That Last Weekend

by Laura Disilverio

  Ellie and Dawn introduced themselves and followed Jasmine past the closed doors to a break room with a table and six chairs, refrigerator, microwave, sink, and coffee maker. A wall clock’s hands pointed to 9:07 and the second hand jumped as it moved. A bulletin board plastered with photos and notes from grateful patients hung on one wall. “Coffee?” Jasmine offered.

  “Oh, thank God,” Ellie said, making Jasmine smile.

  “I know what you mean,” she said. “I’m lucky if I can dress myself before I get caffeine in the morning. Please sit.” She gestured them to a round white table where half a loaf of a homemade zucchini bread sat in a nest of Saran wrap and crumbs. Jasmine busied herself pulling mismatched mugs from a cabinet and filling them from the full carafe. She brought them to the table, along with a ceramic container of sweetener packets and a pint of milk from the fridge. Ellie ran a napkin around the rim of her mug and peered into it, wondering who it belonged to and how often it got washed. They all took first sips in silence, and then Jasmine leaned toward them. Her gold bangles clinked against the table’s edge. “Tell me, please, what happened to Evangeline.”

  Her shoulders hunched forward slightly, and Ellie thought she glimpsed fear in the woman’s eyes. She decided to be blunt. Maybe she could shock a reaction out of her. “Evangeline was murdered. At the Chateau du Cygne Noir.”

  “Murdered.” Jasmine barely breathed the word. A multi-ringed hand went to her mouth, and Ellie got the distinct impression that she was both surprised and relieved.

  “That’s awful,” Jasmine said, recovering a bit. “How … ?”

  “The police aren’t sure yet,” Dawn put in before Ellie could mention the poisoning. It was smart to keep it vague, Ellie decided, giving Dawn an almost imperceptible nod of approval. Dawn continued. “We’re sorry to spring it on you like this. Did you work with Evangeline a long time? We’re, uh, helping to arrange her funeral and we wondered if you or any of her coworkers here would want to, uh, say anything.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t think so … ” Jasmine started before apparently realizing how abrupt her words sounded. “That is … ” She gave up trying to explain and made a moue. “Evangeline left here six months ago.” When they didn’t react, she added, “Under somewhat strained circumstances.”

  “That’s about when her mother died,” Dawn said hesitantly. “Did she leave because of her mother’s death, or perhaps she inherited enough so that she didn’t have to work any longer?”

  “I didn’t get that impression,” Jasmine said. She dropped her gaze and concentrated on stirring a packet of sweetener into her coffee.

  Just spit it out, Ellie wanted to shout. Instead, she put on an enquiring look.

  “Did you know Evangeline well?” Jasmine’s gaze went from Dawn’s face to Ellie’s and settled there.

  “Since college,” Ellie said.

  “Oh, so you knew her before she was paralyzed.”

  Ellie nodded, and Dawn said, “Yes, we’ve been friends for twenty years.”

  Off and on. Ellie didn’t say it aloud.

  “Well, I don’t know what she was like before her accident, obviously,” Jasmine said, pleating an empty sweetener packet, “but in the two years I knew her, she became increasingly bitter about her paralysis. It began to affect her work, her interactions with the patients and staff. I sometimes thought that this was the worst possible place for her to work.” She must have seen Ellie’s confusion, because she said, “It had to be hard on her, watching patients come in here with broken bones, some of them with spine issues not unlike hers, and seeing them get surgery and PT, walk, become, well, whole again. They returned to their ‘normal’ lives, driving and skiing and dancing, some of them with limitations, sure, but not wheelchair-bound like she was. I sometimes wondered why she didn’t quit and get a different kind of job. I guess she needed the money.” She wrapped both her delicate-fingered hands around the mug and drank deeply.

  The refrigerator made a sudden grinding noise, like a cat working to spit up a hairball, and ice cubes clinked into the freezer bin. Footsteps passed the break room, and a man and a woman carried on a low-voiced conversation outside the door.

  Ellie cleared her throat, thinking about what Jasmine had said. “So, when she left, was it to go to Mexico?”

