Weycombe

by G. M. Malliet

  “What time was this?”

  “Ten?” I said. “Ten-ish? I needed a few things for dinner, and I had an order to pick up from that guy at the butcher shop. Have you talked with him yet? He knew Frannie pretty well, his shop is so near. Anyway, I just grabbed a coat and ran out. I wasn’t thinking of the time, it didn’t really matter to me, so I couldn’t say except it was around ten o’clock. I heard the church bells ring but the church clock is usually wrong, have you noticed?”

  “Your husband was at work, right?”

  “Well, um. I assume he was. Yes.”

  Milo gave me a funny sort of look. Of course. He’d have heard from Dhir by now.

  Milo ended up staying a very long time that day.

  That evening I went next door to Alfie’s.

  The situation with Frannie had jacked up everyone in the village, of course. People went from concerned and frightened to crazy and frightened. There’s a big difference.

  I assumed Alfie would have heard by now about Frannie and would be more affected than most anyone. He had to figure there was a connection between the two deaths. It was either that or all the villagers had turned into pods and were killing one another at random. I first went out into the front garden to peek over the fence to his house. I don’t know why, but I half expected it to be cordoned off, or for there to be a flock of patrol cars parked in front. Instead it looked as it always did these days. Empty and forlorn. With Anna gone, there was no question the life had drained out of the place.

  Jason came to the door.

  “Jason,” I said. “Hi.” Even though he’d just been at my house, returning that dish, I always felt that with Jason a reset was needed: “Jillian. From next door.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is your father home?”

  “Yeah.” A beat, then he added, “Where else would he be?”

  Oh, I dunno. Out rollerblading. Or behind bars. As tempted as I was to match the snarkiness of his tone, the general smarminess of his demeanor (so utterly lacking, by the way, in his father), I simply widened my smile and played the age card. I had more than ten years on him, which made me a wizened matron in his eyes.

  “I need to see him, Jason,” I said. “It’s important.”

  “He doesn’t want to see anyone.”

  “I’m sure that’s true. But he’s expecting me.”

  Not true, of course, but since Jason didn’t much care either way, it made him step back from the door to allow me in. He shouted up the stairs for his father, then headed for the kitchen. Of course, I didn’t mention seeing him at Frannie’s shop. I’d decided it was better to let Milo deal with Jason.

  I closed the front door behind me and went into Anna’s harem-inspired gaff to sprawl among the satin pillows. The cat glared at me, like it was willing me to die, before taking itself off somewhere. It used to give Anna that look all the time. Maybe the cat did it.

  When Alfie dragged himself into the room I felt bad about interrupting him—he looked like a man stuck permanently in the depression stage of grief.

  “You’ve heard the news, of course,” I said gently, indicating a seat across from me as if it were my living room and not his.

  “About Frannie. Yes. They rang me, the police.”

  “Alfie, do you have any idea?”

  “Who killed Frannie? No. And I don’t care right now. I’m sorry—I know how that sounds. I’m sorry. So sorry. For her.”

  I had to interrupt this recording. I began to suspect Alfie wasn’t going to be a whole lot of use, but I wanted to make sure he had no further clue. Frannie might have confided something to the police when she’d been busy putting herself front and center of the investigation—something that they’d relayed to him.

  He looked at me with that bleak, beaten-to-death stare that by then had permanently creased his features. “You may as well know,” he said. “If it’s not already common knowledge it soon will be. Once the press gets hold of it.”

  “The press? You mean Garvin Barnes? Honestly, Alfie, I wouldn’t worry about that. He can hardly find his toupee these days.” Off his look, I added, “But what do you mean? Might as well know what?”

  “They called me to say … to talk about the doctor’s preliminary results.”

  He still couldn’t bring himself to use the word.

  “You mean, the autopsy results,” I said. “And?”

  “She had—” Alfie stopped and swallowed hard, as if the words had clumped together in his throat. “She had this, uh, medical condition.”

