Karen nods involuntarily. She can keep a secret, yes. She is keeping a secret from her husband and her daughter, the secret of the three pearlescent ovoid pills, the secret of her intentions, and that is surely a bigger secret than whatever this Featherleigh wants to disclose.
Featherleigh says, “I’ve been involved with a married man. But he broke things off with me in May and I can’t seem to recover.”
“Oh dear,” Karen says. What she thinks is Serves you right! Karen cannot abide adulterers. She doesn’t like to judge but she can say with certainty that if any woman had pursued Bruce and managed to ensnare him in an affair, her life would have been destroyed. She and Bruce are lucky, she knows, in that they’re both true blue. This isn’t to say that Karen has never felt jealous. Bruce would sometimes talk about the housewives who came into his department looking to buy their husbands a suit, and Karen would wonder what the women looked like and if they flirted with Bruce more than he let on. There had been one period—right after Celeste left for college—when Bruce had come home from work singing unfamiliar country music songs and acting strangely distant, and Karen thought that maybe… maybe he’d met someone else. She finally asked him about it. He very bluntly said that he was just upset about Celeste being away. He was finding it more challenging than he expected. Karen admitted that she was taking it harder than she’d expected too, and they ended up crying together and then making love in the kitchen, which was something that hadn’t happened since Celeste was born.
“I think the truth might interest you,” Featherleigh says. “Maybe, maybe not.”
Karen can’t stand to hear it. “Stop,” she says. “Please, just stop.” Karen holds her hand aloft, as though she can swat the words away. She backs out of the room.
The words swarm her as she climbs the stairs. I think the truth might interest you. I’ve been involved with a married man. Karen badly needs an oxy and her bed. Why, oh why, did that woman choose Karen to confess to? How could Featherleigh’s adulterous relationship possibly matter to Karen? She knows no one here! Featherleigh was clearly quite drunk, and drunk people, in Karen’s experience, love nothing more than to confess. Featherleigh would have told anyone. It serves Karen right for snooping around.
When Karen finally reaches the top of the stairs, she’s disoriented. Is her room to the right or the left? She steadies herself with her cane and thinks, The right. When she turns right, it’s the last door on the left. But at that instant, the door Karen thinks is hers opens and Merritt “as in the parkway” steps out. Merritt is the same young woman Karen thought of as the Scarlet Letter when she’d first arrived before she realized that it was Merritt, Celeste’s maid of honor. Celeste adores Merritt, thinks she hung the moon, and while Karen is thrilled that Celeste has found a real friend, she can’t help thinking Merritt is a little fast.
Fast. Now Karen sounds like her own mother, or even her grandmother. Who uses the word fast to describe a woman? No one. At least, not in the past forty years. Karen is sure Merritt must be very nice, otherwise Celeste would not be so fond of her. Tonight, Merritt is wearing black.
“I…” Karen says. Now she is really and truly confused. This house has more rooms than a hotel. “I think I’ve gotten turned around somehow? I thought that was my room.”
“Oh, it is your room, Mrs. Otis,” Merritt says. “I was just looking for Celeste. You don’t know where she is, do you?”
“Celeste?” Karen says. “Why, she was outside when last I saw her. She’s planning on going out with Benji.”
“Okay,” Merritt says. She seems to be in a tremendous hurry; she sidles her way past Karen and heads down the stairs. “Thank you, Mrs. Otis. Good night.”
“Good night,” Karen says. She stands in place, staring at the bedroom door. Looking for Celeste? In Bruce and Karen’s room? What on earth for? Why not look for Celeste in Celeste’s room, which is down the hall on the left? Clearly that Featherleigh woman has written her filthy graffiti on the walls of Karen’s mind because all she can think is that she’s going to open the bedroom door and find Bruce inside and then she will have to ask why Merritt and Bruce were in the bedroom alone together.
Hadn’t Merritt been flirting with Bruce earlier that day? Aren’t you hot?
Karen turns the knob and swings open the door. The room is dark and empty.
Karen exhales. She props her cane against the nightstand and sits on the bed. She waits for her heart to stop racing.
Saturday, July 7, 2018, 10:20 a.m.
