I think about driving away, running away. I should have said I was taking private lessons from the start. I wish I had thought of it. It could explain my presence there, but now I’m stuck covering this up. I have to go in. There’s no other option.
Standing outside the motel door, I keep my right hand inside my purse, resting on the gun I barely know how to use, just in case I at least need to threaten someone with it. I don’t know what to expect when the door opens—could it possibly be someone I know on the other side? I tap a knuckle on the door and step back. When it opens, I’m stunned. I’m more confused than ever.
“Well, get in, for fuck’s sake.”
I look around one last time and step inside as I’m told. It’s a woman. She turns her back to me and pours a splash of bourbon into two motel lowballs and pushes one toward me.
“You’re his wife,” I stutter.
“Who exactly were you expecting?” She sits at an ugly round table with a wood-paneled top and green vinyl chairs straight out of the 1970s. She motions me to sit. I shake the rainwater out of my hair and reluctantly slide into the chair, holding the drink she gave me with both hands, keeping my purse, and its contents, safe between my legs.
“I didn’t know he was married. I swear, I really didn’t.” I sound more desperate than I wanted to.
“Separated, actually. Soon to be divorced.”
When she says this, I feel a little surge of relief. He had said he was newly on the market, so he hadn’t really lied. I don’t know why any of it matters now, but somehow, it still does.
“I made it hell for him. He’s been trying to get rid of me for a long time, so just a little advice—if your husband finds out what you did and kicks your ass to the curb, don’t go down easy until you get what’s yours.”
Up close, she doesn’t appear like the grieving wife I saw on TV. Was she putting on an act? She looks like a once-beautiful woman who has been hardened by grief or anger. She wears no makeup and her hair is unkempt. On TV she wore a tight, pained expression, but still had a softer look about her, in her neat blouse, pencil skirt and glossy lips.
“So is that why you have his truck? You got what’s yours?” I ask, beginning to feel a bit more relaxed, even though the reason she can spill this much information to me is because she has me completely by the balls in this situation. However, she’s actively blackmailing me, so she has plenty to lose herself. Why not answer my questions?
“My name was still on it too, don’t get cute,” she snaps.
“So if you’re his wife, you must be worth a lot of money after he died. What do you want with my piddly fifty K?” I ask, and she gives me a pointed look.
“I thought you’d be mousier. He usually likes the quiet, unassertive chicks...or so I have come to find out.”
“How did you find out about me?” I ask, quietly, silently adding that I used to be that mousy, innocent person she just described, but I’m far from that now.
“Easy. I watched the idiot’s house. He thinks he can just dismiss me? He’s been trying to for a couple of years, but I wouldn’t let him just write me off. Fuck him. Then you start sneaking around, and I was like, great. Two idiots. I followed you to your house...”
“You what?” I demand, thinking of her stalking my house with my kids there. That night Collin heard a noise outside and scared me to death with the gun—was it this lunatic lurking around?
“It was pretty easy to learn everything about you after getting your name off your mailbox. Social media, all that crap.”
“Why? I didn’t know about you. Why are you punishing me?”
“Jesus, you think it has anything to do with you? That jackass went behind my back and drew up all this paperwork with his lawyer, making sure that I wouldn’t get a cent of his money if we divorced. He opened a foreign bank account in Italy, moved some money into his brother’s name, all kinds of bullshit, just to screw me.” She takes a large swallow of her drink.
I can’t help but think that that must be why she had to kill him. If she wouldn’t get it in the divorce, she would probably get some, at least insurance, upon his death. Louisiana is a community property state. He would have had to work pretty hard to make sure she got nothing. What the hell did she do to him? I wonder. I don’t ask this.
“But you didn’t get divorced, he died.”
“Yeah. And I’m the idiot who signed a pre-nup and now it seems he made sure I’d be screwed completely. He could have left me something,” she scoffs, stands up and goes to grab the bottle of bourbon from where it sits on top of a filthy microwave. I think about the truck she’s driving, but don’t say anything.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, not really knowing what else I can possibly say.
