by Kate White
I stop abruptly and stare at the raw wooden door. I don’t dare voice the thought in my head, but I know exactly why I’m here.
Approaching the structure, I look both ways, then tentatively push open the door. The same scent of clay pots and potting soil greets me as it did when I stopped in the other day, and the space looks unchanged from then. The vases I didn’t use are still sitting on the counter, empty. I exhale. There’s nothing here to see.
Before I turn to leave, I scan the room for a moment, particularly the wall where garden tools hang from black, rustic-looking nails: several small hoes, two spades in leather cases, and a shiny handsaw. Longer tools, including a shovel and rake, are nestled in one of the corners. Since I’m not a gardener, it’s impossible to notice if a standard tool is missing. But as I zoom in, I spot an empty nail. And the tool next to it—which I think Claire called a digger—hangs awkwardly, as if it was positioned to partly fill the gap from a missing tool. A missing tool that was used as a murder weapon.
Panic swells from my core outward, but I tell myself that there’s no way to be sure. And besides, I need to erase this stupid idea that someone in the family murdered Jillian. It just can’t be so.
By the time I return to the cottage, Gabe is off the phone. When I ask him how the call went, all he says is, “Okay. I mean, who knows?”
We could almost be strangers. I’m tempted to tell him we need to sort out what’s going on between us, but I’m afraid that if I press, it will only make things worse.
Through a long series of replies to our family text chain, it’s decided that everyone will fend for themselves for lunch and that Keira and I will oversee dinner with help from Gabe if necessary. He and I eat our lunch in the kitchen, leftover slices of tart from yesterday, and afterward, while Gabe reads, I make an attempt to work on my play. But my brain is too consumed with worry to do anything creative.
Five o’clock finally rolls around, and Gabe and I text Keira to say we’re heading over to the house to help with dinner. It’s a relief to step outside of the cottage and have a change of scenery. Halfway along the path, I’m surprised to see Ash striding toward us, looking very much like a man on a mission.
“What’s going on?” Gabe asks.
“Nothing to be alarmed about,” his father says. He’s in a fresh, perfectly pressed cotton shirt and seems less agitated than yesterday. “One of the partners in Mizel’s firm is being called out of town unexpectedly and Paul wants us to talk to him before he leaves so that he can add additional insight. We’ll meet at their Princeton offices. You, Blake, Marcus, Nick, and me.”
“When?” Gabe asks.
“As soon as we can get there.”
“Tonight? But—but that means all the women will be in the house alone.”
“Yes, I know. But Princeton’s an hour away, and Paul says the meeting shouldn’t go longer than ninety minutes. That puts us back here right as it’s getting dark. Are you comfortable with that, Summer?”
“Sure,” I say, knowing I can hardly object.
There’s a sudden whirlwind as the men prepare to leave: Gabe racing back to the cottage to change into long pants and Nick and Marcus dashing upstairs to grab their phones. Minutes later they’re climbing into two cars, Gabe and Blake in one, Ash, Nick, and Marcus in another. I watch from the wide stoop as they depart.
When I come into the kitchen a minute later, Keira’s there, tapping her fingers on the butcher block of the island. She looks a bit agitated, like she’s not any more pleased than I am about the way the evening’s unfolded.
“I was thinking we could do a vegetable lasagna if you’re all right with that,” she says. “I checked and we have all the ingredients.”
“Great idea.”
“Why do you think they had to rush off that way?” she asks, sounding perturbed. “Could there have been some development?”
“From what I know, they just need to make sure the other law partner is in the loop. I mean, if there was any news, they’d tell us.”
“You think so?”
“Jeez, Keira. Why wouldn’t they?”
I didn’t mean to snap, but her endless worry is making my own apprehension even worse.
“Why wouldn’t they? Because people in this house keep secrets.”
My stomach knots uncomfortably. “What secrets?”
“Ash and Jillian, for instance. Who knows what was going on there?”
“What else?”
