by Margot Hunt
“So Mrs. Lamont was alone in the house before the rest of you arrived? Was there any chance she met with someone then, or later in the evening?”
I shook my head. “John and I arrived just a few minutes after Esme. And then we were all together for most of the night,” I said. “Right up until we went to bed. Esme was the first to turn in.”
“And she was hardly in any state to meet anyone at that point,” Nick added.
Officer Grant turned to him. “Why do you say that? Had she taken any drugs? Consumed alcohol?”
The four of us shifted uneasily and looked at one another, waiting to see who would speak. I immediately knew the optics of this were terrible, and Ford seemed to sense that, too.
“Esme had quite a bit to drink last night. She was visibly intoxicated,” Ford said. “Nick and I had to help her up the stairs to her room.”
“What happened then?”
“She got into bed. Nick reminded her to check her blood level.”
“Esme’s had type-one diabetes since she was a kid. We were concerned that the wine could affect her glucose levels,” Nick chimed in.
“And?”
“I got her testing kit from her toiletry bag. She has a device that pricks her finger and then reads her blood sugar level. It was a little high, so she injected some insulin.”
“Where did she inject it?” the officer interrupted.
“Into her upper left arm.” Nick pointed to his bicep to illustrate.
“She didn’t need help?”
“No. Like I said, she’s had diabetes since she was, like, twelve.”
“Thirteen,” I said, interrupting. She’d been diagnosed the same year she’d gotten her first period. I knew the map of Esme’s life almost as well as I knew my own. It had been imprinted on me through all of the late nights we’d sat up talking, all of the long walks we’d taken, all of the traumas we’d been through together. I’d never have a friend like her again, one whose history was so intertwined with my own. The pain of this realization pricked through the cloud of shock and grief. I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to ward it off.
“Right,” Nick said. “She was used to injecting herself, and to be honest, I’ve never been good with needles.” He shuddered. “I remember when we were kids, my mom tried to teach me how to inject her, in case I ever had to. She had me practice by injecting oranges. I couldn’t even do that. It grossed me out.” He looked up and saw all of us watching while he rambled on. “Sorry. I’m just . . . sorry.”
“Sir, I just need the details of what happened last night,” Officer Grant said.
“Okay. Right. Like I said, she injected her insulin, and I put the kit back in her bathroom. She was asleep by the time I came out.” He looked at Ford. “She was already asleep, right?”
“Yes,” Ford said.
“And you were both there when this happened?” Officer Grant looked at Ford.
Ford nodded. “Nick closed the drapes in her room, and I turned off her lights. Then we went back downstairs.”
“So as far as you know, she didn’t consume anything else? Could she have brought any additional medications on the trip?”
“I’m pretty sure she has a prescription for sleeping pills,” I said. “But I have no idea if she took one last night, or if she even brought them with her.”
The officer nodded and then looked over his shoulder as the EMTs clattered down the stairs. He went to consult with them. Although they all kept their voices low, I could hear snippets of their conversation. Couldn’t resuscitate. Medical examiner. Detectives.
Officer Grant finally turned back to the four of us.
“Do any of you need anything from the rooms upstairs?”
We all shook our heads, mute at the horror of the situation.
“Good. Please stay downstairs until we’re done processing.”
“They’re not taking Esme?” John asked, nodding at the EMTs.
“No. Not until the detectives and medical examiner clear the scene. Sit tight. It’s going to be a while.”
“A while” ended up meaning nearly three hours. More police officers arrived, including a pair of detectives in suits and a team that included a medical examiner and crime scene technicians. John, Nick, Ford, and I had decamped to the back deck, both to escape the chaos and to have some modicum of privacy. Officer Grant was watching us through the French doors, probably to make sure we didn’t run off. It made me feel oddly panicked and claustrophobic.
“Why did they bring in crime scene techs?” Nick whispered.
“I told you. They’re going to treat this as a crime until proven otherwise,” Ford replied.
“They can’t possibly do that every time someone dies in their sleep.”
“Esme was only forty-nine. And she was in good health,” I said.
“Except she wasn’t. She was diabetic,” John said dully. “Look, it’s pretty obvious what happened, isn’t it?”
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“She was drunk last night. Really drunk. She must’ve misjudged how much insulin she needed and injected too much.”
“I don’t think so,” Nick said. “It didn’t look like she was injecting an abnormal amount.”
“You were drunk, too,” Ford said.
Nick turned to him, looking like a puppy whose owner had just kicked him. “Are you saying this is my fault?”
“No, of course not,” Ford said. “If she did overdose on insulin, it wouldn’t be anyone’s fault. Just a terrible accident. All I meant is that your memory might be a little hazy.”
Ford spoke to Nick softly, which seemed to calm him. In the past day I’d spent with them, I’d noticed that Ford quite often took on this role in their relationship. Then again, Nick’s sister had just died. Maybe this was normal behavior in a healthy marriage. I glanced at John, who kept zoning out, staring at the ocean as though it held the answer to some puzzle. My best friend had just died, and my husband certainly wasn’t going out of his way to soothe me.
