by Kate White
“Similar to ours, from the sound of it.” He polishes off his drink, tipping his head back as he does, then lifts the brandy snifter. “Can I pour you a splash of Courvoisier? I’ll gladly join you in another round.”
“Better not. I actually haven’t had much of an appetite since your mom died.”
He nods somberly. “Me, either, to tell you the truth.”
“This must be so awful for you today,” I tell him, an idea forming of how I might be able to lead him to my suspicions about Hannah indirectly. “You’ve barely had any time to mourn the loss of your mom.”
“I know. I feel like I’ve had to park my grief in the overflow parking lot and will need to come back to it later.”
“One of the things that makes your mom’s death so hard to deal with—at least for me—is the suddenness of it. It seemed to come out of nowhere. But Gabe says you mentioned she’d been on heart medication for a while. Some kind of diuretic?”
“That’s right. And also amlodipine. It’s a calcium channel blocker that relaxes blood vessels so that enough blood and oxygen can reach the heart. But nothing’s foolproof, unfortunately.”
“I think an aunt of mine takes both of those,” I lie. “And she mentioned once that other things can interfere with their effectiveness. Do you think that could have happened in your mother’s case?”
He raises a single eyebrow, in a way that reminds me of Gabe. “I’m not following.”
“Well, I remember my aunt told me you have to be careful with diuretics. That if she were to take something like, uh, digitalis, with them, it could make her heart beat too fast.”
“But my mother didn’t take digitalis,” he says.
“Right, I was speaking generally. That something might mix the wrong way with a medication.”
“Did your aunt end up with a problem?”
Backing into the subject is getting me nowhere fast, but I don’t feel comfortable blurting out my true concerns.
“No, no, she didn’t . . . . Um, I should head back to the kitchen and send Bonnie home.”
“And I should get back to Wendy. If you need us, we’ll be in the den, trying to distract ourselves with terrible television.”
Bonnie, I discover, is now at the table, sorting through a stack of index cards and looking beleaguered, the dogs at her feet. Her hair’s tied back now with a fat blue rubber band, the kind used to bunch broccoli or asparagus in the supermarket.
“Oh, Bonnie,” I say. “You can’t still be working.”
“I’m just taking a minute to think through the menu for tomorrow. Claire and I had planned a cookout for Thursday, but that now seems—”
She’s been working much, much too hard. “Actually, I don’t want you to even think about coming in tomorrow. You need a break from all this, Bonnie.”
“Oh, no, I—”
“I’m not taking no for an answer. I’ll confirm with Ash when I see him, but I know he would want you to have some time off. Gabe and I know our way around a kitchen, and Keira’s a great cook. Everyone will pitch in.”
“Gosh, if you’re sure, Summer, I would love that. Twenty-four hours to clear my head and recharge would help a lot.” She fingers the gold cross that’s peeking out from the open collar of her blue jersey shirt. “I think I’m still in a state of shock, you know—from what we saw.”
“Me, too.” I pull out a chair at the table, and it’s only when I drop into it that I realize how much my entire body aches from fatigue—not to mention stress and fear.
“Do you think she suffered?” Bonnie asks haltingly.
The horrible image surfaces in the front of my brain again. I’d assumed Jillian suffered, based on the vicious wound on the back of her head. What caused it? I ask myself. The butt of a rifle? A rock? It would have had to be something sharp, I decide.
“Maybe not,” I lie. “It’s possible she died instantly.” Of course, if someone had attempted to sexually assault her, and the jury’s still out on that, she would have been beyond terrified for a few minutes beforehand.
“I hope so. As you know, I wasn’t always a fan of Jillian’s, but I can’t stand thinking of her dying that way.”
I straighten a bit, as something in me stirs. “Why weren’t you a fan? Because she was trying to micromanage the luncheon yesterday?”
“Not only that. I hated the way she was always calling here on weekends, when Claire wanted Ash to take it easy. Like she needed to show everyone how important and involved she was with the business.”
