“She uses her birth date for everything.”
“Good. Because we’ll need to get into it later if we want to learn anything.”
“Fine. Let’s just do this.”
She takes the canvas and spreads it open on the cleanest segment of floor she can find away from the main blood puddle. They’ll have to lift Phoebe onto it, but it shouldn’t be too hard with both of them working.
Silently, Wyatt moves into position at Phoebe’s head, while Nadia takes the foot end. Now they’ll have to touch her, and she’ll be pretty chilly by now, possibly even entering rigor mortis. Nadia hopes not. It would only make them both more squeamish. “Ready?” she asks.
Wyatt stares at Phoebe, not moving.
“You steady?” she prods. He looks dumbstruck, vacant. Pity stirs within Nadia. Poor bastard. If he really didn’t kill Phoebe—and she’s starting to think he might not have—then she can only imagine how much of a head fuck this is for him.
“I’m okay,” he says eventually. “I’m not feeling much of anything right now.” He looks up at Nadia, bewildered. “That sounds really bad, doesn’t it?”
“Not really. I get it. Your mind wants to separate itself from this.” She felt the same way after she realized Jesse Bachmann was dead. Still feels it.
“Yes. Dissociation. I’ve studied this sort of thing academically, but I guess it’s different when you’re living it.”
“Are you sure you didn’t kill her? At this point, you might as well tell me.”
He lets out a deep sigh and Nadia’s heart skips a beat.
“No. And I would never have done it this way if I had. I hate blood. It’s why I didn’t go to med school. Let’s just get this over with.” He bends to grasp Phoebe’s wrists. Nadia is just grabbing the ankles when the doorbell rings, stopping her cold. She glances at Wyatt and sees his mouth drawing down into a silent scream worthy of Edvard Munch.
“Just ignore it,” she whispers.
The bell rings again, followed by a knock. Nadia can’t remember if the door is locked. Someone who sounds this determined might go ahead and barge in, and if so, her plan will be over before it even gets off the ground.
“What do we do?” Nadia asks, her voice little more than a squeak, the terror a tight band around her midsection. Could someone have called the cops? What if the ones investigating the Bachmann murder tracked her here after all? What if Phoebe’s killer is executing the perfect setup by sending in the cavalry while the body is at their feet?
Wyatt straightens, letting Phoebe’s arms fall back to the floor. He turns away from Nadia, bowing his head and pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. After a few hard breaths, he stills for a moment. When he turns back, it’s as if he’d flipped a switch. His expression is as serene as she’s seen it all morning. It’s a form of self-control Nadia can’t help but envy. Must be one of his therapist tricks.
“Don’t worry. Stay here. I’ll take care of this.” He checks himself over to make sure he doesn’t have any blood on him and then leaves. Thankfully the kitchen is invisible from the front door, but she still wishes she was close to a bathroom, because now, in addition to needing to puke, she needs to pee. And maybe die.
She hears a door open, followed by, “Oh, hello there! You must be Wyatt.”
A woman’s voice. Cheery and bright. Not very policelike. Nadia calms down a little.
“Yes. Hi. Uh, you’re our new neighbor, right? Phoebe has mentioned you.”
Oh fun, Phoebe’s current bestie. Nadia would bet she’s the one who’s been calling all morning.
“That’s right. I’m Vicki Napier. My husband is Ron, son is Jake. Phoebe has told me so much about you.” The voice sounds warm, but Nadia can detect the slightest bit of contempt oozing from around the edges. Vicki and Phoebe probably did that catty thing a lot of girlfriends do, dissecting their mates right down to the marrow, zeroing in on all the nastiest parts. This woman probably knows things about Wyatt’s sexual habits and other private rituals that would mortify him.
Speaking of sexual habits, does Vicki know that Phoebe was spending a bit too much personal time with young Jake? Maybe the husband clued her in. That could explain the carnage here. But Nadia shakes her head. From what she’s seen of this woman, she’s pretty slight. It would take a lot of mama-bear adrenaline to pull off a feat like this. Not impossible, mind, just unlikely. Papa bear, on the other hand . . . he gets angry a lot.
