by Cate Quinn
Hail Mary, full of grace, hail Mary, full of grace.
“And what would you say the fight was about?” prompts Brewer, staring at my fingers.
“I don’t need to say, Officer. I know. Heard every word.”
I pause for effect.
“Care to enlighten us?” Brewer has an eyebrow raised.
“Same thing they always fought about. Me. Rachel was real jealous of me. ’Cause Blake was always sayin’ how beautiful I was. Buyin’ me flowers. Pretty dresses. Stuff like that.”
“He used to buy you gifts, and not the others?”
“Yes, ma’am. Every Friday, he’d go to the big store in Salt Lake City and get me a new dress. Brand new. Always full price too. Didn’t even like to find things in the sales, ’cause he thought I deserved the best.”
“Only for you?”
“That’s right. And a big bunch of roses. That’s what used to make Rachel so mad. She’d shout about how I was the favorite wife.”
Brewer nods. “That how you get the bruise on your ear?”
My hand moves to my ear.
“You know,” she says when I don’t answer. “When we came to the ranch, I didn’t notice any clothing that looked new. No plastic bags from the store. No flowers either. Matter of fact, I didn’t even see a vase.”
I chew the gum harder. I don’t like Officer Brewer anymore.
“Thing is,” I say breezily, “I liked to tidy them away, so the other wives wouldn’t see and get jealous.”
I work the gum around my mouth. Pop snap, pop snap.
“You crack a rib, Miss Martinelli?”
“What?” The gum is a hard ball.
“Your ribs. You’re kinda supportin’ your right side there. When you coughed earlier, it looked painful. Reason I notice is my brother cracked his ribs one time. Skiing accident. He made the same expression as you do. Moved a similar way.”
“Oh, well, I’ve never skied.”
“So if we were to check with the hospital, we wouldn’t find any record of you being treated?”
I don’t answer that. Instead, I concentrate on the sensation of gum in my mouth.
“You know,” she continues, “Miss Keidis, Tina, she mentioned you wives had a fight. Domestic issues, she said. Is that how your ribs got hurt? Things turn violent?”
“No, ma’am.” I shake my head real slowly. “We love each other.”
“So there’d be no problem with the three of you going back home together? That wouldn’t make you nervous at all?”
I shake my head. Brewer’s eyes are fixed on my hand. I look down at it and see my fingers are doing a little dance. Carefully, I curl each one back in on itself.
“Miss Martinelli, are you sure you don’t need a lawyer?” the blond man interjects. “We can fix one up for you, no problem. No charge.”
“Um. No thank you. Could I get another one of those lasagnas?”
Chapter Thirteen
Rachel, First Wife
“I’m wondering if there’s some more information you’d like to share with us ’bout what happened that night.”
“I’ve told you everything I know, Officer.”
“Nothing springs to mind? Only, your sister-wife, Emily, she seems in pretty bad shape. I’m not a doctor, but it looks to me as though she’s broken a rib or two. Side of her face has some injuries too, her ear.” Brewer taps her own. “I noticed you had some bruises yourself that seemed to me out of the common way.” Brewer mimes with her hand. “Like someone grabbed you here.”
She thinks, looking at me.
“I’ve seen a lot of domestic scenarios, abusive husbands,” she says. “Matter of fact, that was my department for a number of years. Saw more than I ever expected to see in Salt Lake City. Somethin’ in the water.” She smiles. “If I were to take a guess, I’d say you and Emily had some kind of fight. She grabbed you, and you pushed her away. She hit her head, maybe fell on top of something sharp-cornered, something like that, cracked a couple of ribs. Is that how it happened, Mrs. Nelson?”
“No.” I’ve reverted to my childhood training, I realize. Retracted into myself.
Where the bad people can’t get you.
Brewer looks very tired suddenly.
“Mrs. Nelson,” she says. “I’m going to be very honest with you. There were some unexplained injuries to your husband’s body. Something you weren’t shown in the morgue because it wasn’t related to identifying Mr. Nelson and it most like would have upset you.”
