by Nadia Gordon
Keith leaves, or at least says he is leaving, thought Sunny. Soon after, Andre arrives. Marissa and Andre take a bedroom and play spa. Oliver and Anna go off and eventually quarrel. What about Jordan? She wasn’t with Marissa and Andre. The video showed that much. Sunny assumed she’d gone to bed alone or else with Franco, but what if she hadn’t? What if she continued on the path she’d started down in the hot tub? What if she was with Keith?
“That’s it!” said Sunny out loud, rapping her finger on the steering wheel. “That’s why she blushed when I said no one had illicit sex at the supposed sex party. Because she had illicit sex that night—with her friend’s boyfriend. And that’s why Marissa and Keith broke up. Marissa must have found out and dumped him.”
She felt in her back pocket for the card Franco Bertinotti had given her at lunch and called the number written on the back. He was only too glad to give her Jordan’s number when she said she wanted to invite her and Marissa up to the restaurant for lunch. She punched it into her phone. Jordan picked up and Sunny explained why she was calling.
“I know it’s kind of odd to call out of the blue like this, but I have a question I need to ask you. An important and somewhat personal question. Can you talk?”
“I have a few minutes, yeah.”
“I mean are you alone.”
“Alone? Not exactly, but go ahead.”
“The night Anna was killed, everyone got out of the hot tub around one in the morning. I went to bed. Not long after, Andre arrived and he and Marissa went off together. What I want to know is, where did you go?”
“After the hot tub? I went to bed.”
“Alone?”
“Of course.”
“That’s what you told the police,” said Sunny. “And I can see why you would. But you weren’t alone. You were with Keith.”
“Don’t let your imagination run away with you,” said Jordan. “The truth is much less sensational. Keith went back to the city and I went to bed. The next thing I knew, it was morning and there were cops everywhere.”
“Honestly, I really don’t care who slept with whom,” said Sunny. “It’s none of my business. And I don’t care what the police know or don’t know. That’s up to them. For my own reasons, I need to know when you and Keith got together and when he actually left the house. That’s it. I have no intention of sharing what you tell me with anyone else. I just need to know.”
Sunny waited for her to respond. Nothing.
“It’s going to come out soon, anyway,” said Sunny. “Marissa knows you were with him. I know. It’s just a matter of time until the police know, and then you could be in big trouble for lying about it. I just need to nail down the timing. If you help me, I might be able to figure out what happened to Anna once and for all, and that would help all of us. And the sooner the better because it looks like this whole mess is going to blow up in our faces any minute. Jordan? Are you there?”
“Hang on a second.” Heels clicked on a wood floor and a door closed. Jordan sighed irritably. “I’ve talked to the police. Twice, as a matter of fact. I don’t see why I should talk to you about any of this.”
“Because I know things the police don’t. They might never figure out who killed Anna, but with your help, I might. Doesn’t it bother you that you could be helping a killer stay free?”
“Keith did not kill Anna.”
“All the more reason to give him an alibi. Because right now he doesn’t have one. I happen to know he did not leave the house when he said he did. When the police learn that, he’s going to be their number one suspect. A guy pretends to leave but doesn’t. A girl gets killed. The guy doesn’t come clean. That doesn’t look good.”
“Trust me, he couldn’t have killed her.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you’re right. He was with me the whole time.”
“From when to when?”
“From right after we got out of the hot tub until around three-thirty.”
“Is that when he left for real?”
“Yes.”
Sunny paused, thinking. “Okay, good. And do you happen to know how Marissa found out about you two?”
“Keith forgot to turn off his phone. It started ringing and she came to get it.”
“She saw you together.”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing. She didn’t say anything. She just stood there for a minute and then turned around and left. Keith left right after that.”
“Who was calling him at three-thirty in the morning?”
“Oliver.”
“Did he pick up?”
“No. I assume he called him back from the car. What exactly are you getting at with all this? Keith didn’t kill her. He had no reason to kill her, and besides, he’s the furthest thing from a violent person.”
“He actually did have a reason. A very good reason. When I know what it all means, I’ll call you.”
Sunny hung up the phone and got out of the truck. The whole night was getting more and more confused. She told herself that maybe when she had a chance to talk to Sergeant Harvey and they put their heads together over everything she’d learned and whatever he knew that she didn’t, it would all fit together and make sense. She checked her phone for messages. He hadn’t called. Sunny looked at the front gate with its overgrown rosebushes sheltering her little house. It certainly looked sweet and safe and inviting, just like always. Last night she forgot to lock the front door. That was the only explanation. With the doors and windows locked, there was simply no way to get into the house without making enough noise to wake her, and the police could be here in two minutes if someone forced their way in. She would keep her cell phone with her in bed and it would be fine.
The sunset was over. The last of the twilight gold was gone and the sapphire blue at the horizon had faded to a grayish gloom just before dark. She closed the gate behind her and paused, lost for a moment in thought. A movement from the stoop attracted her attention and she froze when Andre said, “Hey.”
She looked back at the street. His motorcycle was parked under the tree ahead of her truck and she hadn’t even noticed. He was sitting in his biking leathers with his helmet next to him, as though nothing had changed.