“I could use a drink right now,” Nick said.
“So have one,” John said,
Nick looked up hopefully. “Will they let us?”
“As far as we know, a crime hasn’t been committed. No one is under arrest. This is our home, albeit a temporary one.” John stood suddenly. “I think we could all use a drink. I’m going to go get a bottle of wine.”
We waited like a group of teenagers about to get into trouble. But John marched off into the house and returned a few moments later with a bottle of chilled white wine and four glasses. He set the glasses down and poured a hefty amount into each one.
Once we were each holding a drink, Nick raised his glass. “To Esme,” he said. “My big sister.” His eyes welled with tears. “Christ, I wish I were more eloquent. I don’t have the words to express how heartbroken I am. We had so many good times, and even through the bad times . . . she was always there for me, someone I could always count on. The world is going to be a cold place without her in it.”
His words were emotional, but I couldn’t help but wonder how heartfelt they really were. I knew a lot about Nick’s relationship with his sister, and they’d never been especially close. Esme always tried to talk her father out of financing Nick’s businesses, and got frustrated when he ignored her advice. Nick’s pet nickname for his sister was “the Princess,” always said with a poisonous hiss at the end. And then there was the argument I’d witnessed between the two of them at their father’s seventy-fifth birthday party a few years earlier: I don’t know what started it—Esme probably made a comment about Nick’s professional failures, or maybe he needled her about being spoiled and self-centered. They were experts at pushing each other’s buttons. But whoever started it, it escalated until Nick pushed Esme against the wall, one hand wrapped around her neck. He’d been pulled off of her almost immediately, but the attack had left a faint bruise. I was shocked by the incident.
Was it possible his grief was genuine? Of cours
e it was. But it was also possible that he was putting on a show for the rest of us.
“To Esme,” I said, raising my glass.
“To Esme,” Ford and John chimed in.
We fell silent, drinking our wine.
“Oh my God. Look,” Nick said, staring into the house.
We all turned to look. Uniformed police officers were slowly bringing a stretcher down the staircase. Esme’s body was strapped on top, zipped into a body bag.
“Holy shit,” John said, his voice low.
Nick began to weep. “Oh my God. I have to call our father. What am I going to tell him?”
Nick wrapped his arm around his husband’s shoulders. I watched silently as my best friend’s body was carried away and wondered how it was possible that any of this was really happening.
The police finished their search of the house. They took away bags of evidence, including our phones, laptops, tablets, and whatever other items they considered pertinent. I had never been glued to my phone, obsessively checking social media or email, but as soon as it was taken from me, I felt a keen sense of loss. What if Aiden needed to get ahold of me? Or a client?
“Don’t you need a warrant to take our personal belongings?” John asked Officer Grant.
“We have one,” Officer Grant replied. “I’ll show it to you.”
He went to get the warrant, and John turned to me. “How did they get a warrant so quickly? And on what basis?”
I shrugged, as confused as he was. Officer Grant returned and handed the document to John. His brow furrowed as he read it.
“We’re also going to take fingerprint samples.” Officer Grant looked around at us. “From everyone.”
Nick was granted permission to use his phone for a few minutes to call his father. He went inside, clearly hoping to make it a private conversation, but Officer Grant followed after him. When Nick returned, he looked hollowed out and his eyes were rimmed with red, but he had stopped crying. I couldn’t imagine having to tell an eighty-year-old man with terminal cancer that his beloved only daughter had died.
Finally, late in the afternoon, after they’d collected our things and taken our fingerprints, one of the detectives came out onto the deck, where the four of us were still waiting. The others looked as tired as I felt, even though we’d spent most of the day sitting around. I supposed we were all emotionally exhausted.
“I’m Detective Gavin Reddick. I understand you’re all visiting from out of town.”
“Yes, Jacksonville and Miami. We have the house booked for the week,” John confirmed. “But under the circumstances, I doubt we’ll stay.”
“You’ll need to stick around until we get back the initial report from the medical examiner. It should only take a day or two,” the detective replied.
John bristled. “You can’t make us stay here. We’re not under arrest.”
“No,” the detective agreed. “But this looks like a nice place. I think you’d be more comfortable waiting here than cooling your heels down at the station. But that’s up to you.”
“That’s ridiculous. If we’re not under arrest—” John began, but I put my hand on his arm to stop him.
John might technically be right, but we couldn’t make it seem as if we had something to hide. The one thing we’d learned from Aiden’s recent experience with the criminal justice system was that it moved slowly and rarely worked in favor of someone accused of committing a crime.
“He said it’ll only be another day,” I said. “It’s not worth arguing about. We’d planned to be here anyway.”
“A day or two,” the detective clarified. “But the medical examiner isn’t backed up. It shouldn’t take too long to get an initial report.”
He turned and joined his partner, who was waiting for him inside. We watched as the two of them disappeared down the stairs that led to the front door. The four of us were finally alone.
“What now?” Nick asked.
“Now we wait,” Ford said. “We never did get lunch. Is anyone hungry?”
We all shook our heads. My stomach felt sour and shrunken. Just the thought of food made me feel slightly sick.