The image of those plastic clothing bags comes back. The ones dirtied, muddy looking. I feel my stomach turn.
“What kind of injuries?” I say weakly. It’s hard to imagine he looked worse under that sheet than the parts I saw above it.
“Injuries the forensic team have now confirmed it is highly improbable he did to himself. To the groin area.”
Just like that, a horrible picture is in my mind. So real it’s like I’m watching it on TV.
Blake, without his garments. Naked women writhing together on a white bed.
It takes me so completely by surprise, I just freeze. I shake my head and the image wings away.
“Um.” I’m fighting for the words. “Why would you ever think he would injure his own…that part of himself?”
“We were working on the possibility of suicide, Mrs. Nelson. We couldn’t rule out self-harm.”
“What possibility are you working on now?” I get the strong impression she isn’t telling me everything about this groin-injury thing. But I’m not about to ask.
“First thing, we’ll get more information from forensics, since we’ve only had a preliminary report.” She watches my face, waiting for a reaction.
“H’Okaaay.” Brewer rubs at her forehead. Guess it’s been a long day for her too. “Well, I’m gonna run ya through what happens next. We’re going to send Blake’s body for an official autopsy.”
Her eyes raise to mine, checking I understand what this means.
“You’re going to cut him up?”
She pauses before answering. “We have experts who are very sensitive to the fact this is someone’s relative. There will be cuts made, here to here.” She mimes right across the sternum and down to the top of the pubic bone. “It will be done as neatly as possible. Certainly, nothing you’d see if you choose an open casket.”
“Will someone fix up his face?”
She hesitates. “I believe that’s something a funeral parlor can arrange, yes.”
I start to frown and consciously stop myself.
“I’ve got a lot to organize,” I say, running it all through my mind and remembering the shredded remains of Blake’s garments after they’d been cut from his body. “Would it be possible… If I were to buy some new garments and drove them here, could they be put back on him?”
“That would be a question for the medical examiner,” says Brewer. “You want us to help you with that? We have a list of recommended people in cases like this.”
Cases like this.
“No. Thank you. Our bishop will give us some recommendations. You’re sure…” Tears bubble up. “I don’t like the thought of him being out of his garments. Couldn’t I come by with a set for him? Please?”
Brewer sighs. “Bring them along as soon as you can, Mrs. Nelson,” she says. “I can’t promise anything. I’ll see what I can do.”
I let out a long sigh. “Thank you. God bless you.”
“Well, I guess that’s all,” says Brewer. “We’ll be in touch, right after the autopsy. You’ll need to leave details.”
“You’re letting me go?”
“You weren’t expecting me to?”
“The police never let you out once…” I stop myself. “You’re letting us all go?” I ask to confirm.
Something flickers on Brewer’s face. Her lips part.
“No formal reason to hold you here, but when we get the autopsy results, we’ll likely have some more questions. We’re releasing all three of you under what’s known as a suspended bail. That means you’re not under any charge at this time, but neither are you free to go someplace we can’t reach you, understand? No last-minute trips to Mexico, okay?”
I smile, relieved she’s making a joke of it.
“So we’ll be sending you all home. Together.” She lets this sink in. “Unless you have some other place to go?”
I shake my head. For some reason, I’m picturing all the sharp-edged equipment and power tools back at the ranch.
“Usually, we’d expect you to reside at the address we have listed for you…” She pauses, searching for the words. “However, since your ranch is nowhere on a map of nowhere, with no phone line, we’ve made temporary arrangements in the city. You’re certain that’s okay with you, Mrs. Nelson? All three of you girls living in the same place?”
“Yes.”
Brewer blinks as though I’ve answered too quickly. It’s ingrained, I think, not to trust police. No matter what the therapist told me, I always cross over the road if I see an officer in uniform.