I don’t press beyond that. It’s an additional hint of a more-than-professional relationship between Jillian and Ash, but I don’t want to plant any seeds with Bonnie. She could end up saying the wrong thing to the police, inadvertently casting more suspicion on Ash than there already is.
Bonnie scoops up the loose index cards into a pile and squares it off with a few taps on the table.
“And I know this is awful to say,” she adds. “But I’m glad for Nick’s sake it wasn’t Hannah. I was so sure it was.”
“Did I put that idea in your mind when we were down there?”
“No, that was my first reaction, too—before I even ran into you. Because of the hair. And the coat.”
“The slicker?”
“Mm-hmm. When Hannah came to get coffee this morning, she had one of the slickers on, too. I guess she assumed it might rain, just like Jillian did.”
My heart skips.
Hannah and Jillian were both wearing those tan-colored slickers. Which means that from the back, they looked even more alike this morning than I’d realized.
What if Bonnie and I weren’t the only ones to have mistaken Jillian for Hannah? And it was really Hannah someone wanted dead?
24
As my mind races, I trace a couple of circles on the buffed wooden table.
“Did you notice where Hannah went when she left the kitchen this morning?” I ask Bonnie.
She shakes her head. “She left through the back door and I saw her strolling across the lawn, but I’m not sure where she was headed. I guess for a walk.”
“Do you remember what time it was?”
“Probably between nine thirty and ten. Maybe a little closer to ten.”
I trace more circles, trying to piece a puzzle together in my mind.
“How many of those slickers are in the side corridor?” I ask. They’ve hung there for as long as I’ve been coming to the house, though I’ve borrowed one only once, to race back to the cottage in when it was pouring.
“Six, I think.”
This morning with the promise of rain, both women must have thought the slicker would serve their needs.
“Are there enough in women’s sizes for Hannah and Jillian to have worn separate ones?”
Bonnie cocks her head, thinking. “Yeah, there are a couple of small ones. Though maybe Hannah came back and hung hers up, and then Jillian ended up taking the same one.”
Probably not, though. If Jillian was preparing to visit the burial site at around ten, she headed down there not long after Hannah left the house.
I know I need to let Bonnie go home, but I can’t quite drop this. “Did you tell the police about the slickers? And how we thought it was Hannah who was dead?”
“Yup, I told them about our mistake. And I think I mentioned the slicker, too. I was so nervous talking to them that my voice shook. They probably think I did it.”
I shake my head. “Of course not. And how about the rest of the interview?” I ask casually. “Did that go okay?”
“Yeah, I guess. They seemed a little, what’s the word, impertinent? Asking about Claire and Ash and how their marriage was.”
My stomach clenches. “How did you handle that?” I ask, still trying to keep it light.
“I told them things were fine. And they wanted to know who was in the house and when, that sort of thing . . . . Does that mean they think someone here is the killer?”
“Oh, no, not necessarily.” I’m trying to reassure myself as
much as her. “But they have to cover all their bases, of course. Why don’t you go home now, Bonnie, and I’ll clear the stuff in the dining room later?”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Thanks so much, hon.”
“One last thing,” I say as she rises. Because of the murder, I never had the chance to quiz Bonnie earlier as I’d intended. “You’ve been tidying the carriage house this week, right?”
“And the cottage, too. Is there something wrong?”
“Not at all. I was just wondering—and please don’t tell anyone I asked this, because it’s so silly—if you’d noticed if anyone had been using the oven there. To dry herbs—or flowers maybe?”
She wrinkles her brow. “Drying flowers? No, I can’t imagine why they would.”
It was a long shot. Surely Hannah would have covered her tracks.
“But I assume they’ve used the oven to do a little reheating,” she adds. “It was warm to the touch one day when I was over there.”
“Sunday?”
“Gosh, I don’t remember, Summer.”
“Okay, thanks. I know, dumb question. I’ll explain another time.”