“You’re not the only home-wrecker the police questioned. You’re just the only one who lied,” she says, and I see now how that made me her perfect target.
“Home-wrecker? You said you were in the middle of a divorce.”
“I said separated. That’s not divorced yet,” she snaps.
I won’t let myself get in my head about the other women she’s referring to. She wants me to ask, but frankly, over two years of her stalking him while he was trying to divorce her, I’m sure there were other women. It’s none of my business, and I’m not going to play into her trap on this.
“Where’s my money? I gotta get back to the city.”
So she lives in New Orleans. Explains why I haven’t seen her before. I guess she just rolls into town to exploit people.
“I could only get eight.” I take the envelope of money out of my purse, maneuvering it around the gun under the table so she doesn’t see, and I place it in front of her.
“Let me get this straight. I tell you to get fifty K, and you say you can only get ten today, and then you bring me this shit.” She seems like someone who is trying to be hard even though it’s not really in her nature. Like me, this whole situation has changed her into a character she hasn’t figured out how to play just yet.
“That’s what I could get. I’ll get the rest soon.” I try to sound confident.
She stares at me overdramatically, then she pulls her phone out of her raincoat on the bed.
“Here, lemme show you something,” she says, turning her phone around for me to see a video. It’s dark and hard to make out at first. Then I see it’s me. I’m holding my shoes and tiptoeing through the muddy terrain behind Luke’s house. When I hit the clearing, I run to my car. The camera moves, so I can tell she’s driving slowly behind, following me to get the whole thing, my license plate and all just in case my face can’t be recognized in the dark lighting. I feel sick. My chest is hot. My mouth goes dry. She’s not just someone who could tell the cops that she saw me there—that might be dismissed as the crazy ex-lover grasping at straws, my word against hers. She has me on a time-stamped video! I’m flush with anger.
“So sending me Luke’s locket, and following me and watching me when I’m with my kids... Why the hell did you need to do all of that shit if you have this?” I ask bitterly.
She doesn’t react to my increased volume; she just hunches over the envelope of money, counting the bills, and barely looks up when she says, “I like to know how you’ll react to things—helps me know who I’m dealing with. Plus, I wanted to make sure you knew who was in control.”
“I’m sure they’re looking at you. Who else has any motive? You don’t want them to know you were stalking around the house. You should be wanting to distance yourself as far as you can from any of this, not blackmailing someone.” I force myself not to scream this.
She smiles very calmly. She doesn’t look fazed.
“You’re cute.” She leans back in her chair, like she’s enjoying herself.
“I could go to them myself, you know, and say I’m being blackmailed. All I’m guilty of is knowing him. I wasn’t a beneficiary of anything.”
“You think I’d put myself at risk if I didn’t have a rock-solid alibi?” She finishes counting the bills and looks to me for a response, but I just stare at her with my mouth open, letting this sink in. I’m not versed at any of this. I have no idea what I’m doing, and I am starting to suffocate under the weight of all the cunning and dishonesty.
“If I wanted to turn in the video, I could do it anonymously,” she adds, giving me a sideways look like I’m the other woman. “I can write a note along with it that says I don’t want to get involved BUT I saw something suspicious outside his house.” She puts her hand to her mouth, making an O with her lips, a mocking “oh no” gesture.
“What could it be? A burglar. Of course I snapped a video. I was protecting him. But no, it was you. Anyway, I’d rather not release the video, but I will if you force me to.”
“It will be suspicious that you didn’t say something earlier.” The rain outside picks up. It thunders on the roof, and we have to nearly shout over it.
“I didn’t think much of it, but then I remembered and brought it to them of my own free will. I think they’d actually appreciate it.” She shoves the money in her parka pocket and stands, flipping the hood over her head and aiming toward the door.