“I mean…” I raise my eyebrows to stop myself from frowning. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
Chapter Fourteen
Tina, Sister-Wife
You know that feeling you get right before a thunderstorm? Like you’re just waiting for something to happen?
Yesterday, the cops drove us to this house on the edge of town, with a bunch of leaflets on how to make funeral arrangements.
My first thought was that Rachel didn’t understand. The way Blake died, the belt around his neck, pants around his ankles. That’s choky stroky, as we call it on the block. Cuttin’ off your air supply while you jerk off. Poor Rachel hasn’t got a clue about stuff like that. Emily neither.
The cops can’t charge anyone before the autopsy comes back, but we all know the truth. If they decide Blake didn’t kill himself, then someone must have murdered him. Which kinda narrows the suspect pool. ’Cause no one knew about the ranch, and I mean no one. Blake wanted it secret so we could relax and be ourselves without livin’ in fear of the law. So unless you count the Realtor who sold Blake the plot, there’s not another soul who even knew there was a domicile in those parts.
Since the only people within a hundred miles were us three wives, it’s only a matter of time ’til they realize one of us did it.
When they let us go, I could hardly believe it. My first thought, honestly, was jackasses. Like, how can they not figure this out? I guess since someone was driving in the vicinity saw the vultures and came to take a look, they haven’t realized how remote the ranch really is—how freaky-deaky unlikely it was, in fact, that anyone other than us found him first. It’s a hand-of-God sorta thing.
My second thought is I am not goin’ home with Rachel.
Brewer offered me some temporary accommodation—a motel-apartment thing. That was when I knew. Me and four walls and all this stuff in my head. No, no, no. I wouldn’t stay clean two seconds. Since I don’t know another soul in Utah, that means I’m trapped with the Wicked Witch of the West and Emily, the craziest little liar you ever did meet.
I’ve kinda made my peace with it as a temporary solution. Just until after the funeral. The big decisions can wait. Until then, I’ll sleep with my bed pressed up against the door.
The house they found for us is regular. And when I say regular, I mean regular. Like, you might put a sign above the door stating “Example of normal American house.”
I snuck a look at Rachel, and I could tell she was pleased. Holy Grail for Miss Rachel is look normal at all times. Despite, you know, the kinda freaky marriage setup—or maybe because of it.
So we arrive home. I’m expectin’… I don’t know. Someone to erupt or go crazy. But lemme tell you the weirdest part. Rachel is great at this. Pretending everything is fine. It’s, like, her superpower. Acting like her husband hasn’t been killed by his own wife is nothing to her.
Even weirder than that, she kinda sucks you into it. She’s like a repression tornado, scooping up any feelings in her path.
Rachel walks straight into the kitchen and starts moseying about, clucking about fixing dinner and how we all must be hungry.
And Emily and I? We go along with it, like we always do. Perched on the mulberry-colored love seats, pretendin’ like nothing happened. Emily is so white I think she might puke, and she’s workin’ a little patch of the couch with her thumb, pushing the velvety pile through the mesh.
Then a smell of canned soup wafts from the kitchen, followed shortly by Rachel. She stands in the doorway.
“They left us a little cupboard of things,” she says. “Nothing fancy, but I made Campbell’s mushroom and noodles.” She tucks a strand of blond hair behind her ear. “I figure we could all use some comfort food.”
She waits like that for a moment, her eyes twitching back and forth to both of us, like she’s got something important to say. Then she frowns.
“Emily, I owe you an apology,” says Rachel in this strange, tight voice. “I shouldn’t have done that to you on the night of the wedding anniversary. I lost my temper, and I’m real sorry for it. I hope you can receive this with Christ’s forgiveness.”
I can’t see Emily’s face, but I can guess what she’s thinkin’. Any apology Rachel makes is always put alongside some religious instruction. Like you have to accept it or you’re not godly.
Emily says nothing. She doesn’t even look up. Something flashes across Rachel’s face, like she’s boiling with anger.
