“Greta,” Florence said calmly. “I have a broken wrist and two fractured ribs. I have no job and no place to live. And not to put too fine a point on it, but you’re the one who got me into this predicament. You were Helen’s accomplice, witting or not.”
Greta had grown pale again. But Florence couldn’t let up now.
“You can denounce Helen’s crimes all you want, but you also profited from them. How much did you make off of Mississippi Foxtrot? What other opportunities did it attract? You’re a party to her crimes—both of them. I’m the victim.”
Greta stared back at Florence without saying anything.
“I’m not asking for a million dollars here, Greta. I’m just asking for a chance. That’s all. A foot in the door. I don’t think that’s out of bounds, all things considered.” She took a sip of her wine. “Do you?”
“Florence,” Greta finally said. “I understand where you’re coming from, and you’re right—I am partly complicit in some of this. I certainly don’t take that lightly. But I cannot in good conscience let you write Maud Dixon’s next book simply because you were victimized by her. You probably do deserve some form of compensation, but I can’t tell you right now that this is it. I’m sorry.”
Florence sat very still. Then she shook her head and smiled. “You’re right, Greta, of course you are. I don’t know what I was thinking. It’s been a very long few days.” Underneath the table she gripped the strap of her bag with white knuckles.
“I’m sure. This has been a lot to take in for me too. Let’s just digest all this for a moment. Do you want another drink? I’d say we both deserve one under the circumstances.”
She looked around for the waiter, even though both of their glasses were still half full.
Florence nodded and reached for hers, but she missed and knocked the entire glass over. The dark red wine splashed onto Greta’s silk blouse and pooled in her lap. Greta and Florence both jumped up.
“I’m so sorry,” Florence exclaimed, patting at Greta’s chest ineffectually with the paper doily. Greta pushed her hands away.
“It’s alright. Just leave it. Leave it. I’ll go clean up in the ladies’ room. Excuse me a moment.”
Greta walked quickly out of the room, holding her wet shirt away from her body.
Florence sat back down. A man in a tuxedo started playing a grand piano in the corner. The table next to her erupted in laughter at some shared joke.
Greta returned a few minutes later. If anything, the stain looked worse.
“I’m so sorry,” Florence repeated.
“It’s alright. Really. My dry cleaner in Manhattan is something of a miracle worker. Let’s move on. Did you order more?” She finished the rest of her own wine in a single gulp, grimacing slightly.
“No, I thought you might want to go change. And to be honest, I’m not feeling that great. The pain medication I’m on makes me feel a little woozy. I mean, clearly. Maybe we could just get room service in your room or something? Eating usually helps.”
“Oh. Um…sure. We could do that. Let me just tell the waiter to put this on my bill.”
48.
I’m sorry it’s such a mess,” Greta said as she opened the door to her suite.
The room was large and bright with a mosaic of tiles running along the walls and a giant king bed. It was immaculate but for a sweater tossed over the back of a chair in the corner.
Florence walked over to the window and looked out. Below lay a vast garden planted with rows of orange trees. The moon was just visible in the darkening sky.
Greta handed the room service menu to Florence. “Order anything you want. And take a water from the minibar.”
Florence sat in the chair and perused the menu while Greta changed clothes in the bathroom. When she emerged, she sat down on the bed and rubbed her face. “God, I’m exhausted,” she said.
Florence nodded. “I’m not surprised.”
Greta closed her eyes, and for a moment Florence thought she’d fallen asleep sitting up. Then she opened them and struggled to speak. “What were we…”
Florence sat down next to Greta and eased her back onto the bed so that she was lying down. “I know how you feel. You’ve had a shock.”
Greta looked up at her, her blue eyes wide with plaintive confusion.
“It’s hydrocodone,” Florence explained. “That’s the pain medication they gave me at the hospital after the accident. I stopped taking it because I don’t like the way it makes me feel. So foggy, right?”
Greta nodded. “Foggy…Yes…But you…”
“Why don’t you just close your eyes for a bit?”
