Liz opened her mouth to speak, to blurt out the thoughts that had suddenly raced through her head, but when she realized she wasn’t even sure what those thoughts were, that they were just vague, unformed fears and suspicions, she closed her mouth and said nothing.
She followed Mrs. Hoffman downstairs.
What was the real reason David had left here in such a hurry? Had he found something during his search of the house? Had he found out whatever it was that Rita had said was going on under their roof?
Lis steeled herself as she entered the parlor. Detectives Foley and McFarland were sitting on the couch waiting for her. They both stood as Liz entered. Mrs. Hoffman remained behind her. As much as Liz didn’t like her, she was glad the housekeeper was with her. For some reason, she didn’t want to face the detectives alone.
“Good morning, Mrs. Huntington,” Detective Foley said.
“Good morning,” Liz replied. “I’m sorry my husband isn’t here. I’m sure, had he known you were coming, he would have waited.”
Why did she feel the need to say that? Liz wasn’t sure.
“I’m sure he would have, too,” Foley said. “For now, maybe you can answer a few questions for us.”
“I’ve already told you everything I know about Jamison.”
Detective McFarland looked coldly at her. “We’re not here about Jamison Wilkes.”
“Well, if it’s about Audra or those other missing girls, I don’t know anything—”
“Rita Cansino was murdered last night,” McFarland said.
Liz couldn’t reply right away. It was as if the words didn’t make sense to her, as if the detective had just spoken in another language she didn’t understand.
But then the words penetrated, and Liz felt as if she might vomit.
“Mrs. Huntington,” Foley said. “Are you all right?”
“Rita was here last night,” Liz said, her voice seeming to come from someplace far away. “She worked a party we had . . .”
“What time did she leave here?” McFarland was asking. Her voice sounded to Liz as if it came from underwater.
She felt Mrs. Hoffman take a step forward, coming up to stand shoulder to shoulder with her. “I’d say it was about eleven o’clock that she left,” the housekeeper said, speaking for Liz, who could clearly not form words. “What terrible news this is, detectives.”
“Did you notice anything unusual about her?” Foley asked.
Liz remembered the strange look in Rita’s eyes as she’d taken her upstairs and showed her that room.
“I thought you would want to know, ma’am. After all, you’re mistress of the house. You should know what goes on under your own roof.”
“What are you saying, Rita?” Liz had asked.
“Just that I think you should find out who that woman is.”
Liz stared helplessly at the two detectives, not knowing what she should tell them. Once again, Mrs. Hoffman, cool as ever, stepped in.
“To be frank,” she said, “I was planning on firing her this morning.”
Liz felt for a chair beside her and sat down. Otherwise, she thought she might have fainted.
“Why were you going to fire her?”
“She’s been rather insubordinate at times. Not following orders.” Mrs. Hoffman took a deep breath. “Last night, during the dinner party, she went upstairs when she should have been serving. I think she was tired, and was taking rests in one of the servants’ rooms.”
“Did Mr. Huntington know about this?”
“We had a conversation in the kitchen after the party was over. I mentioned Rita to him, and told him that she had been insubordinate.”
“Did he know you were going to fire her?”
“He may have presumed,” Mrs. Hoffman said.
Liz noted Detective McFarland write something down in her book at that point.
“Did Rita know that you intended to fire her?” Foley asked.
“I don’t believe so. But she knew we weren’t happy with her.”
“Mrs. Huntington,” Foley said, turning his eyes to her. “Do you have anything to add to this?”
“No,” she said in a small voice.
Liz didn’t know if Mrs. Hoffman was aware that she’d gone upstairs to the servants’ quarters with Rita last night. She might have been seen them; Liz had done nothing to hide her movements, walking straight through the kitchen when she’d come back down. But if Mrs. Hoffman did know, she was saying nothing about it to the detectives. Why?
Because of the questions they might ask.
Liz remembered the words she’d exchanged with Rita.