Initial questioning, Greer Garrison Winbury, Saturday, July 7, 10:20 a.m.
After Nick finishes writing notes from his interview with Abby, he pulls on a pair of latex gloves and enters the cottage where Merritt Monaco was staying. He has gotten in ahead of forensics, which is how he prefers it.
“Tell me a story,” he whispers. “What happened?”
The cottage has been decorated with a feminine sensibility, in pastels and florals. It’s probably meant to evoke an English garden, though to Nick it feels cloying and overwrought; it’s like walking into a Crabtree and Evelyn.
The living area appears untouched; Nick doesn’t see a thing out of place. He moves into the bedroom, where the air-conditioning has been turned up so high, the room is like a meat locker. Nick has to admit, it feels good, nearly delicious after the oppressive heat outside. The bed is made, and Merritt’s suitcase is open on the luggage rack with her shoes underneath. Her bridesmaid dress—ivory silk with black embroidery—hangs alone in the closet. Nick enters the bathroom. Merritt’s cosmetics are lined up on the lower glass shelf—she is clearly a fan of Bobbi Brown—and her hairbrush and flat iron are on the upper glass shelf. Toothbrush in the cup.
She was nice and neat, Nick thinks.
A quick check of Merritt’s cosmetic bag reveals eyeliners, mascaras, lipsticks, and powder, but nothing more.
Hmmpf, Nick thinks. He’s looking for something, but what? He’ll know it when he sees it.
On the dresser, Nick finds an open clutch purse that contains a driver’s license, a gold American Express card, seventy-seven dollars in cash, and an iPhone X. He studies the license: Merritt Alison Monaco, 116 Perry Street, New York, New York. She’s a beautiful woman, and young; she just turned twenty-nine. It’s such a shame.
“I’m going to do right by you,” Nick says. “Let’s figure this out.”
He picks up the iPhone X and swipes across. To his enormous surprise, the phone opens. Whaaaaa… He didn’t think there was a Millennial alive who left her phone unsecured. He feels almost cheated. Does this woman have nothing to hide?
He scrolls through her texts first. There is nothing new today, and yesterday there’s one text from someone named Robbie wishing her a belated “Happy Day of American Independence”; he hopes she’s well. The day before that, Merritt sent a text to someone named Jada V., thanking her for the party. Attached is a photo of fireworks over the Statue of Liberty.
The call log is ancient as well—by ancient, Nick means nothing within the past twenty-four hours. Friday morning there was a call placed to a 212 number but when Nick calls that number from his own phone, he gets the switchboard for the Wildlife Conservation Society. Merritt had probably been checking in at work.
The scant offerings on Merritt’s phone lead Nick back to Abby’s comment that Merritt might have set her sights on someone who was already at the wedding. She wouldn’t have to call or text anyone if she could talk to him in person.
Nick puts the clutch purse down where he found it and pokes around a little longer. A journal left lying around is too much to hope for, Nick knows, but what about a joint, a condom, a doodle on a scrap of paper with the name of the person she was involved with? She’s too attractive for there not to have been someone.
He finds nothing.
The mother of the bride is still in her bedroom, and the bride herself still at the hospital. Nick finds Greer Garrison, mother of the groom, on her phone in the kitchen. She has obviously just told some
one the awful news and is now accepting condolences.
“Celeste is devastated,” she says. “I can’t imagine her agony.” She pauses. “Well, let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves… we’re all still in shock and”—here, Greer raises her eyes to Nick—“the police are trying to figure out what happened. I believe I’m the next to be interrogated, and so I really must hang up, I’m afraid. Love to Thebaud.” Greer punches off her phone. “Can I help you?” she asks Nick.
She looks fairly put-together, considering the circumstances, Nick thinks. She’s dressed in white pants and a beige tank; there is a gold cross on a thin gold chain around her neck. Her hair is sleek; she’s wearing lipstick. Her expression is guarded. She knows her task is about to be interrupted and she resents it.
Nick says, “Ms. Garrison, I’m Detective Nick Diamantopoulos with the Massachusetts State Police. I’ll need you to put away your phone.”
“You’re Greek?” she says, tilting her head. She’s probably trying to reconcile the name with his black skin.