Like a child, Greta obeyed. Florence sat watching her for a moment. She was surprised that the pills had worked as quickly as they had. She’d ground up four of them—one more than she’d given Whitney—at the hotel and put the powder into Greta’s drink while she’d been trying to salvage her shirt.
When Florence was sure that Greta was unconscious, she retrieved a pair of plastic gloves from her purse. She snapped them on, then pulled out a crumpled paper bag. Inside was a brand-new syringe, a baggie of grayish powder, and an elastic band. She had found these on Helen’s corpse in the seconds before Idrissi’s arrival: all the tools necessary for the heroin overdose Helen had planned for Florence.
She’d had to improvise in Semat, but now, in Greta’s hotel room, Florence worked slowly and methodically. She checked her watch. She had plenty of time.
She went into the bathroom and poured the powder into a glass on the counter. Then, from her purse, she took the box of rat poison she’d bought on her way to the hotel. She sprinkled that into the cup too. She’d learned through her research online that rodenticide was one of the most common—and deadly—substances with which street heroin was cut.
No more half measures.
She added a splash of water and swirled the cloudy mixture around in the glass.
She peeked inside a marble canister on the counter and found a wad of cotton balls. She took one out and held it over a second glass while she filtered the gritty liquid through it.
That afternoon, she’d watched a YouTube video containing step-by-step instructions on shooting up, which had been uploaded by a needle exchange program in Columbus, Ohio.
She dipped the tip of the syringe into the cloudy mixture and pulled up the plunger. With the needle still in the glass, she tapped the syringe to draw any air bubbles to the top.
She went back into the bedroom. Greta’s mouth was slack and her breathing sounded thick and phlegmy.
Florence tentatively picked up Greta’s right arm and dropped it. No reaction. Florence tied the elastic tightly around Greta’s bicep until a purple vein popped out. Florence pushed the needle into it, but the vein scooted coquettishly to the side. She took a breath to steady her hand and tried again.
This time the needle found its mark. Greta moaned and fluttered her eyes. Florence pushed the plunger down slowly, watching the liquid descend. She stopped when the syringe was half empty and pulled the needle out. Then Florence moved to the other arm and repeated the process. She did this several times, refilling the syringe again and again, until there were nearly a dozen puncture wounds all over Greta’s body. She wanted them to tell a story of habitual drug use, though she hoped the investigation wouldn’t even get that far. She was counting on the hotel and the police sharing an interest in hushing up the incident. Tourism, after all, was important.
When Florence had the syringe between two toes, Greta’s body suddenly seized up. It started jerking wildly and a yellowish liquid oozed from her mouth. Greta’s eyes shot open and sought feverishly for something to gain purchase on. Florence instinctively ducked.
When Florence stood up, feeling sheepish, Greta’s eyes were still open, but her body was still.
Florence held two fingers to Greta’s wrist. She didn’t feel anything. Just in case, she brought the vanity mirror from the bathroom and held it in front of Greta’s mouth. It was an old-fashioned
method, but Florence had to be sure. She couldn’t have Greta waking up and telling tales.
When she was confident that Greta was dead, she placed the mirror back in the bathroom. Then she pressed Greta’s fingertips onto the syringe and the glass of liquid. She found Greta’s phone and entered a phone number into the contacts list.
Finally, Florence inspected the room until she was confident that it looked just as it had when she’d entered it. Except for the dead body on the bed.
She hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the doorknob and slipped out. In the hallway, she peeled off the plastic gloves and shoved them in her back pocket.
It was done.
As she waited for the elevator, she looked at her watch. Ten minutes to seven. The dealer that Liam had connected her with would be arriving soon. She’d told him to ask for Greta Frost at the front desk. He’d wanted the room number, but Florence had been firm. He was an integral part of the story. His phone number would be found in Greta’s phone, but Florence also needed a hotel employee to register his arrival.
Florence passed quickly through the busy lobby into the dark, warm evening. On the street, the plastic gloves landed soundlessly in an overflowing trash can.
49.
Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve reached our cruising altitude of thirty thousand feet. It’s a beautiful evening, so just sit back, relax, and don’t hesitate to let us know if there’s anything we can do to make your journey more comfortable.”
Florence took another sip of Champagne and stretched out her legs.
“May I get you anything, Ms. Darrow?” A flight attendant with impeccable eyeliner smiled down at her.
Florence smiled back. “Another blanket, please.” Then she pressed a button and her seat reclined to a completely flat position. She pulled down the complimentary eye mask.
Now this was the way to travel. It didn’t even rankle her, being called Ms. Darrow. She’d had to take up her old name again, but the three million dollars she’d inherited—along with the house—did offer some consolation. Quite a bit, actually.
Technically, the money and the property wouldn’t be transferred into Florence’s name for a couple more months, but she’d leave the small print to small minds. Besides, she hadn’t even had to pay for the upgrade; she’d just switched Helen Wilcox’s and Florence Darrow’s seats when she got to the airport.
The flight attendant returned with a blanket and laid it gently over Florence’s body.
As she lay there listening to the drone of the engines, Florence prodded her conscience for any tender spots. She found none.
She knew she could have let Helen live. She’d only have had to wait another five minutes for Idrissi to arrive. But Florence suspected that Helen would prefer death to the indignities of prison. Plus, there was no point in her fortune going to waste.
And she certainly could have let Greta live—if she’d been willing to give up Maud Dixon’s name. She’d genuinely hoped that Greta would agree to her proposal and let her finish Helen’s manuscript. Killing Greta had been her plan B: unfortunate but necessary.
No, she had no regrets. She had been offered what she most wanted in life. Even if she came by it in the most bizarre, inscrutable way possible. To let it slip away would have been foolish.
She did feel badly about Nick. But that wasn’t her fault. Helen was the one who’d killed him. Besides, when it came down to it, she barely knew him. If their relationship had ended naturally, as most vacation flings eventually do, he would have already faded from memory.
The nasal-voiced man across from Florence cut into her thoughts as he called loudly down the aisle for another Pinot Noir.
Florence pushed off her eye mask and sat up abruptly. Her heart was pounding. The flight attendant scurried up the aisle with a bottle of wine.
Florence shook her head. It was nothing.
She lay back down, but when she closed her eyes she saw Greta looking at her with those startlingly blue eyes. “Foggy…Yes…”
Florence maneuvered her seat back into an upright position. She patted her cheeks lightly. Then she dug out a notebook and a pen from her bag.
She’d decided to leave the first half of Helen’s manuscript as she’d found it. Then, in the middle, the narrative would suddenly switch to Iris’s point of view.
She started writing.
Lillian was wrong: Iris wasn’t weak. She’d been hardened by a lifetime of disappointment, and by underestimating this uglier, scrappier version of fortitude, Lillian had made a crucial mistake. She’d used herself as bait, not realizing that Iris was too famished to be sated by mere proximity to greatness.
50.
The old house on Crestbill Road was cool inside, even though an early May heat wave was pressing on it from all sides. Florence shut the door behind her and took a deep breath. She walked through the silent rooms slowly, seeing them as if for the first time. Because this time they were hers. Everything here was hers.
Florence scooped coffee into the coffeemaker and turned it on. As it spluttered to life, she looked out into the backyard. The compost pile had been entirely dug up. Yellow caution tape flapped in the wind where it had come loose from its stakes. She had been assured by the Cairo Police Department that Helen’s death had effectively closed the investigation into the murder of Jeanette Byrd.
When the coffee was ready, Florence brought a mug back to the living room along with the portable phone and dialed her mother’s number.
Florence knew Vera would be sitting in her small yellow kitchenette, drinking a cup of overly sweet coffee, before heading to work.
“Hello?” Vera trilled into the phone. She always answered unknown numbers, confident that the universe would bring only good things into her life.
“Mom, it’s Florence.”
Silence.