“If you send Mr. Huntington up there,” Rita had said, “I guarantee you that he’ll report back that there was no girl there.”
“How can you guarantee that, Rita?”
“Trust me, Mrs. Huntington.”
Liz feared that if she told the detectives about her visit to that room, she’d cast suspicion on David somehow. David—who had acted so strangely in the middle of the night and taken off at dawn.
“Is there anything else you can tell us?” Foley was asking.
“I don’t know anything else,” Liz managed to say.
“Why did your husband leave so early this morning?”
“He . . . he had some urgent business in Amsterdam.”
“What kind of business?”
“I don’t know . . . I don’t understand his business. Something about an investor.... A hostile takeover attempt. . . I never understand what David is talking about when he talks about business.”
“I see,” Foley said, writing in his notepad.
“Was this a scheduled trip?” Detective McFarland asked. “Had he planned on leaving this morning?”
“No,” Liz admitted.
“So the decision to leave was made sometime last night?”
“Yes,” Liz said. “He heard from Paul Delacorte, who’s on his board of directors, and whatever Delacorte told him upset David. That’s when he decided to go. You should speak with Dr. Delacorte. He’ll explain it better than I can. He’ll explain that David left for very good reasons that have nothing to do with—”
She stopped speaking. She caught the cold glare from Mrs. Hoffman’s eyes.
“Nothing to do with what, Mrs. Huntington?” Detective Foley asked.
“I don’t know what I was going to say,” she replied. “Like I said, I don’t understand business. Talk with Paul Delacorte. I’m sure he can answer your questions.”
“We’ll do that,” Detective Foley said. “But in the meantime, we’ve also asked your husband to return home as soon as possible for questioning.”
Liz’s eyes lit up. “You’ve spoken with David? What did he say?”
“We left a message for him,” Foley told him. “On his cell phone.”
“Oh, but he can’t access his voice mails when he’s in Europe. His international mobile plan is down—he keeps meaning to have it fixed, he says, but hasn’t gotten around to it . . .”
“That’s rather odd for a man who travels as much as he does, isn’t it?” Foley asked.
“Yes,” Liz said. “I suppose it is.”
“We found a contact for him on Rita’s phone,” Detective McFarland explained.
“Rita’s phone?” Liz asked.
“It was called ‘David’s International Mobile.’ ” McFarland read off the number from her notepad. “Do you recognize that one?”
Liz shook her head. “No. That’s not a number I recognize.” She was having a hard time processing this new information. “Rita had a contact for David on her phone? A private mobile number?” She laughed. “It can’t be him. It must be some other David . . .”
“The voice mail announced it was David Huntington of Huntington Enterprises.”
Liz stared straight ahead, not saying a word.
“Are you sure there’s nothing else you can tell us about Rita Cansino?” Foley asked.
Liz remained silent. Mrs. Hoffman said, “Nothing else comes
to mind.”
“You’ll call us if you think of anything else?”
“Of course,” the housekeeper replied. “Won’t we, Mrs. Huntington?”
“Yes,” Liz said quietly. “Of course.”
“Thank you for your time,” Detective McFarland said.
Mrs. Hoffman walked them to the door. Liz remained standing in the parlor, staring straight ahead of her.
But she saw nothing.
49
Inside their car, Joe and Aggie looked over at each other.
“Huntington was having an affair with Rita,” Joe said.
“Seems possible,” Aggie admitted. “You think he killed her to keep her from telling the wife?”
“Seems possible,” Joe echoed.
“So what’s the connection to Jamison and Audra?”
“Maybe he was having affairs with them, too,” Joe quipped, starting the car.
“I suspect there’s more to this than just an extramarital affair,” Aggie said.
“I suspect you’re right,” Joe said, backing out of the Huntington driveway. “A whole heck of a lot more.”
“The chief’s not going to like us involving David Huntington,” Aggie told them as they headed down the street.
“We can’t worry about the chief right now. We have a murder to solve.”