  What was he saying? Anna was ill? Dying? I almost said aloud: it might have saved someone a lot of trouble if only they’d known.

  But I wondered: if you layered illness on top of a basically greedy and unstable personality, what would you get? Some people might turn to religion, but Anna might have gone to the devil, thinking it didn’t matter anymore and wanting to extract every thrill she could mine from her life. Breaking bad, girl style. It would explain her promiscuity. It would explain Will.

  “She was dying?” I hazarded my guess. “Anna was dying?”

  “No, it’s worse than that,” said Alfie. “I mean—I don’t mean that. That didn’t come out the right way. I meant—”

  I waited as patiently as I could, breathing softly, afraid of shifting the ions in the air or something in the moment that had brought him to the brink of confiding in me.

  “Anna was pregnant when she died,” he said at last. His hands worked against his thighs as he rhythmically opened and closed his fists, weapons in search of a target.

  “Oh, my God. Alfie, that’s—”

  “There was semen found in her ‘vaginal cavity,’ they tell me. They use phrases like that.”

  God. She had been keeping busy. But oh, sweet fuck, why was he telling me this? I guessed I’d walked in before the shock had worn off, before he’d had time to concoct a story, to even see the wisdom of concocting a story, if only to salvage a scrap of dignity.

  “Oh, Alfie—” I said.

  “And I—” He spoke over me, as if afraid he’d lose his courage if he didn’t just let the words tumble out. “I happen to know I’m not the father.”

  33

  The police know, of course,” Alfie said. “The au—the au—”

  “Autopsy.” I spent a moment sharing the image that must surely have been spooling through Alfie’s brain: Anna naked on a cold silver metal table, her entrails spilling out and the top of her head sliced open. The wages of sin, after all: I hurriedly erased that from my mind.

  I said, “I am so sorry, Alfie.”

  “For what—my wife’s death? Or for my wife’s being pregnant by another man?” His eyes, I saw, were rimmed with red, his face white and drained of color, like a man made up for a Kabuki performance. He looked, truth be told, a little mad about the edges. A touch insane. For the first time ever, I was a little afraid of Alfie. I had the fleeting thought that whatever was wrong with Jason, perhaps it was hereditary.

  “I don’t know. Both. Either. I’m so sorry,” I repeated.

  “The joke is, I was worried about her health. I couldn’t help but notice the food cravings. The obsessive exercise—she was overdoing it most days. The sudden aversion to eggs and alcohol. I thought it was—oh, I don’t know, a faulty thyroid or something. I urged her—” He stopped and a strange sort of laugh escaped him. “I urged her to go to a doctor. What a fool.”

  I knew the feeling.

  Alfie and I sat and talked until there was nothing more to say. The fact he had confided in me made me feel I had to stay and listen until my presence was no longer needed or wanted. It was past nine when I returned home. I could hear Will in his office, snoring to wake the dead over the blare of the telly. I looked at the papers spread on my desk and sat before them, head in hands, unsure how to go on. I felt so bad for Alfie.

  Anna ha
d really done for him.

  And for Colin.

  And Will.

  Could they compel a DNA test from everyone she’d been intimate with? Stand in line, guys. Take a ticket until your number is called.

  I picked up my pages and clippings about the murders, sorting them into random stacks.

  I realized that of all people it was goddamn Heather I needed to go see. Interrupt her stirring and spinning and weaving for a few minutes.

  Because what kept playing in my mind was her saying in the coffee shop that day, “You can always tell when they’re pregnant.” She was looking at the cat, so I’d assumed she was talking about the cat. Then when I tuned back in later I’d heard her say something like, “I did wonder when I saw Anna leaving the doctor’s.” Somehow I thought she was still taking about the cat, maybe about Anna taking her cat to the vet.

  But of course that made no sense; that was not what Heather had said at all. Why would Heather give a shit about Anna’s cat? The smug look on Heather’s face had said more, and I should have stopped to fathom what.

