by Sara Shepard
“How?” Mason piped up.
“I’m sure I do, but . . .” Edith looked scattered.
Agent Foley cleared her throat. “I’m afraid Mrs. Saybrook might have me confused with someone else,” she said delicately. “But you’re in the best hands.”
She pulled a Chippendale chair from the corner next to Edith and opened a laptop. “Edith came to me the day Poppy died, and I had my team look into things, including the note itself.”
She typed something on the laptop, then turned the screen to face the circle. It was Poppy’s note; next to it was a dialogue window. “The electronic signature on the file shows that Poppy wrote this note at 7:07 a.m. However, several witnesses say that Poppy’s body was on the ground at 7:05. A security camera on the building across the street that caught the lower part of her fall registered that time as well.”
James lowered his coffee cup. “What does that mean?”
Edith raised her palms. “A woman can’t write a suicide note after she’s dead.”
Mason looked skeptical. “Could the clocks have been off?”
Foley turned the laptop back to face her. “We checked that, but the clock on Poppy’s computer matches the security camera across the street exactly. We have to entertain the possibility that someone else wrote that note to make Poppy’s death look like a suicide.”
Aster shot forward. “Wait a minute. What?”
“Someone pushed her?” Rowan asked, and for a moment Corinne wondered if she sounded almost relieved.
“We don’t want to make any rash conclusions,” Foley said. “Unfortunately, the security camera from the building across the street didn’t extend high enough to give us a view into Poppy’s office. There were no witnesses.”
Rowan’s brother, Michael, touched his forehead. “Not one person?”
“We’re still asking around. It’s early yet.”
“What about the autopsy?” James asked.
“The full report isn’t in yet, but so far there’s nothing conclusive either way,” Foley said. “Poppy fell from about fifty feet, and that’s all the findings show. But the discrepancy between her time of death and the time of the suicide note is concerning. One might argue that a bystander was in her office the whole time and typed the note at Poppy’s request after she jumped. But why wouldn’t that person come forward? It doesn’t add up. And because of that, we’re officially opening this as a murder investigation.”
“I knew this wasn’t a suicide,” Edith said tightly. “But who would hurt our Poppy?”
“We have to figure out what exactly happened to Poppy the morning of her death. Who was in her office? Why were they there? Do we know if anyone might have been mad at Poppy for any reason? Someone inside the company, for instance? Or perhaps a business rival?” Foley asked.
Corinne’s skin prickled. Jonathan York’s smarmy smile. I know she was struggling.
“I’m not assuming anything,” Foley went on quickly. “Unfortunately, Poppy’s office doesn’t have a camera in it, and the camera in the elevator bank didn’t show anyone getting off the elevators around the time of Poppy’s murder. But whoever it was could have taken the stairs, where there are no cameras.”
Rowan cleared her throat. “Didn’t the guards on the floors notice anyone coming out of Poppy’s office?”
“It’s a skeleton crew before actual business hours. Most people, including many of the guards and all of Poppy’s assistants, weren’t at work yet, so we don’t have a complete picture. We’re looking into electronic data from keycards used to get into the building and onto certain floors. We’ll interview anyone who was in the building at that time.”
Corinne frowned. “What about the surveillance video from the lobby?”
Foley pulled at her collar. “We haven’t finished going through it yet. But we’ll match the people seen there to the keycard data as well.”
“What about fingerprints from Poppy’s keyboard?” Natasha piped up, her throaty voice surprising everyone. “If someone else typed her note, they’d be there, right?”
Foley nodded as if she’d anticipated the question. “We dusted the keyboard. But the only match was Poppy’s fingerprints. No one else’s. The killer could have worn gloves, though. That would indicate the murder was premeditated—the killer might have anticipated killing Poppy before going into her office. It’s not exactly glove weather.” She gestured at the sunny sky outside, then cleared her throat. “Based on all of this, I’ll need to speak with each of you separately.”
Natasha looked annoyed. “But I don’t even work at Saybrook’s.” Corinne could hardly process everything she was hearing. Poppy hadn’t killed herself; she’d been murdered. Whoever had done this had been inside the Saybrook’s office, and had known Poppy would be at work unusually early.