She looks off, pressing her lips together.
“Nothing,” she says finally.
“Keira, look, I know things are really tough. But we need to do our best to get through it. Why don’t you tell me what you need me to do for dinner?”
Before she can, my phone rings from inside the pocket of my capris. Fishing it out, I see to my surprise that Amanda’s name is on the screen, but when I answer, it’s Henry who is on the other end.
“Hey, Hen,” I say. “Everything okay?”
“I tried Dad, but he didn’t pick up.”
“Oh, you know, he’s out for a drive with Grandpa now, and they’re probably on that part of the road where the cell service is bad.”
“Okay. Dad’s not sick, is he?”
“No, no, he’s fine.” As I answer, I realize this isn’t the first time Henry’s sounded worried about us getting sick—and it seems like something might be going on in his little mind. I cross the kitchen, push open the swinging door, and step into the dining room. “Hen, why do you keep asking if we’re sick? Does it have to do with Gee?”
I take his silence as a yes.
“Honey, Gee had a heart attack, which can happen to older people when their hearts aren’t as strong. It’s not something you have to worry about with Dad and me.”
“But did getting sick make Gee’s heart less strong?”
“What do you mean, Hen?”
“You know, getting sick, throwing up.”
Unease ripples through me.
“Why do you think Gee was throwing up?”
“She told me she was. She told me that day.”
26
In my mind, I hear a sudden echo of the question Henry asked when I first told him that his grandmother was ill. Is she throwing up? he’d said. I should have asked what he meant.
“That’s actually very helpful to know, honey,” I say. “Where did you see Gee that day—in the kitchen?”
“Um, no. She was in the office.”
“The office?”
“Grandpa’s office. Where his desk is.”
“Oh, right,” I say, realizing he means the study. “What was Gee doing in there, do you know?”
“Sitting. And looking at a book.”
“And she said she’d been sick?”
“She was holding a tissue on her mouth, and I asked her what the matter was, and she said she had an upset tummy. That’s what she calls it when I throw up.”
So Claire’s stomach was definitely in distress that day. If only I’d paid better attention to Henry.
I sense him squirming on the other end of the line. “Am I in trouble?” he asks.
“No, no, you’re not in trouble, Hen. I was just curious.” I briefly comb through my memories, back to that afternoon. Henry must have gone to the house after I’d left for my run. And Henry, not me, was probably the last person to speak to Claire before she died. “I thought you’d been taking a nap with your dad that afternoon.”
“I was, but I woke up and you were gone, and I wanted to find Ginger and Bella.”
“Ah, got it. That makes perfect sense. Thanks so much for telling me. What . . . what did you guys end up doing today?”
“Nothing really. My mom said I shouldn’t complain about not being at the house because it’s going to rain a lot there anyway. If it thunders, can you hold Bella for me?”
As he knows, Bella’s terrified of thunder. When it’s far away, she worries and clamors to be in someone’s arms. When it’s close and boomingly loud, she goes into a full-blow
n panic and wedges herself into the tightest place she can find.
“Of course. And if you want, you can try your dad again in a little while. He’ll be in a place where there’s service soon.”
I hate to rush him off the phone, but I have to follow up on what he told me. I hurry into the living room and pause on the threshold of the study. More than once over the past few days I’ve wondered what Claire was doing at this end of the living room and now I know. She’d been coming from the study, where she’d been sitting and reading a book. But what book? And why?
I step softly into the room and explore the floor-to-ceiling walnut bookshelves with my eyes. Though I’ve always thought of the study as Ash’s domain, it was hardly off-limits to Claire. On a couple of winter afternoons over the years, I’d found her reading in one of the comfy armchairs, a fire crackling in the hearth nearby.
Based on what Henry said, as well as my own chronology of events, he must have come across Claire twenty or thirty minutes after she’d told me she planned to lie down. Maybe she stopped in the study to grab a book to take upstairs with her, but if she wasn’t feeling well, why skim through it here first?