“What are you doing here?” she said, her heart still racing.
“Waiting for you.”
“Why? You’re supposed to say something. You scared the crap out of me.”
“Sorry. You haven’t returned my calls, so I figured I’d stop by. What’s going on with that?”
“What’s going on with that?” She stood as though in a daze. “Um, can we talk about this later? I sort of have a lot on my mind at the moment.”
“I think I have a right to know what’s going on.”
“Oh, really?” Sunny’s eyes flashed. “That’s interesting. Let’s see, where do I start? How about this. How do you know Oliver Seth?”
“We met at Vinifera. He came in for dinner. He stayed late at the bar, we got to talking. The usual.”
She waited. “Is that all?”
“He comes into the restaurant when he’s in town. We’re friends.”
“Not business partners?”
“Maybe someday. Who knows? The guy certainly has enough cash to bankroll whatever I dream up.”
“And you don’t think it’s odd you never mentioned that to me?”
“There’s nothing to mention yet. I told you we were friends.”
“Okay, fine,” said Sunny. “I can see I’m not going to get anywhere with that. Next question. Why did you take rubber gloves from under the kitchen sink in Oliver’s house the night Anna died?”
He looked surprised. “How do you know about that?”
“It doesn’t matter. Why did you need gloves?”
He spread out his hands in front of her. For a cook, they were surprisingly smooth and soft-looking. Andre took the time and trouble to be well groomed head to toe. It was one of the things Sunny liked about
him, and maybe one of the things she didn’t like, too.
“Can’t you guess?” he said. “I told you, we were having a spa night. I wanted to do a deep moisture treatment. You put lotion or Vaseline on your hands and then put on the gloves and get in a hot bath. It works great. You should do it. Let me see your hands.”
“Andre, stop. And what did you ask Cynthia for?”
“When?”
“In the kitchen. Right before you got the gloves. You came into the kitchen and spoke to her and she left. That’s when you took the gloves.”
“Now you’re freaking me out. What’s going on?”
“Just answer me honestly for once in your life.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Before the gloves?”
“A nail file. I asked her for a nail file. Why are you interrogating me?”
“What did you do with the gloves when you were done?”
“I put them in the garbage. It’s no big secret, if that’s what you’re worried about. I told the police about it. I’m not an idiot. I knew it would look suspicious to have rubber gloves in your room when somebody just got killed.”
“What was Cynthia cooking at that hour, anyway?”
“Lemon meringue.”
“That’s right!” said Sunny. “I remember Oliver asking her about a meringue pie earlier in the day. I can’t believe she decided to make him one so late at night.”
“She waits on that guy like he’s a prince. But you should talk. You’re the original midnight baker.”
“It is nice to bake at night when it’s quiet and you can concentrate.” She thought for a moment. “But we didn’t eat a meringue pie. If she went to all that trouble, why didn’t she serve it the next day? It wasn’t exactly a festive atmosphere, but we were hanging around all day and she did feed us lunch.”
“I wondered that, too. But she couldn’t serve it. She froze it.”
“She froze it? How do you know that?”
“I saw it in the freezer when I was putting ice in a pitcher.”
“When?”
“On Sunday.”
“But you can’t freeze a homemade meringue pie.”
“No, I didn’t think so.”
“You can’t,” said Sunny. “The texture gets all weird, and when you defrost it the peaks fall. You know that. I know that. Anybody who has spent years in a professional kitchen knows that, and Cynthia has been a cook for years.”
“Maybe she knows something we don’t,” said Andre. “Or maybe she did it by accident. We were all upset that day. Maybe she was distracted and just wanted to get it out of the way. Like everybody else, she’d been up half the night. Who knows? Why do you care?”
“I just think it’s very strange that a person would stay up until two in the morning making a special dessert for someone and then ruin it.”
“Maybe she knew Oliver wouldn’t feel like eating it on a day like that.”
“Maybe. Still, it seems odd.” She sat down on the stoop next to Andre. “It’s odd to waste all that effort, you know? You stay up late making a pie, and then in the morning you decide to botch it. That seems odd, doesn’t it?”
“Sunny, why are you obsessing about a pie? I’m sure someone ate it even if it wasn’t perfect anymore.”
Sunny turned and looked into his eyes for the first time.
“Wasn’t it perfect? I mean, meringue is surprisingly hard to do just right. You know, with the good stiff peaks all golden brown at the tips, symmetrically arranged, with a nice, tidy edge. I can never get mine just right. Of course, I don’t bake it very often.”
“This one was pretty as a picture, at least when it started out. It got sort of crumpled in the freezer. Cynthia is an excellent baker.”
“Crumpled. That’s interesting,” said Sunny. “Like maybe somebody handled it or something?”
“Who knows? Maybe she dropped it. It was sort of messed up. But you could see it had been good to start with.”
“That’s very, very interesting,” said Sunny.
“I guess I don’t find it as interesting as you do,” said Andre. “I came over to talk about us, not Cynthia’s abilities as a pastry chef.”
She took her phone out of her pocket and checked the time. “Aren’t you going to be late for work?”