“She told you all about me, huh? That can’t be good.” Wyatt tries on a joking tone, but it comes off a little shaky. Vicki’s responding laughter matches it, a shrill peal that belies any humor. Nadia feels a little seasick just listening to them.
“Is Phoebe around, by chance? We were supposed to meet up for brunch this morning, but I haven’t been able to reach her. I’m starting to get a little worried.” Oh, I don’t know if Phoebe is up for visitors right now or at any point in the future, Nadia thinks, glancing down at the body.
“She picked up a nasty stomach bug,” Wyatt says. “That’s actually why I’m here. She needed someone to hold her hair back.” Nice one, Nadia thinks.
“Uh-oh! I hope it isn’t too serious.”
Oh, it’s dead serious, Nadia thinks. A real killer virus. Lots of stabbing pains. Mad laughter bubbles up inside her, but real humor is a star in another galaxy right now. This is more like creeping hysteria.
“These things tend to pass pretty quickly,” Wyatt says. “But I’ll tell her to answer her texts at least.”
“I appreciate that. And if there is anything I can do to help her, don’t hesitate to call.”
“Thanks, Vicki. I’ll do that.”
Nadia lets out a quiet sigh. Thank God that’s done.
“Oh, hey. What happened to your hand, there? It looks like it’s bleeding.”
Well, fuck. “I broke a mug this morning and cut myself. Clumsy mistake, but it’s nothing serious.”
“If it’s still bleeding after this morning, you might need some stitches.”
“Yeah, maybe. I’ll look into that when I have a minute.”
“My husband is a doctor. I could ask him to have a look if you’d like.”
“That’s very nice of you,” Wyatt says. “I should be fine, though.”
“All right, then. Let me know if you change your mind.”
“Okay, great. Thanks again.”
A second later, the door shuts, and Nadia falls against the wall behind her. Wyatt’s a little hunched over when he comes back, like he’s aging a year or more for every minute that passes. “That was really fucking scary.”
“You did fine. How did she seem? Like maybe she knew something?”
He shrugs. “She seemed normal enough, a bit high-strung, I guess. Wasn’t giving me any vibes one way or another.”
Nadia was hoping for a more astute analysis from a shrink, but she’ll forgive him under the present circumstances. He’ll have more time to evaluate her later. Dr. Ron too, and maybe the prodigal son if they’re really lucky. “I think we should go over there this evening and let him stitch your hand.”
“Are you insane? I’m not going over there. And did you just say ‘we’? I just told her Phoebe was sick.”
“Well like you said, stomach bugs pass quickly. I’ll act weak, but we have to go. We need the intel, and it’s a good idea to present as normal a front as possible.”
“What sort of intel?”
She raises her eyebrows and gestures toward Phoebe’s body. “Uh, hello? We need to look for a murderer here, unless you’re happy with us continuing to suspect one another.”
He lifts his hands in surrender. “All right, I get it. I just want to know what you think we might find that would tell us anything helpful.”
“Namely reactions. The one who acts like they’ve just seen a ghost when they lay eyes on me is probably our guy. Or gal.”
“Okay, then what? We just start duking it out?”
She shakes her head. “I have a feeling this will be a longer game than that. But I guess anything could happen.”
Wyatt exhales. “Do we really need to start the Nancy Drew thing now? We haven’t even done the most important part yet.”
“We can’t move until after dark, anyway. So let’s wrap her up and stow her in the trunk of whatever car we’re taking, clean up, you know, the rest. After that, we can head on over and see what we can see.”
“I still don’t like it. Feels like walking into a lion’s den with fresh meat around our necks.” He makes a move of disgust, as if realizing too late how close to home the bloody metaphor is.