“You don’t think we’re suspects?” Corinne heard herself ask.
“Of course not,” Foley said, but she didn’t look any of them in the eye. “But I do need to know where you all were that morning, just for due diligence. I also want to hear if you know anything about Poppy that might indicate why someone would want to hurt her. If she made mistakes at work—or if she dabbled in drugs, got mixed up with dangerous people who might have a motive to hurt her.”
“Poppy?” Rowan sputtered. “Poppy was . . . perfect,” she finished sadly.
And she was, Corinne thought. She imagined Poppy here, her ghost flitting from seating area to seating area, thanking everyone for coming, remembering the smallest details of everyone’s lives—names of pets, summer plans, the old yacht Natasha’s father was rebuilding.
“You never know,” Foley said. “And I don’t mean to worry all of you, but there’s also the possibility that this could be personal to the Saybrooks.”
Mason frowned. “Meaning?”
Foley cleared her throat. “You’re a prominent family. A lot of people are envious of you. Someone might want to hurt you because of your power, your wealth, your influence—or perhaps just to knock you down a few pegs.”
Mason waved his hand. “Please.”
“I would take this seriously,” Foley warned. She typed something else into her laptop, then spun the screen around again. A familiar website appeared. The website.
Foley scrolled down the page. Below the banner with the site’s name was a large headline that took up the whole screen. “One Heiress Down,” it read. “Four to Go.”
The room fell silent. Corinne’s stomach sank to the floor, and her mind went blank. The only sounds were thumps from the back parlor, where Poppy’s children were playing.
“W-who wrote that?” Rowan stammered.
“We don’t know,” Foley said. “We’re trying to figure that out. We’ve tracked the website’s latest update to the IP address for a computer at the New York Public Library. They don’t keep thorough records of who uses the machines, but we’re trying to get video feeds of the rooms to see if that yields anything. This could just be public speculation, someone’s idea of a sick joke. But it could also be much more sinister.”
“Are you saying that we might be next?” Corinne whispered.
“I’m saying to take this seriously, and if it is a threat, we’ll keep you safe,” Foley said, and then closed the laptop with a solid click. She turned to Edith. “Thank you very much for welcoming me into your home, Mrs. Saybrook. I’ll be in touch.”
Mason, Penelope, Edith, and Rowan’s mother, Leona, jumped up to follow the agent out. James slipped out of the room to check on his children. Soon the only people left were the cousins. Corinne’s head whirled.
One heiress down, four to go.
Finally Rowan breathed in. “Who would want to kill Poppy?”
“Who would want to kill us?” Aster whispered.
Natasha was staring, unblinking, her face set with determination. All at once, something she’d said to People when she disinherited herself crossed her mind. The Saybrooks aren’t what they seem. I need to surround myself with more trustworthy people.
Natasha finally lowered her eyes, but Corinne was still shaken to the bone. She couldn’t wrap her mind around any of this, but one thing was clear. Someone had murdered Poppy. And one of them might be next.
8
A few days later, Rowan stood at James’s door in the hall of the Dakota. When she’d been here for Skylar’s birthday, the air had been festive and happy. Now someone had left a bouquet of flowers for Poppy on the doorstep. Rowan scooped them up and rang the bell.
James opened the door, his hair standing up and dark bags under his eyes. He wore a fitted T-shirt and dark denim jeans, and was barefoot.
“Thanks so much for coming,” he said. He’d called her fifteen minutes ago in a panic, saying the nanny had a family emergency, Briony was sick, and Skylar needed cupcakes for preschool the next day. A thrill had run through her—of everyone in his life, James had called her. Instantly, though, she’d felt horrified that such a petty thing had crossed her mind, and she’d lapsed back into the guilt and grief that had consumed her all week. Her cousin was dead, and Rowan had betrayed her in her final hours.
She didn’t make eye contact with James as she swept into the apartment toward the kids in the living room. A Disney cartoon was on the flat-screen; glitter and paste littered the heavy wooden coffee table. Briony was sitting on the floor, staring listlessly at an electronic toy that was singing the ABCs. Skylar was on the couch, dressed in a pink satin princess gown and a silver tiara, and holding a silver magic wand. Tears ran down her cheeks.