“Listen, I know you’re angry with me, but I need you to do something for me. Can you read me the text message you were talking about before—the one where I said I never wanted to see you again? And tell me when it was sent.”
Vera sighed. “Hang on, I’ve got to search for it.”
When she came back on the line, she said, “It was sent on Sunday, April twenty-first. I remember because I’d just left church when I got it, and I was so excited to see your number pop up. Then I actually read it. ‘Mom, I’m sorry, but this is the last time you’ll ever hear from me.’” Vera’s voice cracked, but she continued. “‘You have done nothing throughout my entire life but belittle me and hold me back. I’m done. I never want to speak to you again. If you try to contact me, I’ll simply change my number.’”
Florence felt the blood rush to her face. Even though she hadn’t written those words, she’d certainly thought them, and hearing them on Vera’s tongue made her feel guiltier than any of the things she’d actually done in the past two weeks.
April twenty-first. That was the day after the car crash. Helen must have been tying up loose ends before assuming the mantle of Florence Darrow.
For all the lip service Helen had paid to momentum and action, she had actually been incredibly careful about every contingency. Florence had appreciated that lesson while plotting Greta’s murder. It was, perhaps, just as important an inheritance as the house and the money.
“Mom,” she said, “I’m so sorry you had to read that, but you have to believe me—I didn’t write that message.”
Vera took a loud sip of coffee. “It came from your phone.”
“I know. It’s a long story.” Florence took a breath. “Let me start at the beginning…”
By the time they hung up forty-five minutes later, Vera knew the whole story—or at least the version of it that Florence had repeated over and over for the authorities: the murder plot against Florence; the desperate act of self-defense.
As with Idrissi and Massey, Florence did not mention that Helen Wilcox was actually Maud Dixon; she wasn’t sure her mother would even know who that was. Nor did she mention the name Greta Frost, whose death was just starting to
cause ripples in publishing circles. There was no reason that Florence would have any connection to that.
Vera had lapped it up, desperate for confirmation that Florence hadn’t actually turned her back on her. “I knew you weren’t acting like yourself,” she insisted. “I said as much to Gloria. She agreed. You’re a good girl, Florence. The best.”
Florence smiled grimly. “Thanks.”
“Who loves you?”
“You do.”
She and her mother agreed to speak again in a week. Florence would never allow Vera the closeness she wanted, but she would keep her in her life. Her brush with death in Morocco had taught her that total isolation was its own form of vulnerability. It was dangerous to have nobody. Somebody needed to notice if you went missing.
Florence poured herself another coffee.
She had one more call to make, and then it was time to get to work. She’d finally gotten what she wanted—Helen Wilcox’s life and Maud Dixon’s audience—and she wasn’t going to squander them.
She’d started writing the second half of The Morocco Exchange the night Helen had died. When she sat down with a yellow legal pad on her lap, she’d been amazed by what she’d encountered: a torrent.
Under the cover of the Maud Dixon pseudonym, she’d found the freedom and confidence to just write.
And she finally had a story to tell.
She’d once read a biography of the artist René Magritte that Agatha had edited. It claimed that during his early years, when critics had scoffed at his odd, unconventional paintings, he’d supported himself by forging works by Picasso and Braque.
Perhaps it was a type of apprenticeship, Florence thought. Just like The Morocco Exchange would be for her. Helen had said it herself: If you pretend for long enough, anything can become natural. Truly natural.
Magritte did, after all, find success on his own.
Someday, she might be able to tell the world that Maud Dixon was none other than Florence Darrow. She would have been twenty-three when Mississippi Foxtrot came out. That was a plausible enough age. Mary Shelley wrote Frankenstein when she was nineteen. And the timing worked out so that she would have been composing it toward the end of college and while living in Gainesville afterward, working at the bookstore. She thought how surprised Anne, the store’s cheerful owner, would be to discover that her employee had been writing a modern classic the entire time she’d known her. She imagined Simon’s face when he found out. And Amanda’s. What restraint, what dignity, they’d think—keeping it secret for all that time.
Who is Maud Dixon? Page 27