“If any of them are guilty, they’re going to be too shocked and afraid to break cover. We’ll be over there just long enough to take the temperature of the place, and you’ll get free stitches on your hand as a bonus. And you’re going to need them. You don’t want to risk infection at a time like this.” And the place they’re going is far from clean.
He sighs and shakes his head. “Fine. Let’s just get this part over with before I lose my nerve.”
They bend down again to move Phoebe onto the drop cloth. Though neither of them says how they feel about handling dead flesh, it’s hard to hide their respective difficulties: Nadia’s overall distaste, Wyatt’s silent, grief-stricken tears, not to mention the physical strain for them both. Once the body is on the canvas, they roll her up into it, blessedly removing her from sight. The burden on Nadia’s chest lifts just a little bit more, even though it’s the easiest part of the whole ordeal. They secure the fabric with the cords and duct tape, making Phoebe into a sausage.
“And now we move her to the trunk?” Wyatt asks, his complexion pale enough to appear translucent, skimmed in sweat.
“Yes. We’re driving separately on the way down to Indiana. I’ll need to abandon my car as well.”
“Why abandon it? You could always just sell it.”
It’s too soon to explain why that’s not a viable option, and she’d rather not go into the Jesse Bachmann situation at all. She’s been nervous enough driving the car around town, though she’s already swapped the plates once and is sure the Executive Courier magnets have done enough to divert attention. But her luck with that is destined to run out before long. This is her best chance to ditch the thing for good. It also seems appropriate enough for the trail of Nadia to end not far from where it started.
“It’s easier to deal with it this way.”
He looks dubious. “If you say so. What’s in Indiana?”
“That can all wait until we’re on the road.”
They spend a few minutes lugging the heavy human parcel out to the garage, where Nadia sees something she didn’t notice before in all her weeks of spying, mostly because this side of the garage was never open to the street. “Holy shit, what is that thing?”
Wyatt doesn’t say anything until after they have the body covered in blankets and sealed inside the Audi’s trunk. “That right there is one of the rarest Ferraris you’ll ever see, and it’s crammed into a dusty garage. Almost funny when you think about it.”
“Yours?”
“God, no. It wasn’t really Phoebe’s, either. Her father had it delivered here not long before he died.”
Nadia stares at the red beast, then turns back to Wyatt. “Why don’t you drive it? I mean, if it’s here, you might as well enjoy it.”
He shakes his head. “This isn’t the sort of car someone just drives. One of these things was auctioned off for over four million dollars not too long ago. It’s better to think of it as an exotic sculpture on wheels.”
She whistles and runs her hand along the rear fender. It’s now the most expensive thing she’s ever touched. “Seems like such a waste hiding it in here like this.”
“Oh, it is. Phoebe hates . . . hated flashy shows of wealth. Don’t get me wrong, she liked having money and she didn’t let it go to waste, but her father was always a tacky bastard, and spiteful too. Phoebe always thought he left her this car as a taunt, to see if her loyalty to him would outweigh her disgust. It’s just the sort of passive-aggressive move he was known for.”
“What an asshole.”
“I told her it would be the perfect act of revenge to get rid of the thing in the worst way. Hand it over to any schmuck on the street, maybe fill it with toddlers and hand them ice-cream cones and markers. I know she agreed deep down, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to do it.”
The more Nadia looks at the car, the more she dislikes it. “Hell, I would have set the thing on fire.”
Wyatt gives her an appraising glance. “This seems almost personal for you too.”
“Maybe it is a little.”
“That mutual interest you mentioned you had with Phoebe. Would that happen to be Daniel?”
“It might be.”
“Ah. Were you one of the women he, you know . . . hurt?”
She shakes her head, knowing these questions won’t stop coming until she answers him satisfactorily. In such cases, only the truth will do. “Only indirectly. The person he really hurt was my mother. He knocked her up and left her stranded.”
“I see. But why the fixation on Phoebe? Did you think you could get to him through her somehow?”