I didn’t notice any book near her on the floor, which suggests that she’d put it away before she collapsed, rather than taking it with her, which seems odd, too.
I drift to the bookcases behind Ash’s desk. Ordinarily I’d consider this area a kind of no-fly zone, but the normal rules don’t apply anymore. Though the books aren’t alphabetized, they appear to be clustered according to general topics: biographies, memoirs, history, a smattering of novels, art books, and on the lower shelves, several dozen oversize books on landscape design that must have been Claire’s.
As my gaze approaches the floor, I see a volume jutting out more than the others, its glossy flap askew as if it’s been jammed back in a hurry. I tilt my head to better read the spine and gasp in surprise. It’s called Plants That Kill.
“Is everything okay with Henry?”
I spin around at the sound of Keira’s voice and find her standing in the doorway, her expression puzzled.
“Yeah. He just wanted to say hi,” I explain.
She continues to stare, clearly wondering what I’m doing standing behind Ash’s desk.
“Oh, and he’s missing a book,” I fib. “I thought someone might have stuck it in one of the shelves here. You ready for me?”
“Not yet actually. Since they won’t be back until close to nine, I think we should hold off on making the lasagna. Why don’t we meet in the kitchen at around seven thirty? Wendy’s going to help, too.”
“Sure, fine.”
I don’t love the idea of being alone, but hanging in the house has no appeal either so I return to the cottage. My heart’s hammering as things come together now more clearly in my mind. Just last night I was beginning to wonder if my suspicions were all a kind of mirage, the result of grief, and okay, maybe a smidgen of envy, colliding with an overactive imagination. But I wasn’t wrong. Claire was definitely sick to her stomach the day she died. And very possibly looking through a book on toxic plants, wondering if that’s where she’d find the reason for her gastrointestinal distress.
Hannah is as dangerous as I thought she was. Should I call the detectives who interviewed me yesterday? I shake off that idea. Maybe I should go to Ash with my discovery as soon as he returns. But he tends to be a conservative thinker, and it’s highly possible he’ll treat my theory with as much skepticism as Gabe did. I have to find someone to talk to, though, or I’m going to go out of my mind.
I try to distract myself by answering emails, and I also finally alert a few friends about Claire’s death. At one point I text my mom, asking if she’s around to talk. I haven’t even filled her in on Jillian’s death yet. But there’s no response, and I finally remember it’s Thursday and that means a trip to the movies for her and my father.
With nothing left to do, I simply continue to pace, gnawing at my cuticles.
At 7:25 sharp, I exit the cottage, locking the door behind me. Though the sun hasn’t set yet, the sky is fairly dark thanks to the thick gray clouds crowding it. If there are any state police still down by the woods, they’re probably packing up now. Far off to my left I see a faint flash of lightning. That’s all we need tonight, I think—a storm to knock out the power.
Keira’s already in the kitchen when I arrive, wearing a white apron over her jeans and jersey top and peeking into a pot of rapidly boiling water on the stove, and Wendy’s at the island, drying lettuce leaves in a salad spinner. Keira’s laid out peppers, squash, and zucchini for me on the table, along with a cutting board, so I slide onto a stool next to Wendy. As I dice the vegetables with a large kitchen knife, my mind keeps rushing to my call with Henry and the book about poisons, and what it all means, and I have to force myself to concentrate so I don’t accidentally slice a finger off.
There’s not much chitchat as we work, which is a relief. At one point, though, when Keira’s busy dumping the lasagna noodles into the boiling water, Wendy leans toward me and whispers, “Nothing about Hannah yet, but my guy is on it.”
I nod, relieved that at least Wendy’s still taking me seriously.
When I’m done chopping, Keira collects the vegetables, transfers them to a waiting frying pan, and drains the lasagna noodles into a colander, moving around the kitchen like a seasoned professional. I’m not surprised to see her perform so well. Anytime that Gabe and I have eaten at her and Marcus’s apartment, the meal’s been delicious.
