by Cate Quinn
I last saw my momma before my wedding. She said a lotta mean things. Like I was dead to her, shouldn’t come back. I didn’t take her seriously. I thought as soon as she saw the pictures, me in my beautiful dress, she’d come around. Didn’t work out that way though.
Momma wasn’t at my wedding, of course. Only family there was Blake’s mom, and she only showed up to try to stop it happening. She didn’t look at me, just grabbed Blake’s arm and started talking scripture at him so fast you could barely understand her.
It was real awkward, standing there while your fiancé’s mother tries to talk him out of marrying you. I remember looking down at my finger and seeing I’d bitten all the skin around the nail.
I watched as Blake took his mom’s hand away, shook his head. Walked away toward the temple.
I didn’t know what to do. I’d never been inside the building before, and I was nervous I had to go in a certain door or something. And Mrs. Nelson looked like she might need some help. A ride home maybe. I was thinking how I should go ask Blake what to do when Mrs. Nelson sorta came at me so fast I had this bad urge just to run.
“Your garments will show through that,” she said, pointing at my dress.
I literally had no idea what she’d just said. Only I had the most horrible feeling. My momma had always told me that pervert stuff happens in a Mormon church.
My mouth was dry, but I managed to say, “What garments?” It all came out wrong. Like a stammer. Just like it used to happen at school when the girls would say mean things to me.
Mrs. Nelson blinked as though I’d said something unfriendly.
“Your garments,” she said patiently, as though I’d only misheard her. “Your holy garments.”
She looked into my eyes as if hoping to see something there.
“Don’t tell me,” she said slowly. “My son never told you.” She closed her eyes like she was summoning some inner strength, leaned in close, and whispered, “They can rent you something inside to cover up.” Then she stalked away, dabbing her eyes. It was only later I realized she’d maybe done a nice thing. Like she’d given her blessing in the only way she knew how. Rachel doesn’t agree. Thinks Adelaide was hoping I might back out last minute.
I’d known, of course, that Mormons favor very modest wedding dresses. Blake mentioned I should have my arms and chest covered. I’d thought at the time he was being mean about my clothes, same way as my own mom always is. No matter what I wear, she always makes me feel like I’m in white after Labor Day.
“You can see your bra strap!” she’d hiss. “You want people to think you’re a whore?”
Anyway, I had gone to the wedding boutique I’d always had my eye on ever since I was a little girl. It’s on the corner of Murray Street, and every time I passed by with my momma, I’d sneak a look through the window—sideways, so she couldn’t see. It wasn’t the kind of store she’d approve of. The frontage had a big lit-up sign, saying Fantasy Bridal, jutting over glass windows filled with frothy dresses. I don’t know why, but they always reminded me of fluffy ducklings, all lined up in a row.
I once asked Momma why it was called Fantasy Bridal, and she got this real mean look on her face and said, “Because weddings are a fantasy before all the hard work begins.”
My momma was married young and spent pretty much my whole girlhood telling me what a mistake it was. I didn’t look openly at Fantasy Bridal after that, but I’d sneak little glances. Don’t laugh, okay? But one time, when it snowed, it looked so beautiful, all crisp and clean outside, and I pretended I was an ice princess, and the store was my very own wardrobe.
In any case, I went inside before my wedding to Blake. The women were real kind, and I think they could see I was nervous. And of course, I was all alone. They kept asking about fit, and when was the big day, and would I need a dress a little bigger by that time. So I guess they thought I was what my momma calls a “shotgun wedding.”
I told ’em, all proud, that I was marryin’ my childhood sweetheart, and he’d sent me a rose every day since we were five years old. One of the women wiped a tear away, I remember. Then I explained to them it was important my dress covered my arms and chest, because his family were real conservative people, on account of their religion.
The lady with puffy hair asked, straight out, “Is it an LDS family, sweetie? Mormon?” And I said, “No, ma’am, they’re just real religious folk.”
