He studied my face and must’ve glimpsed my sincerity. “Fine.” He hurried back toward the staircase.
Just stop. Just have breakfast and admit that the scream was probably the wind.
But I didn’t stop. I followed him with my stomach complaining—the aromas of sautéed onions and frying bacon were wafting through the house.
Evelyn stood at the bottom of the staircase. Pale and glassy-eyed, she poked her fingers through the hole in her sweater, bigger now than it had been last night.
Eddie slowed in his step. “What the hell’s your problem?”
She opened her mouth to speak but could only grunt.
Eddie sighed. “I don’t have all day—”
“It’s Desi,” she blurted. “Desi’s—” Her chin quivered as her lips clamped together.
Eddie popped down three more steps. “Desi’s what?”
The nurse closed her eyes, then said, “Desi’s dead.”
21
“What?” Eddie and I shouted together. That one word made Evelyn flinch and hop back a step.
Wallace, a cup of coffee in his hand, stepped around from the kitchen. “It’s not even ten o’clock yet—why are we already shouting at each other? We should all be preparing for Phillip’s memorial. People are coming and everyone needs to pitch in and clean. Yes, even me, and I look horrible with a sponge in my hand.”
I pointed at Evelyn with a shaky finger. “She just told us that Desi’s … Desi’s…”
“That Desi’s dead,” Eddie completed.
Wallace peered at the nurse, then whispered, “Why would you say such a thing?”
Evelyn, mute, gaped at me.
“What?” I asked her. “I can’t hear you. Speak louder.”
“Is this a joke?” Wallace asked.
Evelyn pulled at the hole in her sweater.
“Why aren’t you talking?” Eddie screamed. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”
No answer.
I charged across the living room to Desi’s bedroom door. Wallace, Eddie, and Evelyn tromped behind me. I shouted, “Desi,” then twisted the doorknob.
Locked.
“Move.” Eddie pushed me aside and twisted the doorknob again.
Still locked.
He took a step back, lifted his boot, then kicked the space beneath the knob. The door flew open with a crunch.
A breeze drifted past open windows that let in a little light. The nightstand was crammed with an empty wine bottle, an ashtray, a dead joint with its butt smeared with red lipstick, a black cellophane wrapper for a Magnum condom, a pack of chewing gum, and a hardback novel. Desirée Scoggins lay right in the middle of a bed big enough to sleep twenty people. She was naked and still. A pillow sat over her head; her right arm lay draped to her side and her left wrist had been tied with her blue scarf to the welded metal headboard.
“Oh.” My leg bones disintegrated, and I leaned against the doorjamb.
Eddie said, “Hey,” as he hustled over to the bed. “Hey, Desi?” He tossed the pillow to the floor.
Desi’s eyes were bloodshot and wide open. A faint purplish tint of new bruising around her nose and mouth didn’t shock me as much as the crusted blood between her teeth, on her cheeks, and in her ears. Blood also stained the wet sheets, which were pulled away from the top corners of the mattress. The stink of urine mixed with smells of sweat and sex, weed and fear.
Eddie untied Desi’s bound wrist, then held the scarf out behind him.
I took the scarf. “Is she okay?”
He lifted Desi’s wrist and placed his thumb over her pulse point. He waited … waited … then shook his head. He muttered, “Shit,” then draped her arm across her bare, round belly.
“Maybe she passed out,” I said. “Maybe she drank too much or … or … took a sleeping pill or … or…”
Frank popped into the doorway. He looked relaxed in his T-shirt and khaki shorts. “Anyone making breakfast?” His eyes landed on the big bed. “What’s wrong with Dez?” He squeezed past Wallace and Evelyn to enter the bedroom.
I grabbed his arm to stop him from moving closer, then shook my head.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
Words were catching in my throat, but I forced myself to say, “She’s … gone.”
He dipped his chin to his chest. “What do you mean, ‘she’s gone’?”
I whispered, “She’s dead, Frank.”
“No. That’s ridiculous.”
“I’m serious. She’s…” Tears burned in my eyes as words caught and stayed in my throat.
