After Nightfall

by A. J. Banner

  What about her relationship with Brynn? My kid is so smart and focused, Lauren told me last month over happy hour drinks at the Shoreline Pub. Just like her dad. After two gin and tonics, Lauren batted her lashes at the bartender. She seemed proud of Brynn, and yet she apparently planned to send her daughter to a boarding school. She just wanted to get rid of me, Brynn said. Is that even true? I remember Brynn’s cold eyes, the way she seemed to boil when she learned that her mother had stolen Jensen from me all those years ago. But now, at the service, she seems genuinely distraught.

  Rianne looks over at us. Anna waves solemnly. Her mother says something to her, and they look forward again. Brynn staggers down from the podium, apparently overcome by the immensity of her loss. If she’s not grief-stricken, she’s putting on a good show.

  What I want to say is on a folded slip of paper in my lap, but when it’s my turn to speak, I don’t even refer to it. The moments with Lauren, her generosity, it all spills from me, and none of this is enough, standing up in front of people who may not have known the shadow side of her.

  “Once, when I was little, my parents couldn’t afford a Barbie doll with legs that bent, you know, at the knees,” I say. “I got a knockoff with straight plastic arms and legs. Lauren saw how upset I was, and she gave me her Miss America Barbie doll. She gave me a lot of things. We lived on the same street. At sleepovers, we got the giggles under the covers. I don’t even remember what started it, why we were laughing, but within ten minutes everything made us laugh. We would move a toe and laugh, burp and laugh.” I glance at Jensen in the front row. He stares at me, absorbing every word.

  Brynn leans against him, between him and Karina, her shoulders shaking. When I step down, Jensen reaches out to take my hand briefly as I walk by, tears streaming down his cheeks.

  The priest gives the final invocation, and we all file out to the spot beneath the trees where Lauren’s ashes will be interred. The priest and family members gather around the granite headstone, huddled in their private grief. I spot Rianne through the trees, leading Anna back to the car. I stay for the interment, and afterward we all hug Jensen and Brynn and the family, offer condolences, move inside for the reception. I have no appetite for the catered appetizers and cakes.

  I’ve lost Nathan in the crowd, but Julie waves at me across the room. She’s putting on a black fleece coat, which she had draped over her arm during the service. She weaves her way toward me through the throng. “I’m heading out,” she says.

  I freeze, staring at her collar. My plastic cup slips from my fingers and falls to the floor, spilling the last droplets of fruit punch. I retrieve the cup and wipe up the liquid with my napkin.

  “Are you okay?” she asks, handing me a spare napkin.

  “A bit clumsy today.” I blot up the last of the punch, stand to face her. I point to her collar. “Where did you get that?”

  “Get what?” she says.

  “The coat.” I can hardly choke out the words. “Tell me where you got it.” I didn’t notice the button before; she removed her coat before she sat next to me. Now the collar, rising to her chin, reveals the button, glinting beneath the fluorescent light. With its intricate leaf pattern and metallic sheen, it’s identical to the button on the scarf I found floating in the water.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Julie gives me a perplexed frown. “What are you looking at? Is there a stain on my coat?”

  “I recognize the button on your collar,” I say, swiping through the photographs on my iPhone. The mourners flow around us in a river of murmuring voices.

  “Which button?” She pulls out her collar, bends her head to look down at the button.

  “Yeah, that metal one. It’s distinctive.”

  “I know—I love the pattern.” She peers at the pictures on my phone.

  I scroll to the series of shots of the scarf, zoom in on the metal button. “You see?”

  “It does look like that one,” she says, touching her collar.

  “Not like it,” I say. “Identical. Here.” I snap a photo of the button on her coat, swipe back and forth between images of the two buttons.

  “Holy shit,” she says, then covers her mouth. “I’m cursing in a church.”

  “You see? Did the coat have a matching scarf?”

  “I don’t think so, but it’s possible—”

  “I saw the scarf in the water near the spot where I found Lauren.”

  “Holy crap.”

  “There you go again,” I whisper. “Cursing in a church.”

  “You think the scarf was hers?”

  “She didn’t wear scarves, but what if she—?”