He smiles. “My mother is Cape Verdean and my father is Greek. My paternal grandparents are from Thessaloníki.”
“I’m trying to write a novel set in Greece,” she says. “Problem is, I haven’t been there in so long, I seem to have lost the flavor of the place.”
As much as Nick would love to talk about the Aegean Sea, ouzo, and grilled octopus, he has work to do. “I need to ask you some questions, ma’am.”
“I don’t think you understand my predicament here, Detective,” she says. “This is my wedding.”
“Your wedding?”
“I planned it. I have people to call. All of the guests! People need to know what’s happened.”
“I understand,” Nick says. “But to find out exactly what did happen, I require your cooperation. And that means your undivided attention.”
“You do realize I have a houseful of people?” Greer says. “You do realize that Celeste’s mother has terminal breast cancer? And that Celeste has been taken to the hospital? I’m waiting to hear from Benji about how she’s doing.”
“I’ll make this as fast as possible,” Nick says. He tries to ignore the phone, although he would like to take it from her. “Would you please come with me to the living room?”
Greer stares at him with reproach. “How dare you order me around in my own house.”
“I’m very sorry about that, ma’am. Now, please.” He walks down the hall and hopes she follows him. He hears her rustling behind him so he stops at the entrance of the living room and lets her walk in first. He closes the door tightly behind them.
Greer perches on the edge of the sofa, leaning forward as though she might spring to her feet and escape at any moment. Her phone is in her lap, buzzing away.
“Can you please tell me what you remember after the rehearsal dinner ended?” Nick says. “Who went where?”
“The young people went out,” Greer says. “The old people stayed home. The exception was Abigail, my daughter-in-law. She’s pregnant. She stayed home.”
“But both the bride and groom went out? Who else?” Nick pulls out his notepad. “Merritt? Did she go out?”
“Do you know what I do for a living, Detective?” Greer asks. “I write murder mysteries. As such, I am intimately familiar with procedure, so I appreciate that you have to ask these questions. But I can tell you exactly what happened to Merritt.”
“Can you?” Nick says. “Exactly?”
“Well, not exactly,” Greer says. “But the gist is fairly obvious, is it not? The girl drank too much or she took pills and then she decided to go for a swim in her dress and she drowned.”
“You’ll agree,” Nick says, “that as viable as that explanation might be, it leaves some unanswered questions.”
“Such as?”
“I’ve interviewed one witness who says she’s fairly certain that Merritt didn’t go out. So if she stayed home, where and what was she drinking? Did anyone see her? Did anyone talk to her? I just walked through the cottage where Ms. Monaco was staying. There was no alcohol in the cottage—no bottles, no empties, nothing. And no pills, no prescription bottles. As a fiction writer, you must know that it’s difficult, when one is drinking and popping pills, to get rid of all incriminating evidence. Also, Ms. Monaco had quite a nasty cut on her foot. How did that happen? When did that happen?”
“Don’t look for drama where there is none,” Greer says. “There’s a term for that in literature. It’s called a red herring. The term was coined in the early 1800s by hunters who would throw a kipper down behind their trail to divert the wolves.”
Nick almost smiles. He wants to dislike her but there’s something about her he admires. He has never met a published author before, and it’s true—if she is a seasoned mystery writer, she might be able to help them. “That’s good to know,” he says. “Thank you.”
“I came across Merritt at the end of the rehearsal dinner,” Greer says. “She was hiding in the laundry room. She was crying.”
“Crying?” Nick says. He remembers that Abby also said Merritt had been crying, out in the rose garden. “Did she tell you what was wrong?”
“She did not,” Greer says. “And I didn’t press; it wasn’t my place. But I think it was clear she was feeling left out. Her best friend was getting married. Celeste was the center of attention and Merritt was at the wedding alone. Maybe she was depressed. I have no idea. But I can say that she was very upset, which only solidifies the argument that she drank too much, maybe took some pills, and went for a swim. Maybe she drowned accidentally or maybe it was intentional.”
“Suicide?” Nick says.