“But we’ll have to worry about him eventually.”
“So let’s wait for eventually,” Joe said.
He stepped on the gas.
50
“Nicki,” Liz said into the phone.
“Hey, sweetie! You remembered! My first full day back on dry land!”
At the sound of her friend’s voice, Liz started to cry.
“Liz?” Nicki asked. “Oh my God, babe, what’s wrong?”
“I . . . oh, Nicki . . . I’m so afraid.”
“Afraid of what, honey?”
“There’s been another murder . . .”
“Oh, my God, no. At your house?”
“Of a girl who worked here.” She sobbed. “And I think . . . I think she and David . . .”
Liz couldn’t go on.
“You think she and David what, honey?” Nicki asked gently.
“I don’t know what I think. But just now, on the news, they’re reporting on Rita’s murder and it’s all so terrible and they’re saying that David is wanted for questioning. He’s a ‘person of interest,’ they’re saying.”
“Oh, no, baby. Where is David?”
“He left for Europe this morning. He was acting so weird before he left.”
“Oh, my poor Liz . . .”
“I can’t reach him. But Rita . . . the girl who was killed . . . she had a number for him on her phone. A number I never knew.”
“Liz, sweetie, don’t despair . . . don’t panic . . .”
“There are reporters outside in the street. A couple of them got onto the property and were banging at the door. We didn’t answer. We’re not answering the phone.” She caught her breath. “Oh, Nicki. Something terrible is happening here.”
“Hang tight, baby,” Nicki told her. “I’m going fly down to be with you.”
“Oh, no, Nicki, there’s no need . . .”
“Yes, there is, Liz. You’re upset. And I’m only in New York. I don’t have to be in Atlantic City for another two weeks. I’ve wanted to come to see you anyway. It’s a short flight.”
“It’s really, okay, Nicki, you don’t need to do that. I just needed someone to talk to . . .”
“Well, now we can talk in person. I’m going to look at flights and call you back. In the meantime, just chill, okay?” Nicki’s voice was warm and reassuring. “I’m coming down to be with you. Everything is going to be all right.”
Liz was still crying when she ended the call.
She looked around the room.
She was completely alone.
But the fragrance of gardenias overwhelmed her.
51
“Those men in the street,” Mrs. Martinez told Variola, stumbling breathless into the kitchen through the back door, “they are like hyenas. Shouting at me, grabbing at me.”
“What did you say to them?” Variola wanted to know.
“Nothing, of course.” The older woman’s eyes hardened as she looked at the chef. “But what they told me . . . I cannot abide this any longer.”
“Be careful what you say now.”
Mrs. Martinez was shaking her head. “Rita was a foolish girl. A troublemaker. But she didn’t deserve to die.”
“No, she did not,” Variola agreed. She took a deep breath. “She did not deserve to die.”
“This can’t go on,” Mrs. Martinez said. “I am done with it. From here on out, I am done. Even if I have to quit my job here. I am done. I have my children, my grandchildren to think about.”
Variola frowned. “Oh, but I’m afraid it’s not that easy, my dear. Not that easy to walk away from. Once you get involved, Papa Ghede does not forget.”
Mrs. Martinez became distraught. “I thought this would help my family! That’s why I became a part of this . . . for no other reason. I am not like the others . . . you know that! I thought I could help my family by taking part. We have struggled so much . . . been poor too long!”
“I know your reasons,” Variola said quietly.
Mrs. Martinez grabbed hold of her arm. Variola stiffened.
“But now I can’t risk anything happening to them,” the older woman cried. “I can’t risk my babies! My little Marisol and Luis!”
“You risked them the moment you agreed to take part,” Variola told her coldly.
“I had no idea . . .” Mrs. Martinez dissolved into tears.
Variola shook herself free of her and moved across the room. “For now, just go about your duties as usual. Say nothing.”
Mrs. Martinez looked over at her, terror shining in her bloodshot eyes. “All of my duties?”
“All of them,” Variola responded in a low voice.