  “Pulled it off the killer? Jesus.”

  People turn to look. I steer her out the door into the autumn day. “Now you can curse to your heart’s content.”

  She shoves her hands into the pockets of her coat. “Check at Rianne’s boutique. That’s where I bought the coat. Maybe the scarf came from there, too.”

  “You bought the coat at Afterlife Consignment?” A gust of wind lifts my hair. Guests are starting to leave, getting into their cars.

  “Yeah, a few days ago. But I didn’t see any scarf.”

  “Thanks.” I fumble in my purse for my keys, determined to get back to my car.

  “Wait,” Julie says, hurrying after me. “You’re going over there now?”

  “I need to know about the scarf,” I say, getting into the driver’s seat.

  “I can’t go with you. I’ve got appointments. I could try to reschedule—”

  “You don’t need to go with me,” I say.

  “What about Nathan?”

  “I’ll catch up with him later. This is something I want to do alone.”

  I step inside Rianne’s boutique and hurtle back in time. A 1950s white vintage maxi dress hangs high on the wall next to a white camisole, a pink robe; mannequin heads display vintage hats; antique lamps send golden glows into the darkest corners. On every rack, satin, crepe, and cotton clothes mark the decades, from the 1920s through the 1980s. Not an inch of space goes unused. I browse through a wonderland of fabric—satin dresses, cotton shirts, wedding gowns, vintage coats, scarves, sweaters. A sign on the wall behind the checkout counter reads “Afterlife Consignment.” The scent of lavender combines with complicated, musty fabric smells. From two small speakers mounted on the wall, the reedy voice of Edith Piaf croons from the past. A couple of young women sift through the clothing carousels in the back of the store.

  Rianne stands outside the dressing room, talking to a customer inside. She hangs a blue shirt on the door. “Here’s a size four. Let me know if you need a different style.”

  She doesn’t see me. I slip behind a carousel, my heart pounding. I thought I would come in here and thrust my iPhone in front of her face, demand to know about the scarf—to whom she sold it. Or whether the coat and scarf belonged to her. I should have gone straight to the detective, but he won’t share his conclusions, and I need to investigate for myself.

  I search the clothes for more metal buttons. Look through the coatrack, pretending to browse. No sign of any scarves or coats with similar buttons, but it would take forever to search through Rianne’s entire inventory.

  She goes to the checkout counter, leans over the glass countertop, arranging gloves and scarves across the top of the case. She’s a walking display, clad in an eclectic style—boots, long sweater, retro jeans, beaded necklaces. She returned from the service and changed her clothes in record time.

  Here goes. I walk up to her. “Rianne,” I say.

  “Oh, I didn’t see you,” she says cautiously as I rest my hands on the countertop. “You said nice things about Lauren. You did her justice.” A woman glances over at us, then keeps browsing.

  “Thank you,” I say. “I want to ask you about a red scarf with a metal button.”

  She drops an embroidered handkerchief, which sails to the floor, billowing outward like a tiny parachute. She bends quickly to pick up the handkerchief and re
turn it to the shelf. “What scarf?”

  “It was in the water below the cliff, where Lauren fell.”

  Rianne’s eyes widen, and she lowers her voice to a whisper. “The scarf is important to the case?”

  “She might have pulled it from whoever pushed her off that cliff. The detective has it.”

  “I see. How can I help?”

  “My friend Julie has a coat with an identical button. She said she bought it a few days ago from your shop. I took a picture.”

  “Let me see.” Rianne leans across the counter. I show her the photograph.

  “Ah yes, that’s a very smart piece,” Rianne says. “I sold the coat to Julie. Not my size. But I wished it was.”

  I swipe to the photos of the scarf in the water. “Identical button, the same pattern, see?”

  Rianne taps her finger on her chin. “Wow. I do remember that scarf. I know it. Unusual button, hard to forget. The coat and button came from the same owner. I tried looking for similar buttons online but never found any. They’re rare.”

  My heart is beating. My hands are clammy. “Do you remember who bought the scarf?”