Nadia stares at him. “Let me clarify. He knocked up my mother and left her stranded, oh, twenty-six years ago.”
He doesn’t speak right away, but Nadia can see the pieces coming together in his head, like the tumblers in a lock. “Hold on a minute. Is Daniel . . . your father?”
“I would hardly call him a father. But would he pass a paternity test? Sure.”
His jaw drops open. “It’s all starting to make sense now. But wait. Holy shit, that means Phoebe . . .”
“Congrats. You figured it out.”
“Is that why you’ve been sitting outside our house? Were you planning to intimidate her? Get her to give you money or something?”
She shifts her feet, finding it harder to make eye contact. “No, my plan was to introduce myself and get to know her. But we never made it that far.” Her self-loathing burns in her guts. Not only was she too much of a coward to introduce herself properly when she had the chance, but she ended up blackmailing her half sister and possibly set in motion the chain of events that got her killed.
“I think Phoebe would have really loved to know she had a sister,” Wyatt says quietly.
“Well, thanks for making me feel like shit. Can we get back to work now?” She turns and walks back inside.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be insensitive. If you want to talk about it, though . . .”
“I’m good, all right? Now can we drop it?”
“For now, sure.”
She glares while her back is still to him. In the kitchen, Nadia takes inventory of Phoebe’s household cleaners, which easily rival her health and beauty collection. “You two didn’t have a housekeeper, right? I never saw one, but just making sure.”
“Not for a while now. Phoebe liked doing it herself. Was a little obsessed with cleaning supplies.”
“I can definitely see that.” She opts for an old favorite: oxygenated bleach. It’s what she used to wash all the farmworkers’ clothes, as well as sanitize the room in which her mother died. It seems like morbid marketing for the makers of this stuff to say there’s nothing better to wash death out of things, but that’s what it does best.
They spend the next two hours washing, rinsing, and repeating on the kitchen’s every surface. Without a dead body in the room, she can almost pretend she’s scrubbing the slaughterhouse floors, a common enough chore from her childhood, especially before a health department visit. Except, at least there they had hoses and floor drains. Here, they empty more than a dozen buckets of red water into the sink. By the time they declare thi
ngs clean enough, it’s nearly five o’clock, and they’re both exhausted, filthy, and stinking of a nauseating cocktail of blood, bleach, and sweat. Wyatt pours himself a drink to take the edge off, but Nadia refuses when he offers. She doesn’t have a tolerance for the stuff, and she needs to be especially clearheaded for the next stage of this wild ride.
“What now?” he asks.
She watches him fidget with the bandage on his hand. “I think you know the answer to that.”
“I was hoping you’d changed your mind.”
“I still think it’s a good opportunity to get a read on them.”
“Do you really think one of them killed her? It’s hard to imagine Vicki would have come over here, or invited us over there, if so.”
“That’s precisely what guilty people would want us to think.”
He stares at her. “What do you know about them that makes you so suspicious? You saw something when you were sitting out there, didn’t you?”
“I promise you, when all this work is done tonight, we’ll sit down and talk everything out. Right now, we’re up against the clock.”
“I don’t like that you’re holding all these cards I can’t see. How are we supposed to work together when I don’t know everything you know?”
He’s going to dig in his heels until he gets something. Nadia decides to relent, at least a little. “Okay, fine. The Napiers have a pretty troubled marriage. I heard screaming matches over there all the time, though I could never really tell what they were fighting about.”
“How does their bad marriage lead to Phoebe’s being . . . killed?” He’s still struggling to acknowledge it. That will likely take time.
“I’m only pointing it out because Ron seems like a really angry guy. My suspicion is if Phoebe managed to get on his bad side, he would have been trouble.” And Phoebe was definitely doing something that would have gotten on his bad side, but if Nadia went into what she knew about the younger Napier, Wyatt would likely cease to be useful tonight. She hopes this will be enough to keep him moving for now.
The Other Mrs. Miller Page 16