Frank squinted at me, then turned to the others. “What the hell’s going on? Is this another one of Phillip’s practical jokes?”
I shook my head. “I agree, he went too far, but this…” I gazed at Desi. “This isn’t a joke. She’s not trying to fool us.”
Wallace scooped the discarded pillow from the carpet and studied the blood now drying in the shape of Desi’s face. Then he met the eyes of every living soul standing in the room. “Who did this? Which one of you … did this to her?”
No one spoke for a very long time, leaving the palm fronds to rustle and the surf to pound against the shore. The curtains lifted and twisted with that breeze. A perpetual nine o’clock, it never got any lighter or any darker in this room.
Finally, Evelyn whispered, “She was with Frank. They were together.”
We all looked at Frank.
Frank lifted his hands and shook his head. “No. Nuh-uh.”
“You were with her,” Evelyn said, her voice firmer. “You were in this bedroom all night.” She met each of our eyes. “And I heard them making … sounds.”
Eddie crossed his massive arms. “What kind of sounds?”
Evelyn lifted her chin. “Sex sounds. Groaning and pounding and moaning, and it was so loud that I couldn’t sleep.”
Couldn’t sleep? I didn’t hear any groaning or pounding, and I’d slept fine right until that scream. And broken glass, don’t forget the broken glass. You heard it.
Eddie, his face a shade lighter than rage-purple, clenched his fists. “What happened here, Frank? Things get a little out of hand?”
Sweat poured off the black banker like water off a melting glacier. Hands still out, he said, “She’s lying. She’s a nut, you said so yourself.”
“I’ve never said that,” Eddie said.
“I said that,” Wallace pointed out.
My eyes skittered around Desi’s swollen face. “Her earrings. Her earrings are missing. She had them on last night.”
We all dropped our collective gazes to the carpet, then we scanned the nightstand, the windowsill, the bare parts of the mattress. No earrings.
“Maybe they’re lost somewhere in her pocketbook,” Eddie suggested.
“You take her earrings, Frank?” Wallace asked.
Frank, eyes large and frightened, looked to me for support. “Miriam…”
There was a welt on his neck, and a small drop of blood had soaked into the ribbed collar of his T-shirt. That’s what I pointed to, that stained collar and that welt, and said, “You have a scratch…”
Frank touched the abrasion, then tugged at his collar. “No … no, that was earlier … there were frogs croaking and I went out to kill—stop them and I … I … shaving … I was shaving.”
“I also saw you last night,” I said. “You and Desi left the house together. And I saw that she was wearing her earrings.” Probably.
“You left the house to do what?” Eddie asked the banker.
“Would you like to answer that, Frank?” Wallace plucked the empty condom foil from the nightstand. “Or should we guess?”
“And then he stole her earrings,” Evelyn said. “He tried to hide them, but Desi caught him and he killed her to keep it secret.”
My heartbeat doubled, tripled, tripped over itself as I pictured Frank in bed, bent over Desi, his knees digging into the mattress, his hands mashing that pillow against her face. Spit was gathering at the corners of his mouth a
s her one free arm swung frantically in the air. How long had it taken to smother her? Five minutes? Ten?
Evelyn, jittery now, paced near the window. Her fingers gnawed at the hole in her sweater sleeve, and her jalopy breath rattled in her chest.
“Tell me right now,” Eddie demanded. “Where are her earrings?
“No clue. I am not a crook,” Frank spat. “Nor am I a murderer.”
With tears in his eyes, Wallace laughed. “There are only five of us alive on this island, and I certainly didn’t do that.” He pointed to Desi’s limp body twisted in the soiled sheets. “Or this.” He held up the condom wrapper.
“I cannot believe you all are looking at me as though…” Frank’s lips pooched and twisted. “As though I’m some kind of … of … no—I’m the fu-fu-fucking president of a wealth management firm—I came to this island to network. But you and Phillip tricked me and … and … I will not tolerate such … such … slander. I’m not some … convict. Some … monster.”
But there he was, stuttering and sweating like a guilty son of a bitch from the ghetto, caught red-handed and flecked with the blood of a white woman, a Richard Wright character come to life. And there she was, the white woman—lifeless and naked, filthy with blood and her own waste, staring at a ceiling she could no longer see.