  “She didn’t leave—she was let go,” Jasmine said drily, “and I can’t imagine she had the money for an international vacation.”

  “Not a vacation,” Dawn said. She pushed her curls behind her ears. “Medical procedures. She went to Mexico for surgery, and it worked. She told us she was walking again. Just a few steps, but still.”

  Jasmine’s face went blank with astonishment. “There’s no—I can’t comment on a patient’s situation.” She folded her lips in.

  “Was Evangeline a patient?” Ellie asked.

  Crinkling her brow, Jasmine said, “Well, no, not officially. This practice wasn’t open when she suffered her trauma. She did bring her MRI report and images in once, early on, and—it’s a gray area, but I really don’t think I should comment. Patient privacy is paramount.” She pushed her chair back from the table, distancing herself from them, or preparing to end the conversation.

  “Okay, then,” Ellie jumped in, searching for a way around Jasmine’s restrictions. “Would it be fair to say you would have been surprised to hear that a patient with similar injuries was walking again?”

  Jasmine pursed her lips and said, as if coming to a decision, “Let’s just say that any doctor—Mexican or otherwise—who promised Evangeline she would walk again was on a par with those Nigerian princes sending emails that say they’ll give you a million dollars if you only send them your bank account info.” She raised her brows in a “does that answer your question?” way. She stood and it was clear the interview was over.

  Ellie downed the rest of her coffee in a gulp, and she and Dawn rose. Escorting them to the waiting room door, Jasmine asked, “When is the funeral?”

  “Um, a date hasn’t been set yet,” Ellie said, her conscience twitching. “The police … ”

  Jasmine nodded. “Well, the office would like to send flowers, so if you could let me know when a date’s been arranged, I’d appreciate it.” She handed Ellie a business card and gave them a polite smile of farewell.

  Before she could close the door, Dawn asked in a rush, “When we told you she was murdered, you looked more than surprised. Almost relieved. Do you mind telling me why?” Dawn asked it like it was important to her personally, her eyes fixed on Jasmine’s, and Ellie wondered at both her sensitivity to Jasmine’s initial reaction and her nerve.

  “I suppose I thought you might say she’d committed suicide, and anything, even murder, seems preferable to that, doesn’t it?”

  She closed the door firmly on the questions her statement made Ellie want to ask. She and Dawn exchanged a look and left the medical center, with Ellie pondering Jasmine’s words and wondering if she believed that being murdered was a better way to go than suicide. On the whole, she decided not, especially if being murdered entailed a lot of pain and fear, as Evangeline’s death must have.

  She mentioned that to Dawn once they were back on the road, and Dawn thought about it a long moment, her eyes fixed on the highway. “I suppose most suicides are suffering a different kind of pain and fear before they decide to end it, wouldn’t you think? Psychic pain, emotional pain.”

  “I can’t see too many of those people electing to suffer unnecessary physical pain if they decide to off themselves. If we’d told Jasmine how Evangeline died, she wouldn’t have thought ‘suicide.’”

  “Probably not.” Tears welled in Dawn’s eyes and when she took a hand off the wheel to dash them away, the car swerved into the oncoming lane. Ellie instinctively gripped the dashboard. Dawn overcorrected and the tires spun on the muddy verge for a moment before gripping the pavement again.

  Ellie bit back the words
that sprang to her tongue, knowing how defensive they would have made her boys, and released the dash, mildly surprised it didn’t retain an impression from her fingers.

  Trees flashed past. It seemed like more leaves had turned yellow overnight. Within days, they would all fall, leaving the branches bare until spring. She’d be gone before the last leaf fell, and this might well be her last memory of North Carolina.

  Twenty

  Laurel rose from the table shortly after ten, largely pleased with how the interview had gone. Geneva had stuck to the script, giving Sheriff Boone one-word answers to his questions. No, she didn’t know how her prints got on the glass. No, she didn’t know why that glass was in Evangeline’s room. No, she hadn’t been in that room at all this weekend, and no—slight hesitation—she had no idea who would want to harm Evangeline. Laurel didn’t fault her for the hesitation; she figured none of the four of them could have said “no” to that without a pause for reflection. No, she’d never bought strychnine, as far as she knew, and no, she hadn’t spoken to Evangeline recently and was surprised when the invitation arrived. No, no, no. It had gone on like that for half an hour before Sheriff Boone gave up.