I wish I hadn’t a’ said that. Only I was nervous, because this wasn’t a Mormon part of town, and I didn’t want word to get back to my momma that I was shopping for wedding gowns. In any case, the ladies were Catholic ladies, and they were as clueless as me when it came to dressing for the temple.
They brought me all the dresses I could afford for my budget. I’d come with my entire savings—all my Saturday job money saved since I was fifteen and the diner money and tips after that. So I was eyeing up the big poufy dresses with big skirts. But the nice lady steered me away from that aisle toward what she called “pocketbook-friendly dresses.” I so liked the sound of that I didn’t figure right away she meant cheap.
Eventually, I saw the one I wanted. It was fitted in folded layers to midthigh and then held with a big, white flower and spraying out at the feet. It had a halter strap decorated with lots of little white roses, and I remember putting my hand out to stroke them.
“Perhaps your in-laws wouldn’t mind,” said the store lady kindly, “if you wore this one. You’re such a slip of a thing, you’d look like a little fairy.”
“I’m not sure,” I said, drawing my hand away, remembering the disapproval on Blake’s face when I talked of dresses and crowns. “It’s an important ceremony. I want to look right for my husband.”
I felt very grown up saying that. I remember standing a little taller.
“This one then?” suggested the store lady. I got the feeling she was a little tired of me being in the store at that point and wanted to close up. The dress she held up had see-through lace sleeves and a lace section fitted across the chest. “It’s very classy,” she said. “Modest too.”
“Yes,” I told her. “That one is perfect.” And I honestly thought it was. Until Blake’s mom told me different on my wedding day.
My face must have looked an absolute picture of misery as I walked into the temple. I felt like everyone was staring. My wedding dress, with its lacy chest panel, now displayed a solid six inches of faded white nylon, limp from too many washings. It had been loaned from the temple last minute for eleven dollars and fifty-four cents.
From out the car window, the discount ladies’ clothes store zooms out of view, replaced by a sign for Midtown Plaza, with Dreams Travel Agency, Lotus Massage, and the McKabe’s Food Market all in the same lot.
There’s a crackling sound from the front. The policeman driving us is speaking into his radio. I don’t hear the response. We turn a little too fast around a corner.
“Yeah,” he says, hands threading the steering wheel, “we’re bringing her in now.”
Chapter Forty-Five
Tina, Sister-Wife
I’m sitting, drumming my fingers on the table. Brewer has left the room. Carlson is back. He’s brought me a coffee and slides it across the table without a word. I take it gratefully. He raises the pack of cigarettes, waves them.
I shake my head. “I’m good, thanks.”
He sets them down, stares at the pack. “I gave up for a while,” he says. “Hard to make it stick.”
“What happened?”
“Ah, life. Life got in the way.” His eyes lift to mine.
“You can smoke one if you want,” I tell him. “I won’t tell on ya.”
“Not while I’m on duty,” he says. Carlson pushes the cigarettes away, sighs.
“So you gonna tell me about it?” he asks.
“Tell you about what?” I feel an ache of shame that is unexpected. Like Carlso
n knows I’m disgusting now. Why should I care?
“Aw, c’mon, Miss Keidis. Gimme a break here. Brewer out there…” He jerks a thumb to the door. “She thinks you did it. Wants to let Mrs. Nelson go, get you booked ’n bailed. But you and I both know you didn’t murder your husband, right?”
Unexpectedly, I’m struck by an urge to cry. Takes an effort to drive it back.
“So help me out,” he concludes, hands outstretched, pleading.
I consider him for a minute, tryin’ to work out if he’s playin’ me. “I don’t help cops,” I say finally.
“You gonna go to jail for some honor-among-thieves bullshit? ’Cause I’m gonna level with you, Miss Keidis. You seem more intelligent than that.”
Carlson flicks the bottom of the Luckies pack, nudging two cigarettes higher than the rest. He passes one to me, lights it, then touches the flame to his own, pumping in smoke while it dangles from his lips.