  She looks toward the dressing room, where the customer is throwing pants over the door. Then she looks at me. “I probably shouldn’t look it up, but under the circumstances . . .”

  “Please. Lauren was my best friend as a child . . . This scarf could be important. Whoever owned it, or lost it, might know something.”

  “Or might have killed her.”

  “Yes . . . that’s true.”

  “It was the Saturday before last, before your engagement dinner. I remember because that scarf was so distinctive. My assistant sold it. When I came in on Sunday, it was gone.” She taps the screen of her iPad, propped on a stand on the countertop. She scrolls, swipes, and taps, then motions me to her side of the counter. She points at the screen, to a transaction completed at 4:35 p.m. on the Saturday before the dinner party. A purchase of a few items made at various prices by debit card.

  “Is the scarf listed there?” I say.

  “The receipt doesn’t show that level of detail. I used to enter every item with an image, but I’ve got so much stuff now, it all got away from me. There it is.” She points to an item that sold for fifty-one dollars plus tax marked “Clothing—wool.”

  “How do you know it’s the scarf?” I say.

  “It was the only thing at that price, and it’s the only wool item. I priced it high because it was so beautiful.”

  “Who bought it? Can you tell?”

  “Only because she used a debit card,” Rianne says, swiping through the screens. “Yes, here it is. We sold the scarf to Hedra Black.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Keith and Hedra are not answering calls. Back in my cottage, I try to remember what they were wearing when they arrived at Nathan’s house. Hedra pulled off her coat, no scarf. She wore an emerald dress. In the morning, she had changed into slacks and a sweater. Did she pack a scarf or have one tucked into her coat?

  “Do you think Hedra is a murderer?” I ask my dad as I play Chopin’s nocturnes on my piano. The elegant, mournful melody flows from my fingers.

  I think you miss your friend, my dad says in my head.

  “But someone killed her, and I need to know who it was because . . .”

  You feel guilty for not forgiving her before she died.

  My fingers stiffen on the piano keys; my chest constricts. I get up and call Julie. I need to hear her soothing voice. She gives me perspective.

  “You should tell the detective,” she says on the phone. “He needs to know Hedra bought that scarf.”

  “I left him a message, but I feel terrible. Hedra’s going to be my sister-in-law. I’m sure she can explain. I wish I could reach her.”

  “What did Nathan say?”

  “I called him. He doesn’t know what to think. Except he said it’s probably a coincidence.” I’m paraphrasing.

  “He doesn’t see that this is important? I mean, he’s a good guy, but come on.”

  Yes, come on. “He’s more inclined to see the best in people, to give them the benefit of the doubt. Like my dad. Maybe that’s one reason I love him so much.”

  “Let’s hope he’s right.”

  For the rest of the day, while I catch up on reports and prepare to return to work, I think about Nathan’s exact words to me when I told him about the scarf. Coincidence . . . You’re looking for connections where there may not be any. But his tone was guarded.

  I return to his house in time for dinner. He made a stir-fry, but he hardly eats. Shoulders slumped, he broods, spending more time looking at his food than at me.

  “What’s going on with you?” I say. “Talk to me.”

  He puts his fork on his plate, his vegetables untouched, rubs his hand across his forehead. “I’m sorry if I seem distracted.”

  “I’m not that fragile, Nathan. I can handle whatever it is.”

  He holds my hand between his, looks deep in my eyes. “I’m just tired. I’m okay, but you’re not.”

  “I’m fine—”

  “No, you’re not. You try to hide it, but I see you crying.”

  “I’m okay, too, really I am,” I say, but I feel the tears threatening again.

  He kisses my cheek, pushes the hair away from my forehead. “It’s hell to lose people we care about.” He gets up from the table, goes to the liquor cabinet and pours us two glasses of dessert wine. I join him on the couch, his arm around my shoulders.

  “I love sitting here with you,” he says, “listening to the wind.”

  I settle into his arms. “Winter is coming. I can feel it.”

  He takes the glass from my hand, puts our drinks on the table, and kisses me, long and deep. He leads me into the bedroom, and when we make love, he’s urgent, intense, as if he’s trying to banish the ghosts that haunt him. Afterward, we lie quietly in the darkness, and I drift off. When I wake again, it’s just after midnight. I sit bolt upright in bed, darkness curtaining the room. I’m alone. The house is unnaturally silent. Not again.