“Did you ever have Claire and Ash over for dinner?” I ask.
“No, never,” Keira says.
“That’s such a shame. Claire would have loved one of your meals.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Keira says. “It seemed like there was only room for one master chef in this family.”
The bitterness in her tone catches me off guard, and I notice Wendy glance up, clearly surprised as well. Marcus told me that the Keatons intimidated Keira, but I wonder if Claire specifically made her uncomfortable. Is she another person who felt Claire was judging her, perhaps even trying to control her marriage?
The room goes quiet again, except for the sizzle of sautéing vegetables. Then, far off in the distance, I hear a rumble of thunder. And then another, this one longer and louder. Poor Bella bounds off her bed, skitters in my direction, and paws at my leg to be lifted. As I take her onto my lap, I check my watch. The guys won’t be back for at least an hour still. I feel restless and uneasy, but I’m grateful at least that Hannah is keeping her distance.
And, then, as if I’ve mentally summoned her, the door from the dining room swings open and Hannah steps into the kitchen. Her face is shockingly red and blotchy. Maybe it’s the result of a beauty regimen mishap, like some Umbrian clay, pore-purifying mask that backfired big-time, but I suspect what’s really going on is that she’s been mentally toying with the idea that whoever killed Jillian might have really been after her. And it’s eating away at her from the inside out.
“I didn’t realize you were making dinner tonight,” she says. “Do you need me to do anything?”
“Oh, sorry, you must not have been on the text thread,” Keira says from the counter, glancing over her shoulder as she layers the lasagna sheets into a pan with the vegetables. “We’ll need a vinaigrette for the salad. Can you—?”
“I’ve got that covered,” I interrupt, raising my eyes to meet Hannah’s. “We don’t need any more help.”
Hannah goes momentarily rigid, then without saying a word, she turns and leaves, letting the door swing hard behind her.
“Care to share?” Keira asks. She’s taken a few moments to slide the lasagna pan into the oven and now turns to face me.
“What do you mean?”
“Why you don’t want Hannah in here?”
“I don’t like her,” I say. “More importantly, I don’t trust her. And that means I don’t want to be anywhere near her if I don’t have to.”
Keira’s e
yes narrow. “Did she do something to you?”
I shake my head and keep stroking Bella.
“Did she?” Keira urges.
And suddenly it’s like a dam breaks inside of me. These two women are my sisters-in-law. They’re not my best friends, and they might not have cared about Claire the way I did, but they would never have wanted her dead, let alone murdered. I have to tell them.
“Not to me,” I say quietly. “But to someone else.”
“Who?”
“Keira,” Wendy interjects, “I’m glad Summer’s finally looping you in. She’s had some concerns about Hannah from the start, serious ones. It looks like she lied about her background, and she might also be a thief.”
“Claire was concerned, too,” I add. “She apparently dug into Hannah’s past.”
Keira pauses in front of the stove, a hand on each hip. “Does Nick know any of this?”
“I’m not sure,” I say. “He’s seemed upset with her lately, though I have no idea why.”
Her expression clouds, and I wonder if Keira actually knows why Nick was agitated. Maybe it has to do with what she was discussing so animatedly with him in the side yard.
“The bottom line is that we need to get Hannah out of the picture,” Wendy tells her. “If Nick marries her, it could be a disaster not only for him, but for all of us. But the trouble is, if we attempt an intervention with him, he’ll probably dig in his heels.”
“So what do you intend to do?” Keira asks.
“After we’re past this current nightmare,” Wendy says, “we’re going to have to discreetly relay certain pieces of information and let him make up his mind.”
After we’re past this nightmare. And when will that be? Weeks from now? Months?
Hardly conscious of what I’m doing, I set Bella on the floor and check the dining room to make certain Hannah’s not lurking in there and listening in on us, then turn back to my sisters-in-law. “We can’t afford to wait,” I tell them. “We have to act now. Before someone else gets hurt.”