I inhale deeply, tryin’ to savor the blast of smoke. Truth is, it’s not as satisfying as I’d hoped, but I pretend to myself it is.
“Miss Keidis,” he says, “big part of this is all gonna come down to whose idea it was to play bedroom games with strangulation equipment. I’m guessing it was at your husband’s request, right? His preference?”
I pick at my nail polish, smoke coiling from the cigarette between my fingers. “Yeah,” I admit. “He liked that stuff.”
“This was something you knew before you got married?”
I blow out more smoke, shielding my face. “It wasn’t discussed, but I guess I knew,” I say. “A few years on the block and you learn to pick out men who want certain things. Certain special services.”
“So how soon after your wedding did Blake request your special services?”
“Pretty much right away.” I feel a little tinge of something bad, remembering that. I’d been so naive, thinking Blake loved me for myself. Of course there was something else I would have to bring to the relationship. Later on, I kinda did it for Emily too. Like I should deliver everything Blake wanted, since I got the impression she wasn’t so into it. Rachel, we all knew, was a lights-out-pretend-it’s-not-happening arrangement.
“That must be hard for you. ’Specially now he’s dead,” says Carlson.
“What are you, Oprah Winfrey now?”
“In my experience, grieving is a complicated thing.” He shrugs. “You grieve for what was, and you grieve for what wasn’t, and also for what might have been.”
“That’s real pretty.” Something occurs to me. “You lose someone recently?”
“Ah, not so recently. But yes. My wife died, ’bout three years back.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I’ve kinda gotten used to it.” His eyes drift to the window.
We share a companionable silence. I’m glad Brewer isn’t here.
“You mind telling me what the appeal was?” he asks after a moment. “I mean to say, I get the impression you’re not as into the religious part as the others.”
“I’ve been a good Mormon, Detective,” I say, on the defensive. “I followed the rules. No alcohol, caffeine, nicotine. No blowing guys in alleys for five bucks, the whole deal.”
He smiles at that. “When I was in high school, I played soccer,” he tells me, drawing on his cigarette. “Something my old man wanted me to do.” He waves the cigarette like he’s dismissing it. “I followed all the rules too.” He smiles again. “Never liked the sport though.”
Carlton looks sorta cute when he smiles. Younger.
“I just wondered why that particular line of faith?” he says.
“Yeah, well. Turns out me and God is like every other man in my life. It’s complicated.”
He doesn’t laugh this time. There’s a pause. I wipe at the corners of my eyes.
“You’re right, it was hard, that bedroom stuff.” I sniff after a moment. “I thought…” My voice gives way. “I thought we’d be like a normal married couple, you know?” I wipe my nose with the back of my hand. “I mean, normal as you can be in a plural marriage, right?”
I swallow, sniff again. “I knew I’d have to share him. I was prepared for that part at least. Thought I was. But I didn’t want to bring any of my past with me. My life had been so bad,” I say. “So messed up and dirty. I wanted to be pure. A fresh start. I guess I was expectin’ too much.”
Carlson doesn’t reply to this, but his expression is sympathetic. I wipe tears.
“It didn’t even work,” I say miserably. “’Cause I couldn’t make him happy. He’d have these kinda black days where he’d just lie on the couch.” I sniff. “An’ he was under so much stress, tryin’ to keep the three of us from fighting, ’cause we couldn’t get along.”
“You’d come out of rehab. You were vulnerable,” he says. “It’s not your job to make your husband happy. That’s his job.”
I sniff again, smile up at him. “Thanks.”
“You know, something did occur to me. You think it’s possible one of the other wives saw the content of Blake’s second phone?”
“No.” I sniff. “I mean, I don’t see how. He kept it in a locked box.”
