“What?” I’m confused. “Why?”
“For tampering with evidence.”
“Huh?” I’m slow, trying to reconcile the fact that I thought I was dying a minute ago to now being in police custody. “I didn’t do anything.”
“What about the broken window in the guest room?” He crosses his arms across his broad chest.
My face twists. “I didn’t break any windows.”
“Then how did you get into the backyard? How did the patio door get unlocked?” He stares me down. “You think we wouldn’t notice someone crawling through a window to get out the backyard?”
“I came in the back way,” I say slowly. Tears stream down my face. “Who are you?”
“Detective Rorbach.” He reaches in his pocket. I hold my breath. Flashing a badge, he holds it up for me to see.
“Do you know…?”
“Walsh? Yep. He warned me you were coming to town. Dumb idea to come here.”
“I didn’t break into the house.” I’m reticent.
“Why did you come?” His voice is forceful, and my eyes drift up to meet his.
“I’m torn.” I’m wistful, my eyes glancing around the room, the air sucked out of it, a vacuous chamber filled with disturbing images as I imagine Talin here.
“You can’t imagine the husband you adore is a cold-blooded killer?”
“I just want to know.” I sigh. “It’s not the ending I expected.”
“Why don’t you let justice get served in the courtroom instead of looking for trouble? What are you hoping to accomplish by trespassing? That you’ll find a clue we overlooked? This isn’t a Goddamn Nancy Drew novel.”
“I’m not trespassing.” He glares at me, pinning me to the sofa. “Okay, I came in the back. But a man let me in the gate.”
“Who?” His eyebrows knit. “What man?”
“Some biker going on a trail ride.” He doesn’t believe me, I can tell by the look of disbelief as he chews his lower lip.
“I didn’t break a window,” I say pointedly. “Don’t you have camera to confirm that?”
“Not disclosing that to you.” He pulls my phone out of his pocket. “Oops, I guess this is of no use while you’re in those cuffs.”
“Was this really necessary?” I’m cross. “Will you please unlock these?”
“One condition.” He holds up a finger. “You get on a plane and go back home. Today. Go back to your housewife persona.”
I ignore his last comment. “Why are you so sure he’s guilty?”
“Why are you so sure he’s not? They had a fight the night she’s killed, the victim wanted him to leave you and be with her, and when that didn’t happen, she ended it. That’s a quick recap.” He taps his forehead. “Doesn’t that mean anything?”
“Yes, but it doesn’t mean he took her life.”
“He left the house and then was spotted driving around the block multiple times and pulling over in the area.” I want to wipe the smug look off his face.
“So what?” I spew. “He was here all day, for a couple of days.”
“Mrs. Bishop…your husband can’t account for the time period between a quarter after ten and when he enters the Enterprise rental car center at 11:03 P.M.”
I’m stunned. “Aren’t there phone records?”
“Were you on the phone with him?”
I think back. No. He called me on the flight. I was also preoccupied watching a movie with Jarrett. He silenced my earlier calls and then didn’t pick up later when I tried him. “I don’t believe so.”
“Your husband can’t give us any response except he was pulled over on the side of the road and fell asleep.”
“He told me he saw someone walking near the house,” I offer.
“Yes, the quintessential response - a masked man was spotted at just the right time.” He’s sarcastic, his voice high-pitched. “Always the elusive man that just happens to be a convenient addition to every murder investigation. I need you to go back to Houston, Mrs. Bishop.”
“Why are you so concerned with me?”
“Because we don’t like your kind around here.” His tone drops. “In order for me to let you go…”
“This is unlawful imprisonment. You’re holding me hostage.”
His gaze cuts me in half. “I wouldn’t go throwing around accusations or I will keep those cuffs on, call a press conference, and let the public know the wife of a cold-blooded killer was caught breaking and entering into his former mistress’s home.”
I drop my gaze to my lap, resting my hands there.
“Do we understand each other?”
I nod, a tear rolling down my cheek, dripping onto the cold, metal resting on my lap. How did I get here, a Texas woman sitting in the living room of a dead woman in Portland?
“By the way, I think I found something that belongs to you.” He stands up and disappears, his boots thudding on the floor. I notice a stack of mail laying on the coffee table in front of me. I see the usual advertisers, coupon books, and bills that are the bane of the post office’s existence.
Leaning forward, I notice an envelope sticking out of the pile. It’s a bill, but the return address is AMEX and it’s addressed to a Mr. Reed Bishop.
My hands have little flexibility with the handcuffs, but I manage to maneuver them out enough to grasp the letter between my index finger. Pulling my digits back, I carefully slide the letter down into the waistband of my pants, thankful I didn’t wear jeans today.
I hear his footsteps before I see him, trying to shift my body weight to slide the letter down. Hopefully when I walk, it doesn’t fall out of my pant leg. He comes around the corner, his knuckles closed around something.
I try not to look guilty as he searches my face. I see why he’s a natural at this. His eyes have the ability to make you wither in your shoes, his ice-cold gaze running shivers down my spine.