“I can’t . . . not anymore.”
“Do it for Marisol and Luis, if you’re so worried about them.” Variola lifted the tray she had prepared earlier, holding a bowl and a pitcher. She handed it over to Mrs. Martinez. “Now get moving.”
The other woman hesitated, then took the tray. “It can’t go on . . . it’s not working. Not the way we had hoped.”
“Go on with you,” Variola said, looking away from her.
“We had such great hopes for you, Variola. We had thought you could do what you promised. But now . . . it is all falling apart.”
Variola said nothing as she lifted a large knife from a drawer. She slid her fingers along its shiny, sharp blade.
“When does it end?” Mrs. Martinez asked. “Tell me, Variola, when does it end?”
Variola turned savagely on her, brandishing the knife. “Go! Do what you are obligated to do! Ask me no more!” The fury spewed from her lips. “Variola will tell you when it ends! You do not tell Variola!”
Mrs. Martinez gasped a little, then turned and ran up the back stairs with the tray.
Variola dropped the knife onto the countertop. It rattled against the granite. She covered her face with her hands.
52
Liz sat on a concrete bench in the back garden, her hands folded in her lap, surrounded by spiky red alpinias and spidery blood lilies. The buzzing of bees filled the air. The sun was almost directly over Liz’s head, baking down on her, causing beads of sweat to pop out on her brow. Her eyes were fixed on that ungodly cow angel, standing several feet away from her, its white marble glowing in the sunlight.
But it was the sculpture’s black wings that held Liz’s gaze.
What sort of place was Huntington House? Why had Dominique commissioned such horrible things?
And was she really gone? Or did her spirit still wander the earth, as the servants believed, killing those who had angered her in some way—like Audra, Jamison, and Rita?
And if so, would she strike next at Liz, who had, after all, removed he
r portrait and dared to try to take her place as mistress of Huntington House?
She knew it was absurd. Completely irrational. But Liz would rather believe that the ghost of Dominique, and not David, had slit Rita’s throat.
He killed her because he was having an affair with her, Liz thought to herself as a beautiful yellow butterfly danced above the flowers. That was what Rita had been trying to tell her. She’d had an affair with David, and they’d conducted it in the last room on the left of the servants’ quarters. And, if Rita was to be believed, there was another woman there last night as well. Another of David’s paramours? Had Rita discovered them? Is that why David had killed her?
No, she said to herself, shutting her eyes. David didn’t kill Rita! Dominique did!
She had tried reaching David, of course. But all she had was an email address. She didn’t have that secret number that Rita had had—that secret number that confirmed for her, like nothing else, that David had been carrying on an affair with the chambermaid. Maybe not recently; Liz left open the possibility that the affair had happened while Dominique was still alive. But still. . . if he’d cheated on one wife, Liz thought, he could cheat on another.
She ran her fingers through her hair. A couple of birds in the tree above her began a high-pitched chatter.
David hadn’t loved Dominique, at least not at the end. This Liz knew. He’d been very unhappy; Dominique had been vain and difficult. So maybe David might be excused for having an affair under those circumstances.
But then who was the woman Rita saw go upstairs, if not yet another girlfriend of David’s? Was that room in the servants’ quarters, the last one on the left, the place where he had gone after he left Liz, ostensibly to search the house? Had his real purpose been to join his ladylove, hidden in that room? Had he then told the woman that they’d been caught, and that she had to leave? Had he then driven over to Mickey’s bar and slashed Rita to death?
The police had come by and taken David’s car. No doubt they were searching it for blood and other evidence.
Liz wondered what Paul Delacorte had told the police—if he really had emailed David about business problems brewing abroad. Had he really encouraged David to get on the next plane to Amsterdam to manage the situation? Liz wondered if Delacorte might be in on any shenanigans, if he knew of David’s affair and was helping him shield it. If so, Liz wouldn’t have been surprised. She remembered the old lech’s hand on her knee last night.
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