I walk her out the back door to her red Honda in the upper part of the driveway and she jumps in and rolls down the window. “See you Friday,” she calls out and slowly backs out of the driveway.
Will I see her Friday? I wouldn’t be half surprised if she calls that morning to tell us that though she’s cherished her years with the Keatons, this seems like the right moment to move on.
Bella and Ginger have been trailing behind us, and now they’re eagerly thumping their tails, looking up at me expectantly. It’s probably been hours since they’ve been let outside. I don’t love being out here on my own, and besides, there’s something I urgently need to do, but it would be mean to ignore them. I lead them back to the patio, and tell them, “Go pee—though make it quick.”
They scamper off, and for a minute they sniff around in the grass right off the patio, but soon they’re fanning outward, nosing around a row of shrubbery. Ginger takes care of business fast enough and ambles back to me; Bella, however, suddenly strays from the circle of light thrown from the house and fades into the darkness beyond the bushes.
“Bella, come back here,” I demand. Though I can’t see her, I can hear her snuffling coming from the far side of the shrubs.
“Bella.” I’m nearly screaming now, desperate to get all of us inside, and two seconds later, she bolts toward me. I lead the girls indoors and after leaving them on their beds, I move quickly through the house to the side corridor where the slickers hang. It’s dark, but I can see the outline of the remaining slickers, bulging a little so they almost give the impression that there’s a cluster of people huddled against the wall. I snap on the light, walk over to the pegs, and count five coats all together. The one Jillian was wearing makes six in total, so Bonnie’s estimate was right. Hannah obviously put back the one she’d worn this morning.
If she actually was the intended victim, someone in the family obviously wanted her dead. I try to imagine how things might have unfolded. The killer could have seen Hannah from a window like Bonnie did, assumed she was on a walk, and decided to act. It would have taken a couple of minutes for the person to hatch a plan and possibly snatch something to use as a weapon. But even though the murderer would have lost sight of the woman believed to be Hannah, he—or she—would know to follow the trellis-covered path to the meadows. It’s the walk everyone takes, and it would require only a few minutes to catch up. And then there she was, standing by the stream and facing the other way. Had the killer realized his or her mistake as soon as Jillian collapsed from the blow? Or not until later?
With a jolt it occurs to me that the police might want to examine the slickers, and the corridor, too, so I shouldn’t be hanging out here. I snap off the light and head back to the kitchen, where I brew a cup of caffeinated tea in an attempt to stay alert. With the dogs eyeing me curiously, I let out a moan and sink bone-tired into a chair at the table.
As I nurse my tea, two names power their way into my brain again, the same ones I considered while rushing back from the woods, thinking I’d just found Hannah’s body.
Nick. Bonnie heard him and Hannah sparring last night. Somehow Nick might have obtained incriminating information about her, perhaps the same secret Claire had learned. Had it sent him into a murderous rage? It’s hard to imagine my charming, affable brother-in-law capable of such brutality. And yet . . . I’ve occasionally sensed that beneath his jovial facade, there’s something darker—perhaps a fear of failure, a concern that despite his designation as the family’s golden boy, he’s no match for his brothers in smarts or savvy.
And then there’s Marcus. I’ve watched how he studied Hannah, stone-faced, over dinner. I saw the fury in his expression as they talked in the glade. There are two possible explanations for his anger. He knows something incriminating about Hannah and wants her out of his brother’s life. Or, despite what he’s sworn repeatedly to his wife, he’s never got over Hannah, is infuriated by the idea of her sleeping with his brother, and even worse, planning to marry him.
And either one of them could have tried to make it appear as if a stranger attempted a sexual assault and then resorted to murder.
But there’s another name to consider, isn’t there? Keira. She’s clearly felt bothered by Hannah’s presence. Could jealousy have propelled her to try to murder a possible rival?