“I could use another drink,” Nick said dully.
“I’m going to go for a walk,” I said.
I wanted to be alone with my thoughts, and my memories of Esme. I wasn’t sure if I was ready to mourn her yet, but I felt an almost primal urge to be away from the place she’d died. As soon as I stepped toward the gate, John stood and said, “I’ll go with you.”
“Fine.” I couldn’t think of an excuse to stop him from joining me. And, after all, I’d been irritated with him for not being more emotionally supportive. Now he was offering to join me on a walk, and I wanted nothing more than for him to leave me alone.
I opened the gate and descended the flight of wooden stairs down to the beach. John followed behind me. When we got to the bottom, we both kicked off our shoes. The sand was warm and so soft, my feet sank into it with every step.
“Let’s go down to the water,” I suggested.
John nodded, and we headed toward the shoreline. The wet sand was easier to walk on, and the water lapping over my toes felt soothing.
I glanced back to make sure I’d recognize the house when we returned, and was startled to see Nick and Ford standing at the deck railing, staring down at us.
“They’re watching us,” I said.
“Who?”
“Nick and Ford.”
John glanced back. “That’s not creepy or anything. So, what do you think?”
“About which part?” I was so mentally fatigued, I didn’t even try to make sense of his vague question.
“Do you think they did it?”
I stopped abruptly. “What?”
“Nick and Ford. Do you think they killed Esme?”
“Why on earth would you say that?”
“Why do you think? They were the last ones to see her last night. And they certainly had a motive. Nick is now their father’s sole heir.”
“That’s crazy. Why would Nick do something like that? He’s already set to inherit a lot of money. Nearly ten million dollars, I think.”
Esme had rarely discussed her finances with me, but when I’d visited her in Miami over the summer, she’d started reminiscing about her father.
“He’s so sick, Caro,” she’d said, swiping the tears in her eyes. “Every day he seems to get weaker. I’m trying to be strong for him, but it’s so hard. Everyone thinks that getting an inheritance is like winning the lottery, but it’s not. I don’t care about the money. I just want my dad to get better.”
I’d held her hand while she sobbed.
“Well maybe he wants another ten million,” John now suggested. “Or maybe the new husband does.”
“I don’t know.” I shook my head. “I know Nick can be difficult, but I don’t think he’s evil. And that would be a crazy risk to take. If he was caught, he’d go to jail. And even if he wasn’t prosecuted, if his father thought Nick was involved, he could simply disinherit him and give his money to someone else. To a charity or another relative.”
“I agree, it would be a gamble. But if they got away with it . . .” John whistled. “That’s a serious payday. And Nick has never seemed attached to Esme. When he was crying earlier, I couldn’t help but think . . .”
“That he was faking it?” I finished. John nodded. “Yes, I wondered about that too, actually. It did seem over the top. But that doesn’t mean he, or anyone else, killed her. I still think Esme accidentally overdosed on her insulin.”
“I know.” John put his hands in his pockets, his shoulders slumping forward. The ocean breeze ruffled his fair hair. “She certainly didn’t seem depressed. I doubt she’d have done it on purpose.”
“Oh my God, that didn’t even occur to me.”
“I’m sure it occurred to the police.”
“No. Esme wasn’t suicidal. She was so happy yesterday, happier than she’s been in ages. I even thought . . . well, this is
going to sound silly.”
“What?”
“I thought she was in love. She had that look about her. She was practically glowing.”
“Was she?”
“Esme said she’s been seeing someone, but she didn’t go into detail. You know what she’s like.” I swallowed. “Was like. She could be intensely private. But anyway, no. It must have been an accident. A terrible, awful accident.”
“Unless it wasn’t,” John persisted. “The police obviously aren’t convinced that she died of natural causes.”
I shook my head. “I’m sure they’re just following protocol.”
“If they really are looking for potential suspects, they should probably focus on David.”
I nodded. The divorce had been acrimonious. “Do you remember when I went to see Esme in June?”
“Yes, of course.”
“David came over one night. He was drunk, or at least I think he was. He sounded drunk. He was ranting and pounding on the door. I wanted to call the police, but Esme told me not to. She said he’d go away.”
“Right, I remember you mentioning that. You said he scared you.”
“Yes, but it wasn’t so much that he was there, pounding on the door. It was what he was yelling.”
“What?”
“He told Esme she was going to pay for leaving him. At the time, I thought he meant financially. But what if he was threatening to physically harm her?”
John nodded gravely. “We need to tell the police.”
When we got back to the rental house, Nick and Ford were no longer on the deck. I wondered how long they’d watched John and me walk down the beach, and whether they’d been talking about us, as we had them. I had to assume they were.
We let ourselves in through the French doors. Nick and Ford were in the kitchen. Nick was drinking what looked like Scotch out of a lowball glass, while Ford stuck to sparkling water.
“We were thinking of ordering a pizza,” Nick said.
Food still held no appeal for me. And we had more pressing matters to attend to.
“Sure, whatever you’d like. But John and I were just talking, and we think we should let the police know just how contentious Esme’s divorce was.”