of a Peeping Tom,” I qualified. “And if Kat sent the attorney, I’m sure she was just worried about me. She probably feels bad that I’m being dragged into any of this.”
“The only person Kat worries about is herself.” Todd snorted.
“That’s not fair,” I said. “And it’s not true.”
Todd’s lips twisted into a moue, and he shrugged. His opinion of Kat had soured over the years. At first it took the form of mild concern about how much time I spent with her, the long lunches that often extended well into the afternoon. But rather perversely, he’d become even less enchanted with Kat in the months since she’d loaned us the money. I didn’t know why, exactly. Maybe he was even more uncomfortable than I was being in her debt.
“So, what now? Are you a suspect?”
“I doubt it.” I shook my head. “But the police did ask me where I was that night.”
“They asked you for an alibi?” Todd’s voice rose with anxiety.
I nodded and lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I suppose so.”
“What did you tell them?”
I looked at him, surprised. “What do you think? I told them that you and I had an argument, so I left home and went for a walk on the beach.”
“Jesus! Alice, why did you tell them that?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because this is serious! It’s now a murder investigation!”
“Exactly. So it seems like a bad idea to start lying about where I was on the night when the supposed murder took place,” I pointed out.
Todd ran both of his hands through his hair, causing it to stand up on end in black spikes.
“I can’t believe you are so naive,” he said. “Innocent people get blamed, get convicted for crimes they didn’t commit all the time!”
I stared at my husband. “Are you telling me I should have lied when I told the police where I was the night Howard died? Because if I did, and they caught me in the lie, it would look terrible.”
“Yes, you should have lied!” Todd exclaimed, his voice straining with frustration. “You should have told them you were home with me. That we were watching some shitty action movie on cable. I would have backed you up, and they would have moved on to the next person on their list of suspects.”
I was touched, I truly was. I reached a hand across the table, which Todd took. I looked down at his hand, square and strong, and suddenly had a vivid memory of one of our early dates. Todd had brought me to a Habitat for Humanity work site where he’d been volunteering. He saw it as a way of giving back, of using his architecture degree for good. It had impressed me.
This is a good man, I remembered thinking.
Todd had handed me an orange hard hat and patiently taught me how to hammer nails into the standing studs. I’d watched him and noticed how capable and strong his hands were. I think that might have been the moment when I started falling in love with him. Later, after we shared a take-out Margherita pizza at my apartment, Todd and I had slept together for the first time.
“Don’t worry,” I told him now. “I’m sure they don’t really consider me a suspect. Why would I want to kill Howard? It’s crazy.”
“Crazy or not, you’re on their radar.” Todd shook his head. “I suppose you can’t call them and tell them you were mistaken? That you actually were home that night and it was a different night when you walked on the beach?”
I smiled. “I think changing my alibi would probably look just a little suspicious. Don’t you?”
Todd shook his head, his eyes dark and fathomless against the ashen pallor of his skin. He still had a scrap of toilet paper stuck to his neck where he must have nicked himself shaving that morning.
“Why did you have to tell them we got into a fight that night?” Todd asked, his voice thick with emotion and fatigue, and something else I didn’t recognize. Regret, maybe. Or dread.
“Because it was the truth,” I said. “And once you’re caught telling a lie, no one will completely believe anything you say ever again.”
15
Eighteen Months Earlier
“We can’t accept this!”
We were sitting at our kitchen table, Kat’s now slightly wrinkled check lying between us. Todd was eyeing it with a mixture of suspicion and fear, as though it weren’t an overly generous and life-saving gift but instead an undetonated bomb.
It was late, well past dinnertime. Both children had gone to bed, smelling of raspberry shower gel and mint shampoo. Liam was reading a volume of Calvin & Hobbes comic strips, which was as far as he was willing to exert himself on any book not assigned by a teacher. Bridget was on a Laura Ingalls Wilder kick and was currently reading my personal favorite, Farmer Boy, with its wonderful descriptions of the wallpaper in the parlor and golden buckwheat cakes covered in maple syrup. No one in Farmer Boy ever discovered her husband had been spending the hours he was supposed to be at work knocking back overpriced lattes and probably flirting with the tattooed baristas.
“It’s too late,” I said. “I already accepted it.”
“But it’s ridiculous,” Todd said. His lip was curled, causing him to speak in an unflattering sneer. I had never disliked him more than I did in that moment.
“How is it ridiculous?”
“It’s more than we even owe the school.”
“That’s the point.” I took a sip from my water glass, grateful for the cold, clear liquid. I’d had wine earlier with Kat, reasoning at the time that it was a crisis and any alcohol consumed was medicinal. Now my mouth tasted dry and stale, and I could feel a tension headache coming on. “It’s supposed to give us some breathing room while we figure everything else out.”
“It isn’t Kat’s responsibility to pay our children’s tuition,” Todd argued.
“No,” I agreed. “It’s our responsibility to do that. But you lost your job and didn’t pay the school and then lied about it for months, which is how we ended up in this position. And I’ll be damned if the kids are the ones left to deal with the consequences.”
This, unsurprisingly, silenced Todd. He was naturally pale, possessing the sort of skin that never tanned but instead turned red and blotchy when he was out in the sun for too long. Tonight, however, what color he normally possessed had drained from his face, leaving him pasty and drawn.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry I li
ed.”
I stared down at my glass of water. It wasn’t. I didn’t—couldn’t—forgive him. Not yet, at least, and maybe I never would.
Every marriage had its ups and downs, and ours was no different. Todd and I had even been to see a marriage therapist several times over the past few months to work on our communication skills. Dr. Ian Keller, who was a master of the empathetic head nod, had advocated that we use “I” statements with one another. For example, at this moment, he’d urge me to say, “I feel sad when you’re not truthful with me about our finances.”
But I wasn’t in the mood for “I” statements, especially now that I knew we couldn’t afford what we’d paid out of pocket for those sessions with Dr. Keller.
It was the first time I had ever seriously contemplated leaving Todd. I was surprised by how empty and tired I felt at the idea. I had assumed marriages in trouble spiraled downward among shouting and dramatic scenes. That was certainly how my parents’ divorce had played out, with dishes being thrown, locks changed. I was only eight when they divorced, but I had a very clear memory of finding my mother sitting on the living room floor, cutting up their wedding photos with a pair of scissors, the shreds of my relatives lying in scrap heaps around her.
No, I didn’t feel like yelling or cutting up our wedding photos. I felt like crawling into bed and going to sleep for a long, long time. Maybe that meant Todd and I would make it, after all. Maybe you needed the rage to gain the necessary momentum to propel yourself through the drama of divorce.
“We could ask my parents for a loan. Or your parents,” Todd offered meekly.
I nodded. We could. And they would probably help, if they were in a position to do so. But it would mean coming clean about our myriad financial problems, which neither of us wanted to do. Besides, I wasn’t sure how flush either set of parents were. My dad and stepmother were retired, and Todd’s father was in poor health.
My mother, Ebbie, and I had never been close. She had decamped to an ashram shortly after her divorce from my father, leaving me confused and scared at her sudden departure. When she returned six months later, she’d cycled through a few bohemian career choices, all of which failed, while dating a series of aging hippies, all of whom I disliked. I’d always assumed that my interest in math and logic problems was at least in part a reaction to her chaotic parenting.