“Okay,” she says, opening it. The mist from the heavy rain on the sidewalk pops and hisses. I understand the dismissal and go to the door.
“I’ll need half by next week. Meet me here. I’ll send a time by text. So, seventeen thousand. We’ll talk about the rest from there. You should probably have a plan by then.”
I look at her in stunned silence, really not knowing what else to say.
“Thank you,” she says impatiently, so I walk out into the downpour and run to my car. In the driver’s seat, I shake the water off my clothes, and I can see her lock the room door and disappear into the deluge. Why isn’t she getting into her car? Where could she possibly be going?
23
BEHIND GILLIAN’S HOUSE IS a mother-in-law unit that she’s turned into an art studio, even though she isn’t an artist. It’s still raining when I arrive for book club, after the meeting with Valerie Ellison. All the regular suspects sit in the gloomily lit space where Gill keeps fabric drops covering easels next to buckets of paint supplies in some strange attempt to appear more interesting than she is. The paint streaks staining the artist stool in front of a blank canvas are probably from her kids’ watercolors.
Since I’d voiced out loud that I was thinking of going back to the book club and I know it’s something Collin would like to see, I made myself go. I welcome any distraction from the bizarre turn my life has taken, even if for only a couple of uninspired hours. I even stopped at Fine Spirits for a couple bottles of wine to bring.
I watch the fingers of rainwater trickle and splinter off the great windowpane that spans the whole north wall of the room. Gillian has left the French doors open to listen to the tapping drizzle outside, and the earthy, damp scent drifting inside is a creature comfort that my mind immediately takes to a dark place: I wonder if I’ll miss this in prison.
“Sorry we’re stuck out here, girls. Robert insisted on watching some game with his buddies and I didn’t want to cancel. Men, am I right?” She says this like we all don’t know her house is big enough to host the two parties in separate wings, or that this room she’s apologizing for is actually lovely.
“Who wants cake?” She cuts the white cylinder, iced and covered with neat fall decor shaped from sugar.
We sit in a loose circle of white, wingback chairs and exchange the obligatory compliments on one another’s hair or outfit. Then, conversation shifts to the weather and morphs into Gillian’s humblebrags about her latest gifts from Robert. Karen brings up a couple movies she saw with the family on Netflix over the weekend.
“That movie was an absolute turkey,” Karen adds, but I haven’t heard which one they’re talking about. My gaze rests on the water rushing the gutters down the alley behind the house.
“I suffered through that Ben Affleck puke-bonanza twice. Just because the kids like it.” I catch Liz saying this and can’t help laughing. She’s always been the funniest in the group.
“We’re trying to keep it light around our house, so any mindless comedies are welcome, what with a murderer on the loose in town,” Tammy says. Now I’m alert, my attention back on the group.
“Yeah, we upped our security system,” Karen says. “There are cameras in just about every room and you can see all the rooms in your house from your phone.” She pauses. “It’s actually really creepy.”
“I’d say. How can you not be creeped out by that? Every horror movie now has cameras set up and something horrible caught in the footage in the middle of the night. I wouldn’t be able to bring myself to look at it,” Gill says.
“You think they’ll make a movie about this Ellison murder?” Tammy asks eagerly, and Gill rolls her eyes. She often treats Tammy like she’s the dummy of the group.
“There are a ton of murders every day, Tammy. Why would they make a movie about this one?”
Tammy shrugs, feeling the condescension in Gillian’s voice. She trails her finger across the top of her frosting and licks it off her index finger, looking away.
“Well, I’ll tell you why,” Karen chimes in. “I heard he was beheaded.”
“Who?” Gill asks.
“The dead guy. Luke Ellison.”
“I heard that too I think!” Tammy is happy to be validated. “Yeah, beheaded by his own kitchen knife.” She seems unsure about this, but still spews out the fiction like it’s fact. The news never even divulged the cause of death, let alone these grizzly details. It’s suddenly, as if it wasn’t already, very clear to me how simple rumors become venomous, life-ruining facts in this town.