When she saw Rowan, Skylar ran to her and carefully hugged Rowan’s legs. Even at three years old, she was a little heiress in training. “Aunt Rowan, I’ve missed you.”
Rowan picked her up. The little girl wrapped her arms around Rowan’s shoulders tightly. Another wave of sadness overtook her as she realized that Skylar would never get a hug from her mom again.
“Did Daddy tell you I need cupcakes?” Skylar said when Rowan put her down. “It’s my turn!”
“How about we go to Magnolia Bakery?” Rowan suggested. “Or Crumbs?”
Pink blotches appeared on Skylar’s cheeks. “Mommy always makes them.”
Rowan’s heart stopped. She kneeled to Skylar’s level and looked in her eyes. “Well, I’ll make them today too. I’m the best cupcake maker this side of the Hudson River.”
She reached forward to tickle Skylar, which usually sent the little girl into a fit of giggles, but this time Skylar just squirmed away. “Where is Mommy?” she asked, her three-year-old voice high and innocent.
Tears pricked Rowan’s eyes. She glanced at James, but he was staring at his hands.
“She had a very bad fall,” Rowan fumbled. “But she’s always watching you. And if you talk to her, she’s always listening.”
Skylar’s little face registered an incongruous blend of obedience and confusion. “My daddy said we could paint my toenails if I want,” she said after a moment.
“Well.” Rowan took her hand. “I think that sounds nice. Maybe I could give you a makeover too.”
“You?” James snorted. Rowan shot him a look, and he shrugged. “Sorry. Skylar, Rowan will give you a wonderful makeover.”
This seemed to cheer Skylar up, and she walked into the kitchen with Rowan. James trailed in last and stood at the island, staring at an unopened box of cupcake mix. He looked so helpless and confused. Rowan wasn’t sure she’d ever seen him like that, and she was seized with the desire to take care of him too.
She turned to Briony, who had followed them in and was pressing a flushed cheek to the stainless steel refrigerator door. “You okay, sweetie?” Rowan said softly, and swept the little girl into her arms. Briony koala-beared her legs around Rowan and started crying. “It feels like she has a fever,” Rowan said over her shoulder to James.
James nodded. “I gave her Tylenol ten minutes ago.”
Rowan nodded. “I’ll hold her until it kicks in. And tickle her!” She shoved her fingers into the fold between Briony’s chin and neck until the little girl finally cracked a smile.
On the counter, James’s phone rang, a sharp run of piano notes bleating through the apartment. The device was sitting closer to Rowan on the island, and she subconsciously glanced at it. A 917 number popped on the screen. “Do you need to grab that?” Rowan asked him, shifting Briony higher in her arms.
James glanced at the number, then hit IGNORE. “Nah. We’re in the middle of a cupcake emergency, after all,” he said with a wan smile. “It can wait.”
Rowan looked at the box James was holding. “You were losing it over this? We only need three ingredients, and one of them is water.”
James opened the fridge and stared inside. “My head isn’t screwed on straight.” He sighed.
“That’s fine, because my head is exactly where it should be.” Rowan looked at Skylar and pretended to adjust her head on her neck. Skylar offered an amused smile. Rowan picked up at the Duncan Hines box again. “Okay, Dad. Get us some eggs. You remember what those look like, right? Round, white? Come from chickens?” She looked at Skylar again, tucked her fists in her armpits, and made chicken-wing-flapping motions. Skylar snickered.
“These?” James pulled out a tub of butter, joining in on the joke.
“Those aren’t eggs!” Skylar cried.
James looked at them mock-confusedly. “I could have sworn they were eggs.” Next he yanked open the crisper drawer and pulled out a cucumber. “Is this an egg?”
“Daddy!” Skylar cried, marching to the fridge herself. “Those are eggs!”
“Really?” James seemed astonished. “Skylar, you are the smartest girl ever.”
Rowan hid a smile and took the carton from James, then taught the little girl how to crack three of them in a bowl.