“I could be wrong, but I think this is yours.” He opens his palm and fingers a thin silver chain with a diamond in the center. He’s right, this belongs to me. My diamond cushion pendant necklace, two carats to be exact, my push present for the twins. Their birthstones are one side of the middle diamond, mine on the other.
My mouth drops open in surprise. “Where did you get that?”
“It was on the side table in her bedroom.” He shrugs. “We found it when we searched the place.”
“How did it get there?” I’m bewildered. I’m being dense and his expression confirms that. I scrunch my face up. “He gave it to her.” I say it as a statement, not a question.
In this moment, all the compassion I have for Talin dissipates. My push present. The lives I carried in my belly for nine months, the children we created together. He took such a sentimental gift and re-purposed it into a dazzling present for his girlfriend.
It’s an expensive gift, and I’m sure there was a gasp, an intake of breath as she opened it. Tears spring to my eyes as I imagine the happiness on her face, the diamonds sparking as he helped her put it on.
Rorbach grabs the small metal key and reaches for my wrists. He uncuffs me, sitting down beside me on the couch. His hardened face takes on a softer tone. “Mrs. Bishop, I can’t imagine what you’re going through right now but before you hate her, remember, he gave her the necklace, and she took it in good faith that it was a present for her. Not owned by his wife.”
I touch my wrists, rubbing the sore spots. I can’t speak, so I nod. He has a point. I doubt the girl would appreciate a necklace his wife owned. My phone keeps beeping beside me. Jarrett’s called multiple times. I have seven missed texts from him.
“Are we on the same level?” he asks. “You’re going to leave today?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
He walks me out. “I’m going to make sure the house is locked up, including the back gate,” he adds icily.
I pay attention to my stance, not wanting the envelope to fall out of my wide pant leg.
Hanging my head, I walk down the street to my rental car. I h
ave to go around the block. The stranger’s bicycle is still there. I dart my eyes around in nervous anticipation. Maybe he’s walking on a trail? Or maybe that wasn’t his bicycle to begin with?
It’s chained up, a padlock holding it hostage. It’s a typical mountain bike, a Trek.
Climbing into my vehicle, I lock the doors and start the engine. Pulling the envelope out, I set it on the passenger seat. I want to rip it open, but first I want to get out of this neighborhood. I’m sure Rorbach is watching me and maybe even the creepy man. I ask Google maps for directions to the town Martha’s in, a spot called Pinetop. I connect to Bluetooth and call back as I pull off the gravel. He answers on the first ring.
“Are you okay?” His voice is usually calm, now it’s near hysterical.
“Yes, why wouldn’t I be?” I might be shaking internally, but he doesn’t know about my daytime adventure.
“We had plans to go to yoga today. You didn’t show, so I stopped by your place after. No one was home.”
“Crap.” I put a hand to my forehead. “I forgot.”
“You forgot yoga?” He’s incredulous.
“Yeah. I got busy,” I say lamely.
“Doing…” He’s annoyed, I can tell by his inflection.
“I had to go out of town.” I don’t want to lie to him, but I’m not telling him where. I’ll stick with the same story I told my mom. He waits for me to offer more. “I went to Cali to see my best friend.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks. I can tell he’s hurt. “I could’ve let Frasier out.”
“Oh, the dog’s fine. He’s with the boys.”
“They aren’t with you?”
“No, they went to my parents. I needed a break.” I’m defensive.
His tone changes to soothing. “Of course you do. You’re under so much stress. I just had no idea where you went. I worry about you.” I soften when he says this. A man I’ve only known for a short while is concerned and cares about me. Wants to know what I’m doing. This is a nice change from the husband that forgets he lives with a woman, his wife no less.
“When will you be back?”
“Tomorrow.” I know the cops will make sure I fly back today, but no one said it couldn’t be late at night.
“Do you need a ride?” He’s at the bar, I can hear voices in the background.
“No, but how about you pick me up for yoga?” My turn for the right exit is up ahead. I need to get off the phone and focus on my next stop.
“You’ll be in the mood?”
“I’ll be in the mood to see you.” I hang up, leaving him tongue-tied. I don’t know why I say that, it’s too forward. I’m being flirtatious, and it’s uncouth of me. I have a husband in prison and I’ve just had a scare. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Subconsciously, the fact my husband gave his dead girlfriend an important piece of exquisite jewelry boggles my mind.
Maybe I’m trying to get even on some level.
Immature, I know.
I can’t help how I feel for Jarrett .
I want to rip open the piece of offending mail, but I force myself to wait. I’m in a bad headspace and I need to distance myself from this town. Forcing the thoughts of him from my brain, I concentrate on driving. My navigation says another seventeen miles, and I turn on some oldies and sing at the top of my lungs, off-key, trying to put all of the confusion and disturbing thoughts from my mind.
When I get to Pinetop, I pull over at a gas station. Using my phone, I Google a list of coffee shops in the area. Lydia didn’t know which one, and I hope she’s still employed as a barista.
I nix Starbucks if the apron isn’t green.
There are three other specialty locations.
At the first one, I order a coffee and ask the cashier. No one by the name of Martha.
The second coffee shop, The Main Bean, I am less lucky. It’s out of business. This might be a useless trip, I think.
Her Facebook didn’t say her job title or position.