“That’s not true,” Liz snaps, and we all look at her. Her cheeks are flushed and she seems angry at the conversation. The others don’t really pay much attention to this outburst. They laugh it off and continue, but I keep my eyes on Liz a moment, wondering why this seems so personal to her. She takes a few swallows of wine and rolls her eyes, then excuses herself to the bathroom.
“What’s with her?” Gill asks in her absence.
“Well, there is a killer running loose, maybe she doesn’t want to talk about it. It’s horrifying,” Karen says, and they all give something like a silent agreement, with nods and quiet sips of wine.
“I did hear that they can’t find the head though,” Tammy adds, “and that’s why they won’t say how he died.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Gill chides her again. “If the media had a juicy fact like that, that’s all they’d be talking about.”
I feel like I could be sick listening to this, but I just stay calm and frown down at my shoes, hoping to remain in the background of the conversation.
When Liz returns, they leave the topic alone and discuss Cassie Duchesne’s botched boob job and the seasoning on the deviled eggs Karen brought.
“Subbed Greek yogurt for the mayo. Tangy and healthier.” She beams with pride as she passes them around.
Just then, Gillian’s husband, Robert, pops his head in the open door. All the women greet him, and he gives a curt nod of acknowledgment, but gestures for Gillian to talk with him privately.
They stay under the awning around the side of the studio, and Karen makes a tasteless joke about her being in trouble for overspending her allowance. Everyone shifts toward the spread of food on the drafting table, but I watch a moment, and see Robert put his finger in Gillian’s face. I can’t make out what he’s saying; I try to read his lips to get the gist, but to no avail. She looks like she’s defending herself about something. Then her demeanor changes, and she looks like she gains the upper hand. She heaves some last words at him before storming away without looking back, but I see him rest his straight arm against the side of the house and look up, sighing, as if to say
You gotta be kidding me.
No one else has paid attention to this. Liz still looks pale, but she’s doing her best to fawn over the mini tartlets with everyone else. I shoot Liz a look, silently asking if she’s okay. When she catches my eye, she looks away. Then Gillian walks in, chipper as ever, an uncanny ability to shake off whatever just happened and go seamlessly back into hostess mode.
“Oh, aren’t they just darling?” She joins the tartlet fan club and the women giggle and poke at more food on the table.
There’s a strange intensity in the room, and I have no idea what’s going on. I have to remind myself that there’s probably nothing going on. I’m highly sensitive right now. Gillian engaged in a very normal disagreement, probably over which side of the house got to use the good vodka for their party or some equally petty feud they always have when they think no one is looking, and Liz is probably terrified that there is an unsolved murder, and doesn’t want to keep being reminded of it. I can’t let unreasonable paranoia hijack my rationality. I pick up a small plate of assorted mini-foods and give a sensationalized account of how good it is, as one does.
At home, Collin sits with Ben on the back deck, playing a card game with a kerosene lamp flickering between them. I pop my head out to let him know I’m back, and I only need to look down at my watch with my mom face on for Collin to tell me they’re wrapping it up. It’s far past his bedtime, but Collin’s joy in spending quiet time with Ben is touching. I smile at them both and then fall into the living room recliner, exhausted from the strange day.
Now that I know who Valerie is—now that I get what she wants and understand that if she turned me in I could say I was researching her because she was blackmailing me—I feel more free to dig into her background online.
There are a zillion Valerie Ellisons on the social media sites I search. This won’t be as easy as searching for Lacy, so I pull off my shoes and lean back against the mass of pillows on the bed. I narrow the search by area and click on dozens of photos that don’t match up until, forty-five minutes in, I come across a photo that looks like her—somehow her smile even looks smug when she’s trying to appear genuine and so it pops out, even from its tiny thumbnail size on the screen. I click.
Such a Good Wife Page 19