  “Thanks for your help,” he said with a hint of sarcasm, switching off the recorder. His gaze landed on Laurel and she knew who he blamed for the interview’s sterility. Too bad.

  “I’ve got something that might help,” she said when Geneva hurried out of the interview room to visit the restroom. Pulling the copy of the yearbook page out of her purse, she passed it to Sheriff Boone.

  “What’s this?” He smoothed it out on the table.

  “Evangeline’s fiancé,” Laurel said, unable to keep the triumph out of her voice. “Ray. Raimondo Hernan.”

  “Where did you get this?”

  “The high school.” She explained her thought process and detailed her visit to New Aberdeen High. “The librarian there remembered Ray, said he’d been a troublemaker and that he was possibly expelled for selling drugs.”

  Boone looked at her with what she read as reluctant respect, but quickly put on a scowl. “Maybe you’re being so helpful about pointing the finger at another suspect to divert attentions from your client—or yourself.”

  She ignored his half-hearted accusation. “You’re welcome. So now you can harass Ray instead of my client.”

  He looked at her from under his brows. “We didn’t find Ray’s fingerprints on the glass used to poison the victim.”

  Laurel couldn’t explain away Geneva’s fingerprints, but she said, “She didn’t do it. I know it.”

  “Like you knew none of your friends pushed her off the balcony ten years ago.”

  Choosing not to respond to that, Laurel asked instead, “Does anyone benefit from Evangeline’s death? Did she have a will?”

  “We’re checking,” Boone said repressively.

  One place the police would be checking was Evangeline’s house, or wherever she might have moved to. She thought about the empty house from yesterday. “Do you know where Evangeline was living? We drove by her old place, her mom’s home, but it’s for sale and it doesn’t look like anyone has lived there for a while.”

  “I don’t need you poking around in my investigation, Your Honor.”

  “I helped,” she said indignantly, gesturing to the yearbook page.

  Scratching the scar that curved up from near his ear, Boone relented. “Fine. Yes, we know where she lived. She rented one-half of a duplex off of County Line Road. We searched it yesterday.”

  “Did you find anything?”

  He started for the door. “I am not revealing any of the details of an ongoing investigation.”

  “If you’d let me go through the house, maybe I’d spot something you missed.”

  He turned, his brows twitching together so the line between them deepened. “We do know the basics of homicide investigation out here in the sticks.”

  Laurel flushed. “I didn’t mean to imply you didn’t. I just thought, since I knew Evangeline, that I might have some insight that would be useful.” If she could see Evangeline’s house, she might have something to offer; she’d lived with the woman for four years, after all, and knew a lot about her habits.

  “Amaze me,” he invited, digging a hand into his pocket and tossing something to her.

  She snatched it out of the air automatically. Keys. She looked from them to him. “Really?”

  “Why not? We’ve finished with the place. I think I can trust you not to run off with the family silver—not that there was any. Lock up when you’re done.” He reeled off an address.

  Geneva returned before Laurel could respond. She didn’t know what she’d have said anyway.

  “You okay?” Laurel asked Geneva as they walked to the parking lot.

  “Tired,” Geneva said, massaging her belly. “And worried. This isn’t how this weekend was supposed to be.”

  “No. I don’t suppose it’s what’s Evangeline had in mind, either,” Laurel said. She glanced at her watch. “Look, it’s not even lunch time. Boone gave me the keys to Evangeline’s house”—she dangled them—“and permission to visit it. Let’s go look. Maybe we’ll run into Ray.”

  Geneva stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and a woman behind them, texting as she walked, bumped into her. They exchanged “sorry’s” and Geneva grabbed Laurel’s arm. “Don’t you think it’s weird he hasn’t come back? I mean, he was only supposed to be gone for what—a day? He might not even know she’s dead.”