Gripping the steering wheel, I pull into the lot of the third, Grounds. The parking lot is half-full. It’s a small, quaint corner spot on the town square.
I check my reflection in the mirror, taking a deep breath.
What if she yells at me? Causes a scene?
Worse yet, won’t talk to me?
My heart sinks when I walk in the entrance. It’s a bustling place, some children playing a game of ‘Sorry’ in the corner, a few couples looking at their phones instead of each other, one group of ladies laughing excitedly over something, and a man reading a newspaper, a lost art.
No blonde-haired Martha at the counter.
There are two baristas working. I step up to the menu board and look over their offerings. I can’t handle another shot of caffeine.
The twenty-something man at the counter interrupts my thoughts as I ponder the menu.
“What can I get you?” He’s wearing black nail polish and has spiked hair, a piercing in his nose.
“Um…a croissant please.”
“Anything to drink? Coffee? Tea?”
“How about a chamomile tea.”
“Done.” He taps in my order on his iPad.
“By the way,” I say casually, “is Martha working today?”
He doesn’t even glance up. “She did the early morning shift.”
“Oh, darn, I wanted to say hi.”
He glances up at me. “Oh… you lovely thing. You’re her aunt. I’m so sorry.”
“Aunt,” I ask.
“She said her aunt was coming into town.” He lowers his voice, “after her bff was killed, it’s nice of you to come. She’s having a rough time.”
“Yeah, it’s a tragedy. Is she at home then? I thought I’d catch her here.”
“You know her, always using art as her therapy. She’s in the back studio painting.” I hand him a ten-dollar bill. He starts to make change, but I shake my head. “Thanks, you’ve been most helpful.”
An artist.
There’s a painting in Tally’s house that was a swirl of colors and a woman in flight, her arms seeming to fold around the explosion of pigment. Maybe it’s her work?
I wander around the side of the building. One of the doors says ‘employees only.’ I head back farther, almost missing a nondescript wooden door in the back. It’s unmarked.
Tapping on the door softly, I don’t hear anything except low music that sounds like Beethoven.
This has got to be the studio.
Knocking louder, I hear a voice yell. “Come in, Marcia.”
I open the door slowly, unsure what to expect. She turns, a smile on her face. It fades into a frown as soon as she sees me.
The paintbrush she’s holding drops from her hand and clatters on the floor.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Meghan
“You’re not my aunt.” She reaches down to pick up the paintbrush, replacing it on the easel.
The room has plastic tarps on the floor and is bare except for her canvas, paintbrushes, and paint. A wooden shelf houses art supplies. She’s wearing an apron, her blonde hair on top of her head in a messy bun. There’s a skylight that lets in natural light, and her phone’s connected to the speakers playing music.
“No.”
She considers my face. “You look familiar.” She taps her chin. “Reporter?”
“I’m his wife.”
“Ah, yes, the one who messaged me.” She sighs. “You couldn’t take no for an answer, huh?”
“No.” I step towards her. “Can we talk?”
“My best friend is dead. I don’t want to drag my bestie through the mud because you’re angry at her. I’m not going to do that. Not now or ever. She didn’t deserve to die.”
“I know.” I shift from one foot to the other.
She looks at me, surprised.
“I really need to release some tension.” She nods at the piece of art she’s creating. “I don’t have time for this.”
“Martha,” I plead. “Please hear me out
. I came all the way from Houston…”
She interrupts me. “Which was your choice, by the way.”
“I know he’s guilty,” I murmur.
She stands up from her stool, walking towards me. “What did you say?”
“He’s guilty.”
“Reed?” She’s confused by this admission. I nod.
“You probably hate him, and me, but I didn’t know what was going on.” I struggle to keep my voice even, the emotion out of my voice. My hands shake, I almost drop my tea.
She swallows, her eyes filling with tears.
“Come sit down.” She points to a corner of the tarp, a clean portion of the plastic unblemished by paint. She walks over to turn down the music, grabbing a bottle of water that’s sitting near her stand.
I wait, watching her, as she sits Indian-style, her legs criss-crossed over each other. Lowering myself to the floor across from her, I tuck my legs underneath me.
“What do you think I can help you with?” Martha gets straight to the point.
“I’m struggling with the idea that he could kill someone that by all accounts, he seemed to love.” It’s weird to say those words, admitting my husband is in love with another woman that’s not me. It’s the truth, and it feels uncomfortable to utter out loud.
“I can only imagine.” She picks at a nail.
“Did Talin think my husband was going to leave?” I ask. “Was there any part of you that believes she was under the impression he would?”
Martha’s careful, choosing her words as if she’s practicing a speech. “He told her he would leave, but she started to lose hope. I know their fights had gotten more crazy, disagreements that turned into full-blown arguments.”
“Was she going to tell me?”
She sighs, sipping her water as she considers what to tell me. “I told her not to tell you. That it wasn’t her place. She sent him a box and hoped you would see it. He never said anything to her about it, so we didn’t know. Tally talked about calling you.”
“Yeah, I got the shirt. I didn’t say anything.” I shrug.
“You already knew?”
“Women’s intuition.”
All the Pretty Lies Page 18