“Is that impossible?” Greer asks. “It’s not something one likes to think about, of course. But…”
“Let’s get back to you,” Nick says. “What did you do when the party ended? You and Mr. Winbury stayed home, is that right?”
“I don’t see why what Tag and I did is relevant,” Greer says.
“You’re a mystery writer,” Nick says. “So you’re familiar with the term alibi?”
Greer raises an eyebrow at him. “Touché,” she says. “Yes. My husband and Mr. Otis, the bride’s father, had a drink in Tag’s study and then they must have gone outside to smoke a cigar because when Tag came to bed, he smelled like smoke.”
“We found a cigar stubbed out on a table under the tent. One cigar. Would you guess that cigar belonged to your husband?”
“I would guess,” Greer says, “but I couldn’t be sure.”
“What kind of cigars does your husband smoke, Ms. Garrison?”
“He smokes Cuban cigars,” Greer says, “but more than one kind. Cohiba. Romeo y Julieta. Montecristo. I hardly see how the cigar is relevant to what happened to Ms. Monaco.”
“We aren’t sure it is relevant,” Nick says. “Right now, we’re just trying to figure out who was where after the party broke up. It appears a handful of people were out under the tent smoking and drinking, and we’re trying to identify who exactly was there. Did Mr. Winbury say where he’d been when he came to bed?”
“I didn’t ask where he’d been because I knew where he’d been. Here, on the grounds.”
“What time did Mr. Winbury come to bed?”
“I have no earthly idea. I was asleep.”
“You were asleep but you noticed that Mr. Winbury smelled like cigar smoke?”
“That’s correct,” Greer says. “I woke up just enough to know Tag was coming to bed and that he smelled like cigar smoke but not enough to bother checking the time.”
“And you didn’t wake up again until the morning?”
“That’s correct. I woke up on my own at half past five.”
“And, Ms. Garrison, what time did you retire? Did you go to bed right after the party was over?”
“No, I did not.”
“What did you do after the party? While Mr. Winbury and Mr. Otis were in the study?”
“I sat down at my computer. I was writing. I have a deadli
ne looming.”
“I see. And where did you do this writing?”
“On my laptop,” Greer says. “In my sitting room.”
“And does that desk face a window?”
“Yes, it does.”
“Did you notice any activity out the window?”
“I did not.”
Nick pauses. Is it likely she didn’t see anything out the window? No lights? No shadows?
“And what time did you finish writing?” he asks.
“I finished at eleven fifteen,” she says.
“You’re sure about that?”
“Yes,” Greer says. “I made myself stop because I didn’t want to be tired today.”
“So after you finished writing, you went to bed. Say, eleven thirty?”
“Around then, yes.”
Something about Greer Garrison’s answers bothers him. They’re too neat, too crisp. It’s as though she has thought them through in advance. Nick takes a gamble.
“Would you bring me to the computer, please, Ms. Garrison?” he asks.
“I don’t see why that’s necessary.”
“I would like to see it.”
“Well, then, I shall go fetch it for you.”
“No, you misunderstood me,” Nick says. “I would like you to bring me to the computer.”
“That’s an unreasonable request,” Greer says.
I’ve got her, he thinks.
“It’s an unreasonable request for you to bring me to the computer but not for you to bring the computer to me? Because there’s something you want to delete or hide on the computer?”
“Not at all,” Greer says.
“Fine, then bring me to the computer. Please, Ms. Garrison.”
She stares at him for a beat, then she rises.
Nick follows Greer down the hall. They step through an arched doorway into an anteroom—there’s a niche built into the wall that holds an enormous bouquet of hydrangeas and lilies—and Greer opens a door. There’s a sitting room with a sofa, a love seat, antique tables, and a desk that faces out a window. The view out the window is of the side yard—of a fence and the top of the pool house. Through a connecting door, Nick sees the master bedroom. There’s a king bed made up with white sheets and a comforter and an assortment of pillows, all of them neatly arranged. A cashmere blanket embroidered with the word Summerland is draped on the diagonal across the corner of the bed. Nick blinks. Greer found the time to make her bed so artfully after she found out Merritt was dead—or before? But at that moment, a woman pops out of the master bath holding a bucket and a roll of paper towels. The housekeeper.
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