  “Or he might be the reason she’s dead, and that’s why he hasn’t come back.” Laurel played with that idea in her mind. If Ray had poisoned Evangeline, wouldn’t he have come back to Cygne, to make it look like he’d had nothing to do with it? His absence was suspicious—surely he couldn’t be stupid enough or arrogant enough to think the police wouldn’t identify him?

  They arrived at Laurel’s car, parked at the curb. Geneva shivered. “There’s something really cold-blooded about that idea. I’m tired. Baby Lila Marigold is wearing me out. I’d rather just go back to Cygne, if you don’t mind. I might lie down for a bit.”

  “Want me to drive you?” Laurel asked. “We could pick up your car later.”

  “No, I’m good.” Geneva hugged her hard and waddled off in the direction of her rental.

  Laurel got into her car and checked her email. There was one from Ari Berenson, the firm’s top investigator. It had several attachments. Her father must have called him ten seconds after she talked to him yesterday, and paid his exorbitant overtime rates. She knew he did it because he was worried about her, and she felt a rush of affection for him. Opening the email, she scanned Ari’s note—preliminary results, more in depth later, hoped she was well, yada yada. The attachments were labeled Boone, Abbott, Ordahl, Frost, American Castle Vacations, Infanti, and Tanger. The thought of prying into what were likely to be private financial and professional details on her friends made her vaguely queasy. It would be a horrendous invasion of their privacy. She decided she was not going to even open her friends’ files unless something happened that made it imperative. She knew it was a sentimental decision, and that it might handicap her in her attempt to solve Evangeline’s murder, but she couldn’t make herself do it yet.

  Giving in to temptation, she opened the Boone document. She felt a tad guilty doing so, but told herself that he had undoubtedly compiled an even more complete dossier on her. Yeah, but he’s not a person of interest in a murder case, her conscience reminded her. Ignoring it, she began to read the report couched in Ari Berenson’s usual concise prose. Several items of interest jumped out. One of five boys, Boone attended Duke University on an academic scholarship and majored in philosophy, of all things. Huh. Apparently recognizing that a working knowledge of Kant and Nietzsche was unlikely to pay the bills, he got a Masters in Public Administration before attending the police academy and becoming a beat cop in Raleigh. Two c
ommendations for bravery and a citizen’s complaint of excessive force, unsubstantiated by the review committee, leaped out of his record. He got married, moved to New Aberdeen and joined the Sheriff’s Department, got divorced after four years of marriage, and three years later ran for sheriff and won. He’d been sheriff ever since and enjoyed an 89 percent approval rating, which “reflects his competence and honesty but also the fact that his predecessor was caught having sex with three prostitutes in the sheriff station’s holding cell. I was unable to ascertain whether this was a single incident involving four persons having sex, or whether the former sheriff had relations with prostitutes in his holding cell on three separate occasions,” Ari wrote with the dry wit that made his reports more entertaining than most.

  Closing that file with a chuckle, Laurel opened the one labeled “Abbott.” The first page was narrative and the second financials, which showed a bottom line that wasn’t going to make for a comfortable retirement. She skimmed the first paragraph with dry facts about birthdates, parents’ occupations, and the like. She started reading more carefully when she got to their college years. Nerys Abbott (nee Silverstrim) had majored in history at a small college in Pennsylvania before going on for her doctorate at NYU. She’d met Stephen Abbott in New York after she started teaching at SUNY. He was a graduate of the University of Maryland and worked for Goldman Sachs. Laurel was a bit surprised to see that he’d only been on Wall Street for six years. He had left Goldman Sachs and embarked on a series of entrepreneurial enterprises. “He didn’t lose his shirt on any of them,” Ari Berenson wrote, “but none of the businesses made the return on investment that Abbott (and his investors) expected.”

  The next paragraph documented Nerys Abbott’s arrest, and made Laurel sit up straighter. Hello! She slumped when she read the arrest was for participating in a campus protest that got rowdy. The couple left New York for North Carolina in 1993 when they landed a job as co-managers of Chateau du Cygne Noir. They applied for and were granted a loan to buy the B and B, but the sale never went through.