  Heather joined the book club about the time she knew Lulu was on the way. She told us she thought the fetus would find it educational. When we got down to reading Fifty Shades of Grey I had to wonder. But she’d arrive at the meetings in some enormous homemade maternity smock and ostentatiously sip a Perrier while the rest of us got shitfaced. We joked that she was the designated driver but in truth, until Macy moved away, we’d only had to stagger next door or across the crescent to get home.

  I made no apologies to Heather for interrupting her session of herb drying or whatever she was up to that day. Actually, from the evidence of the packed suitcases by the door, she was preparing to flee, which she confirmed by telling me she was just waiting for Gideon to get home. She’d given the police a statement and now was taking Lulu “somewhere safe” until all this blew over.

  It did strike me that I never saw Heather not in motion. Always doing, always going. Busy, busy. It was exhausting to be around. Lulu, apparently feeling the same way, was passed out in her carrier.

  “You honestly didn’t realize?” Heather asked, not bothering to hide the little note of superiority in her voice. “The signs were there if you knew where to look.”

  “Well, the first place I generally look is the stomach area. But no. I really didn’t.” Not at the time—I didn’t connect Anna’s health kick with anything except a desire to shed some weight. And I wasn’t around her enough to notice she’d stopped drinking. “Not a clue,” I added, shaking my head, confounded by my own denseness.

  Heather gave me a complacent, pitying smile. I was of course not part of the great sisterhood of the have-been-pregnant. The sisterhood of the pants that no longer fit their fat asses.

  I smiled back. “When did you guess?”

  “It must have been—oh, I don’t know. About two, three months ago.”

  “Clever you. Well, it’s certainly a new wrinkle in the case.”

  “Case?”

  “The police case. Of course.” It was my turn to sound superior.

  “They must know for sure by now. The autopsy.” She paled a bit, her hands clenching as she held a sprig of rosemary. “Ugh.”

  There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance.

  I nodded. “Exactly. Ugh.” I stood up, slapping my knees in that way that says “well, thanks, gotta be going now.” As I’ve made clear, a little Heather and fille went a long, long way with me. And with most right-thinking people, I would imagine.

  Even so, Heather did seem to have a lot of friends. A troupe of grotty-looking, bespectacled young women beat a path to her door routinely, wielding knitting needles and an electric contraption I later learned was used for canning. I had heard someone describe Heather once as “a real mover and shaker,” which completely floored me. I guess you had to be on her wavelength, if your dial could spin that far.

  “Of course, I suppose I’m especially sensitive to the signs right now. Gideon and I are expecting another visit from the stork.”

  Oh, great. Just great. I pasted on a big smile, feeling like Dexter Morgan mimicking normal human emotions. “Wonderful!” I said. “Gosh. What fantastic news!” It just wasn’t fair. It was my turn. And besides, the world didn’t need any more versions of Heather. Or Gideon, come to that.

  “Look,” she said, “I hate to ask but I’ve seen that detective at your house a few times.”

  “Just routine,” I said smoothly. “I’ve been helping with police inquiries.” My conversations with Milo were not for Heather’s ears.

  “Well, I have Anna’s phone and I’ve been wondering what to do about it. If I should tell someone.”

  “Anna’s phone?”

  “Mmh hmm.”

  “Wait a minute.” She’d turned away from me to dribble water on a plant from a decorative watering can with Land’s End, Cornwall painted on the side. “You did say Anna’s phone? You mean her mobile?”

  “Uh huh. Can I give you the orchid to water while I’m gone? I don’t know how long we’ll be, and Gideon—”

  “Sure. Now, Heather. I would like you to tell me more about the mobile, please.”