Once the cupcakes had been spooned into their little wrappers and were baking in the oven, she glanced in the fridge. It was piled full of stuff in Tupperware, takeout boxes, and Dean & DeLuca packages—from neighbors and family, she guessed. She pulled out a white box and inspected what was inside. Three marinated chicken breasts and a side of garlic mashed potatoes. Perfect.
Turning on the second wall oven, she passed Briony to James and placed the meal on a baking sheet. James hung back, but she felt his gaze on her as she moved around the kitchen. He didn’t answer his cell phone when it rang again.
James pulled out a chair and said, “What do you think, Sky? Should Aunt Rowan stay?”
“Yes, please!” Skylar clasped her hands together, her eyes begging.
Rowan thought of her own quiet apartment and sat down in the empty chair—Poppy’s chair.
It was easier than Rowan would have imagined to keep the kids entertained. She did her balance-a-spoon-on-her-nose trick. James made various coins from his pockets disappear. Rowan sang “Itsy Bitsy Spider” in the Donald Duck voice she and her brother Michael had spent hours perfecting. Both kids laughed happily and ate well. The oven dinged, and Rowan pulled out the cupcakes and, after they cooled a bit, frosted them with Skylar’s help.
By the time the sun had set over the Hudson, Briony had fallen asleep in Rowan’s arms on the couch. Rowan gently placed her in her crib, only to find Skylar behind her, begging that she read her a Madeline book—a first edition, signed to Adele, Poppy’s mother, from the author. James eased Skylar into bed. “Aunt Rowan in bed too,” Skylar insisted, and James stepped back, allowing Rowan to climb in. She tucked her legs under the covers, her heart breaking at the fussiness of Skylar’s lacy sheets and how tightly the little girl clung to a stuffed turtle Poppy had bought for her in Meriweather last year.
“Are you okay, Aunt Rowan?” Skylar asked.
Rowan looked over at her, realizing there were tears in her eyes. She had been staring at a page of the book but hadn’t started to read. “I’m great,” she said quickly, swallowing the sob. “I’m just happy to be here with you.”
Finally Skylar fell asleep. Rowan carefully settled her head on the pillow, pulled the blanket up to cover her shoulder, an
d tiptoed out of the room. James was waiting in the hall, his arms crossed over his chest. “Thank you.”
Rowan lowered her eyes. “It was nothing.” She walked into the kitchen. There was a pile of dishes in the sink.
“The kids seem okay, all things considered,” she said as she filled the sink with bubbly water.
James moved next to her. Rowan could smell his familiar peppermint soap. “Well, Briony doesn’t really get it, and I’m not sure how much Skylar understands, either. But she really misses her mom.”
Rowan nodded. “Of course she does.” And that would never go away. Even at thirty-two, Rowan still called her mom several times a week and tried to visit her childhood home in Chappaqua at least once a month. It was important to Leona that the family stay in touch, especially with her two sons so far away. Just that morning, Leona had called to report that her lilac tree out back was beginning to flower.
James moved away from the sink, wiping his hands on a towel. “I looked around the memorial service for, you know. Him. Anyone who seemed . . . unfamiliar.”
Rowan’s head snapped up. “You still think she was having an affair?”
James ran his hand through his hair. “I know I shouldn’t be thinking about it right now, but I can’t stop. I just keep imagining her whispering on the phone. There were so many nights when she didn’t come home.” He gazed out the window. “I was this ready to say something to her.”
There were no dishes left to wash, but Rowan kept her hands in the water anyway. “Did you say anything to the FBI about it?” she asked. She’d spoken to Foley yesterday.
“Yes. I thought they should know.”
“Oh.” Rowan swallowed hard. “Did you tell them . . . where you were that morning?”
James took a dish and dried it. “I didn’t tell them where I woke up. I didn’t think you’d want me to.”
Rowan felt a lump in her throat. Keeping her eyes on the spout at the sink, she nodded faintly. “Yeah.” She tried to sound tough and unaffected. “I mean, after all, it wasn’t like it . . . meant anything.”
She hadn’t told Foley, either, simply telling the agent that she’d been walking to work when it happened. She might not have pushed her cousin, but Rowan hardly felt innocent.