Stop, I command myself. I can’t let these ideas occupy any more space in my brain tonight than they already have. Nick, Marcus, and Keira are members of my family, people I love. Besides, there’s still the possibility that Jillian was murdered by a total stranger, that this has nothing to do with Hannah.
But even if I’m not entertaining thoughts of suspects in my family, the police are. They’re gathering information and trying to determine if any of us had reason to want Jillian dead. And after interviewing me and Bonnie, and learning about our confusion—as well as the fact that two women were wearing identical coats—they’re probably also wondering which of us might have wanted Hannah out of the way.
Once again, I wonder if I should have shared my suspicions about Claire’s death with the detectives. There’s still time to tell them, of course. And it would be better to do it before Claire’s buried. Maybe there’s a way for them to look into the situation without identifying me as the one who raised questions.
But no, too dangerous, I think. What if it intensified the scrutiny on the Keatons, making the detectives surmise that if there’s one thing rotten in Denmark, there’s bound to be more? And am I still sure that Claire was poisoned, anyway? What if I’m looking at everything upside down, and some other dark drama has been unfolding here in this place I’ve loved so much? And Hannah is totally innocent?
I reach for my mug but don’t even have the energy to bring it to my lips. Instead, I lean forward, resting my forehead flat on the table. Within seconds, sleep ambushes me.
When I wake, it’s with a start and a rush of dread. The bright light confuses me, and it takes me a moment to realize that I’m not in bed, I’m in the kitchen, and there’s muffled noise coming from the front of the house—voices, feet shuffling, doors shutting. Ginger and Bella have already jumped from their beds and are scratching on the door to the dining room. I glance at the kitchen clock. It’s 10:14.
“Just a second,” I tell them. Still half asleep, I rise from my seat and swing open the dining room door.
Everyone’s back now. Not only Gabe, Ash, Nick, and Hannah, but also Marcus and Keira, coming in right behind them and crowding the hall. There’s a stranger there, too, a tall and dark-haired man who looks to be in his forties. My heart freezes. A detective. But when I see him speak to Ash, and they look friendly, I realize it must be the attorney from Princeton.
Wendy and Blake emerge into the hall from the direction of the den, their attention clearly roused by all the noise, too.
Gabe seems to be looking at everyone but me. When he finally swivels his head in my direction, he briefly meets my gaze and then his eyes dart away. I feel sick with worry, not only about how his interview with the detectives went but also our ugly exchange in the foyer.
While he follows his father and the lawyer into the living room, everyone else swarms into the dining room, migrating toward the sideboard and somberly pouring themselves drinks and/or fixing a small plate of food. Blake indulges in another brandy.
I pour two glasses of sparkling water, noting that Nick’s not far from me, as is Hannah. I don’t favor her with so much as a glance, but I see the outline of her body out of the corner of my eye. Her confident, picture-perfect posture is missing in action tonight. She’s probably thinking that this is sooo not what she signed up for. Or perhaps she’s concerned that with police nosing into everyone’s backgrounds, they might unearth unsavory details about hers.
As we all congregate as instructed in the living room, I hand one of the water glasses to Gabe, who accepts it with a dull “thank you,” and take a seat next to him on the couch.
“The handoff went fine with Amanda, by the way,” I tell him.
“Yeah,” he says coldly. “I spoke to her.”
Ash, who’s been huddled at the card table with the attorney, rises to address us. His face is haggard, and he’s uncharacteristically disheveled, the sleeves of his wrinkled shirt rolled up to his elbows, but there’s a determination about him now, like someone who’s gotten past the shock of a shipwreck and has resolved to build a raft from the pieces left behind.
“I know everyone’s exhausted and eager to be in bed,” he says, “but I feel it’s essential for us to hear from Paul Mizel, the attorney who will be guiding us through this hell.”
“Good evening, everyone,” Paul says. “Thank you for your time.”
He’s debonair looking and even at this hour well turned out in a crisp white shirt, tailored blazer, and tan slacks. But there’s a hint of the street fighter in his flinty brown eyes, I’m relieved to see.