Frank’s eyes flicked at the door—he wanted to escape. Leaving, though, equated guilt, telltale heart bullshit that ignored the fact that no one liked being in a room with a dead person, no one liked being accused of murder. Still, he took that step.
I blocked the doorway. “You’re not going anywhere.”
He glared at me, then threw up his hands. “We had sexual intercourse. That’s it. Nothing more. A man and a woman, two consenting adults, attracted to each other and acting on it.” He whirled to face Evelyn. “And what in the fresh hell is your problem? Standing at the door, listening to us? You’re disgusting.” Then he pointed at me. “There’s your murderer. The pettiest bitch on this island.”
Eyes wide, I touched my heart, then said, “Really?”
“Black women hate everyone,” Frank said, “especially white women who desire black men. You said that you saw Desi and me last night? You followed us, saw us out on that cliff, and that pissed you off, didn’t it? Pissed you off so much so that you decided to take revenge on behalf of scorned black women everywhere.”
I snorted. “Sorry—I’m not killing anybody over your round black ass. You were with her, Frank. I saw you. And this morning, I heard her scream.”
Frank shook his head. “On my honor—”
“Honor?” Wallace screeched. “This coming from a man whose real name isn’t even Frank? This coming from a man who stole millions from poor Americans who couldn’t afford their homes, a man who forged signatures on sale agreements and then paid a gang member to assassinate his partner in crime while that partner in crime was getting a haircut? This coming from a man who can’t even behave for a single weekend?
“Nothing about you is real,” Wallace continued, his razor-blade eyes cutting Frank to bite-size pieces. “Nothing is real. Not that wedding ring on your finger. Not your fake wife Celeste. I doubt you’re even human. You are the absolute worst, and Phillip’s tumor cracked through his skull as he was defending you. I wanted to kick Phil’s ass just to convince him to drop you as a client, but he wouldn’t because he’d made a promise to you. Because he was an honorable man. Honor, Trey? You know nothing about honor.”
“Trey?” I gaped at Desi’s secret lover. “So you’re a con? And you’re a thief? You put out a hit?”
“Two hits,” Wallace corrected. “Because then he had the gang member killed.” He paused, then added, “Or, as he would say when he’s not pretending to be a banker … kilt. Did I say it right, Trey? That you had him kilt?”
Frank licked his top lip as he glared at Wallace with the purest hatred available to mankind. “I won’t even dignify that racist accusation with a response.”
“Arrest him,” Wallace ordered. “And when the boat comes, get him off this island.”
Eddie grabbed Frank’s arm.
“Let me go.” Frank whipped out of Eddie’s grasp. “Don’t touch me.”
“You’re under arrest,” Eddie said.
“Under whose authority?”
“Get on the fuckin’ ground!” Eddie grabbed at Frank again, successfully this time, and draped his forearm beneath Frank’s neck.
“Let me … go. Let me…” Frank clawed at Eddie’s arm and rocked his body until both men were wrestling. As they fell to the floor, they bumped into the dresser and sent a ceramic vase flying to the ground and shattering into millions of pieces. They struggled over to the north wall, sending the framed Picasso print of a couple kissing to the floor. But then Eddie reached back and yanked a Glock from beneath his T-shirt. He held the muzzle against Frank’s temple. And that changed everything.
Evelyn screamed.
I shouted, “Don’t shoot him!”
“You killed her,” Eddie howled, his eyes wild. “I know you did.”
Frank’s face was smashed into the carpet. His eyes were squeezed shut as he squealed.
“Wallace!” I shouted. “Call him off!”
Wallace watched the scuffle with a small, mean grin.
“Wallace!” I screamed again.
Finally, his voice calm, Wallace said, “This isn’t how we do things, Edward.”
Eddie pushed the Glock harder into Frank’s temple. “It’s how I do things.”
“Edward,” Wallace barked, “you don’t want trouble again, do you? One death was easy to explain, but killing two black men in one year? Phillip’s not here to defend you this time. We’ll deal with Trey in a judicious manner. Stop. Now.”