  I get up, pull on my robe and slippers, go to the kitchen and peer out the window. His truck is gone. I should call him, send him a text. Ask him if he’s been called in to work . . . yet again. Instead, I change into jeans, boots, and a sweater, and I head out to my car. This time, I bring my wallet and phone. I follow my instincts, taking the route out of town to the Oak Terrace Hotel in the clear, cold darkness. I could go home, sleep, pretend he merely left early for work again. Assume he had errands to run. After midnight? Or I could keep driving and hope I’m wrong.

  I’m having a little trouble with my sense of wonder, I think to my dad. He smiles in my mind. I trusted him. He was always there for me, holding on to my seat when I learned to ride a bicycle, hugging me when I lost the spelling bee on the final round. Bandaging my skinned knees. I trust Nathan, too. He’s at work.

  But he’s not. I drive past the ambulance station, and as I turn into the parking lot for the Oak Terrace Hotel, I spot his truck parked in front of a door marked “15,” a two-story residence-inn-style unit far from the main building. Adrenaline pumps through me. My heartbeat kicks up; my eyes begin to water. I start to type a message to Julie. Nathan’s at the hotel . . .

  But I don’t send the text. I park in a shadowed spot beneath a young cedar tree, its spindly branches swaying in the wind. He’ll have a plausible explanation for being here. A confidential situation, a medical emergency. I imagine myself knocking. He’ll answer the door, medical kit in hand, a bandaged patient beside him. They will invite me in, and I will feel ridiculous, like a jealous wife. Like Rianne. Or the way he describes her. Only she doesn’t seem at all unhinged.

  I get out of my car and slip around to the back of the unit. The two-story structure opens onto a small yard leading to a sandy beach. I duck down and sidle to the enclosed patio. A curtain obscures most of the room, but a sliver of light leaks in from the hall. I crouch and peek up over the sill, through f
ilmy glass speckled with salty ocean spray. I make out the corner of a countertop, the shape of a fridge, Nathan standing with his arms crossed. I can’t read his expression, but I recognize the general angles of his face. In a chair near the window, a woman sits in the darkness with her back to me. She gesticulates, perhaps arguing with him.

  Nathan opens his arms, and she stands to wrap her arms around his neck. He pulls her close. The world turns in their embrace, the stars winking out, going nova, new stars born into the sky. I feel the passage of time, my body aging and turning to dust. He’s burying his face in her hair, and I snap back to the cold, to the cramp in my legs as I crouch beneath the window. As he rubs her back, a disbelieving part of me withdraws, insisting this can’t be real. But his bouts of brooding, his vague responses when I asked him what was bothering him. Their intimacy. The darkness. At a hotel. The ultimate cliché.

  My engagement ring shines in the moonlight, winking at me, mocking me. Nathan looks up, pulls away. I think of all the names I’m going to call him when I move out. Not that I ever moved in. Was he having an affair with Lauren, too? All the questions crowd in my throat. Who is the woman? What is she saying to Nathan? Why did he even bother to propose to me? I want to run away, but I can’t stop watching.

  It could be worse, Julie might say. You could have caught them in bed together like the last time. No, that’s my own brain trying to ease the pain. Trying to convince me that I haven’t been royally screwed.

  He rests his hands on her shoulders. Is she crying? Her head is bowed, her hair covering her face. I wish I could read his expression. I hope it’s guilt, regret, shock at his own behavior.

  He turns and strides away. Now the woman is a dark silhouette. As she turns toward me, I duck down, although my instinct is to smash a fist through the pane. I could stand up now, press my nose to the glass, scare the hell out of her. But I can’t move. This isn’t really happening. I’ll wake up in Nathan’s bed, and he will be there. Anna will bounce into the room, smile, and say, I’m so happy you and Dad are getting married and living happily ever after. Lauren will bring over a banana-nut cake. I shouldn’t have seduced Jensen. He always loved you best. And by the way, I’m alive.