  “Oh! Well, you see, she’d gotten rather chummy, Anna. I think she wanted to list our house if we decided to sell—she knew we were planning an addition to the family and might want a bigger place. She was over here one day and asked if I’d keep her mobile—she was always asking favors and doing stuff in return, of course. But there was that one time she borrowed some flour and never repaid me. Hers had gone bad, weevils, you know, flour bugs, so I—”

  “Wait!” I nearly shouted. I sat back down. I didn’t point out that this hardly meshed with what she’d told me before: that she’d barely known Anna. “She asked you to keep her phone? Where? I mean, why? Why would she do that?”

  Heather thought, fumbling for the light switch inside her head. Watching Heather think was a lot like watching a squirrel trying to outfox a squirrel-proof bird feeder. It always got there in the end but it took a while. At least it stopped her witless chatter for a moment.

  “I think … ” she began. I waited encouragingly, fingers itching to grab her by the shoulders and shake it out of her.

  Finally: “Do you know, she didn’t say? I guess she was afraid she’d lose it and wanted me to have it for safekeeping.”

  I drew a deep breath before plunging in. “Does that really seem like something she’d do, Heather? Something anyone would do? I mean, if you think about it, does that make any sense at all? She was an estate agent; she needed a mobile for her work. Why not just leave it in her car? Or her own house for that matter? It seems to me—and I’m making a big leap here, but it seems to me she was trying to keep the phone a secret. She didn’t want someone, probably Alfie, to know she had it. She must have had another phone for business use.”

  Heather pulled her attention from Lulu, who was now awake. Screwing up her eyes, Heather sought the answers in the ceiling. This was beyond her powers to imagine.

  “Alfie? You don’t think … ?”

  I shook my head sadly. “I don’t know what to think. Certainly I don’t want to jump to conclusions.”

  “No, she’s dead now. What good would it do to speculate?”

  Apart from helping catch her murderer? Sweet merciful Jesus. “So, Heather, what did you do with the phone?”

  “It’s in the kitchen. On the shelf with the canning jars.”

  “It’s in the—” Really. No words. “May I see it, please?”

  Heather considered this. “Anna asked me not to tell anyone.”

  I could picture me flinging myself across the room, arms out, fingers poised to grab her throat or scratch her eyes out.

  “She’s dead now, Heather. She won’t care, I promise. And the police will want to know about this. Absolutely, no question about it. I’ll have to tell S
ergeant Milo.”

  Reluctantly, she dragged her gaze toward one of the cabinets. Lulu and I eyed each other while she rummaged about; Lulu seemed to like me better than Anna’s cat did, anyway.

  Heather returned clutching a phone that was a twin for one I’d seen recently. No surprise there. Heather having handed it over, I flipped it open to access the screen options, pushed a few buttons, and saw the expected calls to the expected number.

  Part 4

  34

  I hadn’t told Rashima everything, of course.

  No, not even her, although I trusted Rash as I had trusted few people in my life. I was too aware that her innate honesty would in the end trump friendship every time, making her, paradoxically, untrustworthy.

  I’d missed so many signs about the imminent collapse of my marriage—denial is such a bastard. There was that time he made dinner reservations that didn’t include me. A confirmation text from Alexandra’s Bistro arrived on his mobile, which he’d left charging on the breakfast bar. The problem was, we had no plans for dinner together that night. I was meeting an old colleague—part of the never-ending job search—and Will’s stated plan was to stay home and ring for pizza. But when I asked him what was up he laughed it off, said he’d got the dates wrong and added it was meant to be a surprise date night. Just for us. Right.

  And I believed him. Mostly. God, but this guy was one good actor. Or bad, depending on how you look at it.

  Then there was my birthday present. I’d been expecting some antique jewelry, you see. Because of the receipt from a London jeweler for £200 I’d found in his pocket.

  It still makes me cringe to think how dumb I was in those days.

  What item the receipt was for wasn’t spelled out, so as my birthday approached, my vision for this gift grew from a charm bracelet to an emerald ring I’d once admired in a magazine to a diamond tiara.