Eddie calmed some, and his grip loosened around the weapon.
“Good,” Wallace said. “Now, get him to his feet.”
Eddie’s breath came heavy as he pulled Frank up to stand. The con’s glasses remained twisted and broken on the carpet. Eddie’s Glock had gouged its impression on his temple.
“You’re under arrest, you sick bastard,” Eddie spat. “I’m locking you in your room until the Mexicans come.”
The bells in my head quieted, but my breathing and my pulse …
Eddie had killed a man before. And so had Frank—two men. And now, Desi was dead.
I couldn’t do it—I couldn’t stay in this house, on this island, not one day longer. No one was in charge. People were dying. Chaos reigned. I wanted to see my daughter again, and no amount of money was worth living one floor beneath Eddie Sweeney. Or Frank Clayton.
Hell, yeah.
It was time to go.
Excerpted from the Times West Virginian
Tuesday, September 23
WHITE SULPHUR SPRINGS WOMAN LOSES HUSBAND AS A RESULT OF TROPICAL STORM
More than fifty people have died as rescue teams continue to search for more missing residents after Tropical Storm Gretchen decimated large swaths of West Virginia.
The storm changed Desirée Scoggins’s life forever when emergency services were prevented from reaching her husband Lawrence, 63, after an allergic reaction sent the retired accountant into anaphylactic shock. “All the phones were down and there was no one around to save him. The line just kept ringing and ringing.”
Now, Desirée hopes to figure out how she will get through this. “I loved him more than anyone in the world. For him to die like this—over a cookie—is just nuts.”
22
I planned to skip Phillip’s memorial, scheduled for five o’clock. Instead, I would meet La Charon at the dock as it dropped off more of Wallace’s guests. I’d say nothing to anyone about my plans because I was a grown woman and didn’t have to explain shit to anyone. All sense of decorum and manners? Gone.
Because Desi was dead.
And Javier was dead.
And Artemis didn’t have bars or reception or satellites.
“Sat phones don’t need bars,” Eddie growled as he paced
the hallway outside of Frank’s bedroom. “They’re called satellite phones cuz they use—”
“Signal. Reception. Whatever,” I said, hands thrown in the air. “Why aren’t you reaching anybody? Do we even know for sure that there’s a boat on its way?”
“Don’t know.” Eddie gaped at the clunky black phone in his hand. “This should be working … Must be a transmission delay. Nothing to freak out about.”
“So now what?” Wallace asked.
“So now,” Eddie said, “I need to find an open space. And I need to be standing there when the satellite passes over.”
But he couldn’t do that and watch Frank at the same time. So, I was volun-told to be the first person standing guard outside Frank’s bedroom. I glanced at my watch. Crap. It was almost ten o’clock and I needed to pack.
“Don’t I need a weapon?” I asked. “Just in case he tries to escape, just in case he tries to kill another woman—me, in particular? You expect me to throw my shoe at him?”
Eddie glanced at my sneakers, then said, “Hold on.” He jogged down to his bedroom.
Wallace asked, “Is a gun really necessary?”
I swiveled my head on my neck and placed a hand on my hip. “Fine. You stand here, then.”
The old man rubbed his temples. “None of this was supposed to happen. Not today.”
“Was it supposed to happen tomorrow, then? Next week?”
Wallace sneered at me. “Don’t be obtuse, Miriam. It goes horribly with ‘bitchy.’”
Eddie ran back to join us. “Here.” He handed me a pistol that couldn’t kill time and sure as hell couldn’t kill a two-hundred-pound man. “I know it doesn’t look like much,” he said, reading my mind, “but trust me: it works. Just remember when you pull the gun out, do it smooth and fast. And squeeze the trigger, don’t jerk it with your finger. Take your time in a hurry. Got it? Understand?”
I nodded.
“Listen to me, Miriam,” he continued. “It’s your responsibility, your duty to keep that bastard from escaping.”
I said, “Got it.”
“I’m trusting you right now,” he said, squeezing both of my shoulders. “Believe it or not, I think you’re good shit, all right? Don’t disappoint me.”
They All Fall Down Page 16