“I was late an hour ago.”
“Then why don’t we talk later on, when we don’t have to rush.”
“Sounds good. But, Sun?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m going to hold you to it.”
* * *
Sergeant Harvey didn’t pick up his phone. Sunny stretched out on the couch and listened to it ring. At the beep, she left another message.
“Steve, it’s me again. I mean Sunny. McCoskey. It seems like you’ve been pretty busy, but could you give me a call when you have a chance? It’s Thursday evening. If you could call tonight, that would be best. It doesn’t matter how late. I’ll keep the phone by the bed. I know we talked about how sensitive the Anna Wilson case is, and how important it is that I stay out of it as much as possible, and, believe me, I completely understand that issue. I mean, I have the broken window to deal with. But you also said I should call you if I came across anything really significant, and it turns out that something significant has come up. A new piece of evidence. It might sound a little crazy, but I think there may be something to it. Just a hunch, but still, it might be worth checking out. Cynthia, Oliver’s private chef, baked a lemon meringue pie late on the night Anna died. It might still be in the freezer in the kitchen at Oliver’s house. If it is, we need to defrost it. I know it sounds a little crazy, but I am absolutely serious about this. Give me a call and I’ll explain.”
She hung up and lay on the couch wondering if Sergeant Harvey would follow through on her tip or ignore it. He obviously thought she was some kind of crackpot since he didn’t even bother to return her last call. Still, she had to try. A breeze came in the open window and she savored it for a few seconds before she shut up the house like a prison. She closed and locked all the windows, drew the drapes where there were some to draw, double-checked the doors, and walked around a second time making sure every opening to the little cottage was as secure as possible. When she was done, she was satisfied no one could get in without crashing through a window or breaking in the door, and then at least she’d know they were coming. She stood in the kitchen and ate a banana absentmindedly, leaving the peel on the counter.
“Now for one last bit of unpleasantness,” she said to herself out loud and picked up the phone again. She dialed information, asked for Oliver Seth’s number, and waited while they connected her. Cynthia Meyers answered.
“Hi, Cynthia, it’s Sunny McCoskey. I’m hoping to catch Oliver. Is he around?”
“Hi, Sunny. He’s in his office. Just a second and I’ll let him know you’re on the line.”
A moment later Oliver picked up. They spoke briefly about how he was doing, how long he planned to stay in town, and the latest news from the police.
“They’re tight-lipped with me,” said Oliver. “I gather from various sources that they seem to think she was killed, based on the autopsy, and that it wasn’t the fall that killed her. Other than that, I haven’t heard anything.”
“That’s why I’m calling. Some new developments have come up, and I’d like to talk them through with you. But I think we should do it in person, not on the phone.”
“What’s it about?”
“Given the situation, I’d rather not discuss it on the phone.”
“Given the situation, I’m sure you can understand I don’t have much patience with guessing games,” said Oliver. “If you can’t tell me what this is about over the phone, I don’t want to hear about it in person, either.”
Sunny took a moment to think.
“Well?” said Oliver impatiently.
“I’m just trying to think of the best way to explain the situation,” said Sunny carefully. “It’s just this. Think about who yo
u talked to that night after the fight with Anna. Hasn’t it occurred to you that someone is lying about where they were when she died? I discovered a couple of interesting new facts that I will have to share with the police soon. I don’t have a choice. They’re going to come to light eventually, anyway. I think it will be easier for everyone if you can help me get the pieces in the right order beforehand. It’s up to you. You can talk to me now or wait and hear it from the police. Either way, it’s time to face the truth.”
“What kind of facts?”
“The kind of facts you get when you figure out how to control your fate.”
“You figured that out, did you?” said Oliver.
“A girl named Europa helped me.”
“Then I guess I have no choice. When and where?”
“I could meet you at seven tomorrow morning at Bismark’s. I’ll go over to the police station afterward.”
“Fine.”
He hung up and Sunny went to have a much-needed hot bath with plenty of lavender salts to put her mind at ease. Afterward, settled in bed, she picked up the volume of Mozart’s letters she’d been reading for some weeks and retreated to a world preoccupied with concerts, lunches, long carriage rides, and silk-lined dress suits. No unexplained evil there, thought Sunny. Mozart didn’t go around locking and checking his doors and windows before bed. Bureaucratic ineptitude, class snobbery, and entrenched greed, yes. Illness and sudden death, definitely. Unexplained evil? Not so much, thought Sunny. But could Paris in the 1780s be so much safer than St. Helena in the 2000s? Hardly. The old question came back to her again: Was she somehow, however accidentally, however unintentionally, inviting death—no, murder—into her life? She put the book aside and turned out the light. Despite a roiling mind, she was quickly taken by heavy sleep. She dreamed a jumbled montage of self-doubt and missed opportunities, arriving too late at a party, losing her footing as the car she was getting into pulled away, friends turning against her, a sudden fright that seized her and a scream that would not come. She jerked awake, heart pounding, alert to a new sound in the silent house. From the front room came the quiet scraping sound of a key as it found its purchase in a lock. Then the slide and thump of the dead bolt releasing, and the tiny creak of the front door as it opened softly.