“Emily!” she snaps. Emily’s round blue eyes flick up, frightened. “Stop worrying the couch,” says Rachel, glaring at where a bald patch is growin’ in the fabric from Emily’s rubbing the velvet. “This isn’t even our home.”
That does it. I can’t keep it in.
“How can you act like nothing happened?” I demand.
Rachel’s face kinda freezes. She’s scared I’m gonna mention Blake.
“You put her in the hospital,” I say, pointing to Emily, who’s sitting like a deer in the headlights now. Not knowing where to look. “You lied to us.”
Rachel blinks a little, like she’s been slapped. There’s a pause. An angry bubbling sound can be heard from the kitchen. “The soup is boiling,” she says, turning and walking right back out.
Emily and I sit there for a moment, not moving. Then Emily turns to me. “Thanks,” she whispers, a strange little smile on her face.
Unexpectedly, Rachel’s head pops back through the doorway. “Um, did either of you, by any chance see a cooking knife anyplace?” She says it just a shade too casual.
Emily and I shake our heads.
“Darndest thing,” says Rachel with a little puzzled smile, all sweet and confused. “I can’t find one in the kitchen.”
“Maybe police safe houses don’t come with them,” suggests Emily.
“What would you need a knife for?” I ask. “You’re fixing soup, right?”
Rachel’s expression darkens just a fraction. “I always add a few vegetables. I like to cut up the canned corn into smaller pieces.”
“Ah well.” I shrug and meet her eye. “Guess we’ll have to eat the corn as it comes.”
I can see she’s mad, but of course there’s no Blake to tell. Rachel’s lips compress. “Well, dinner’s almost ready,” she says. “Would you mind setting the table?”
We stand and shuffle through into our little dining room. Emily lays out silverware and napkins the way Rachel likes.
Rachel brings in a casserole dish and we all sit. She lifts the lid to reveal gray mushroom soup, swirling around three nests of instant noodles.
She seats herself and begins saying grace. When she’s finished, she looks up at both of us. “I never lied to you,” sh
e says quietly. “I just didn’t tell you everything.” She says everything as though it’s a dirty word. This is directed at me.
Rachel thinks my lack of personal barriers makes me vulgar, indiscreet. In actual fact, she’s jealous I can tell Blake things she can’t.
“We should discuss funeral arrangements,” says Rachel, chewing.
The funeral. Oh boy. I can almost feel the fight surging toward us like a physical being.
There’s a thud of a spoon hitting the table. I turn to look at Emily. She’s wearing an expression like she’s just figured something out. I can see her mouth working, but no words come out. Then she whispers, to no one in particular, “I’d like to choose the funeral parlor.”
Rachel looks like she’s been punched in the gut. “I don’t think… I mean, I’ve looked into it already,” she begins.
“Even so,” says Emily, looking into her soup, “I’d like to decide. My ribs hurt,” she adds meaningfully. She lifts her spoon and chews a noodle.
Rachel’s blue eyes track to mine. I don’t meet them. Actually, I’m tryin’ not to laugh. This is sorta brilliant.
“If it’s important to you,” says Rachel, crushed, “then of course.”
Emily twirls her fork victoriously. We finish our meal in silence.
Chapter Fifteen
Rachel, First Wife
When I was a little girl, my mother told me your head is a bunch of boxes. The way to get through hardship is to stay in one box.
I remember her as a gray lady, my mother. As though she’d been in the wash too many times and was limp and colorless with overwear. She died when I was seventeen. Placental hemorrhage. Occupational hazard when you give birth a lot.
“Some people try to live in all their boxes at once,” she told me. “That’s how you go crazy. When something bad happens, you dive into one of your boxes and stay there. Cooking, cleaning, prayers, don’t matter what, just keep busy.”
Aged thirty-three, she was pregnant with her ninth baby. Twelve, if you count the stillbirths. Guess that’s how she must have gotten through it. Pick the next box, hop across, and don’t look up.