“Phones nowadays tend to automatically sync with cloud servers,” says Carlson. “Think Blake was tech-savvy enough to turn that function off? I mean to say,” he adds, “if Rachel or Emily had access to internet, maybe they coulda…”
“I know what you’re tryin’ to do,” I interrupt, feeling myself growing redder at the thought of those files somewhere in the cloud. “You’re tryin’ to put pressure on me. Get me to say that Rachel got mad about those videos and killed Blake.”
I tap the ash. Point the cigarette aggressively.
“Well, I’m tellin’ you,” I say, waving the burning tip. “No one hated Rachel more than me. Maybe she even could kill someone, I don’t know. Buttoned-up gals like that… You never can be sure, right?” But Rachel is the most devout person you ever did meet. She believes, and I mean believes that she will spend all eternity with Blake. Like for-ever. He is the one who pulls her into the afterlife. Him. You really think she would risk her eternal soul and murder the man she loves, over what? A little jealousy? A disagreement?
I tap more ash to make my point.
“You’re barking up the wrong tree,” I say. “It wasn’t Rachel.”
“Miss Keidis.” Carlson looks at me steadily. “Can you really be so sure of that?”
I nod my head. “No way on God’s green earth did Rachel Nelson kill her husband.”
Chapter Forty-Six
Rachel, First Wife
They’ve left me sitting alone in the police interview room for what feels like forever.
After the longest time, I pull Brewer’s file on the desk toward me and open the cover.
Right on top is an old picture of Blake. I guess his mother must have dug it out from our college days. Blake’s looking young and preppy, his hair true strawberry blond, with his light-blue eyes smiling out.
There’s an ache in my heart. It must be from around the time of Blake and my initial dates. He had taken me on my first-ever visit to an ice-cream parlor—a creamery on the Brigham Young University campus. Blake was absolutely lit up that I had never been anywhere like it before. He even paid for a five-quart tub so I could try the peanut butter cup. It was one of the jokes at our wedding. His brother said he knew I was The One, since Blake had willingly spent two dollars extra.
I’m caught by a rush of emotion. How my stomach would fizz every time I saw his number pop up on my phone. Everything was perfect, so long as I kept Rayne Ambrosine buried where she belonged.
A graveyard at night. A shovel.
Blake is gone now, I think, looking at that smiling college boy. Blake is gone.
I turn the photo of Blake over and notice Adelaide has scrawled on the back.
Blake,
first day at college.
I shake my head. Blake never did graduate. Just didn’t have the head for economics. I used to help with his essays, but I couldn’t take exams for him.
The door handle turns, and I shut the file quickly and push it back.
It’s Detective Carlson. My heartbeat picks up. I don’t like him one little bit.
“Officer Brewer and I have been having a disagreement,” he says, sliding out a chair and sitting down, legs splayed.
I don’t answer.
“The way I see it, something made you mad that night. You lost your temper. There was a weapon at hand. Our best guess is some kind of hoe or garden implement. Sharp but not knife-sharp. You’re a strong woman,” says Carlson. “All that hauling wood and digging. Maybe your first thought was to make it seem like suicide. Or one of the sex games you knew your husband liked.”
“Excuse me?”
A white carpeted room, starched linen, crisp sheets. The blond lady lies naked on the bed with Blake on top of her. She’s pretending to enjoy it, but she doesn’t. Twisted. That’s what people say about her. She’s twisted. Jealous of the younger girls.
“Don’t play dumb with me, Mrs. Nelson. You think anyone would believe you didn’t know? You were in the same house, for chrissakes.”
The blond woman turns her head, looking at me. She whispers in Blake’s ear. They’re making plans for me. Hatred boils inside me. I want to lash out, strike at her with something from her hospital cart. Make her hurt in her private parts.
The door opens and Brewer enters, looking flushed.
“You didn’t come get me,” she says to Carlson, and I can see from her face that she’s mad but doesn’t want to show it.
“Yeah, I got a few questions for Mrs. Nelson, didn’t wanna bother you.” Carlson leans back in his chair again, and I see Brewer’s eyebrows and mouth tighten fractionally in dislike.
