Three Single Wives: The devilishly twisty, breathlessly addictive must-read thriller

by Gina LaManna

  “Like I told you last night, I’m not in the best place right now. Emotionally, I mean. I’m trying to get over someone.”

  “I was right.” Ryan winked. “It was him that texted you this morning. I know the signs.”

  Penny sighed. “I don’t want you to feel like I’m using you.”

  “You can use me all you want. I don’t mind.”

  “Just so long as we’re clear, this isn’t…” Penny hesitated. “We’re not, like, an item or anything.”

  His grin faded to a more neutral expression, and he shrugged. “Don’t overthink it. We’re just having some fun. Isn’t that what life is all about?”

  Penny gave him a ghost of a smile. She wasn’t sure she knew what life was about anymore. Chasing dreams? Finding a soul mate? Living by the rules…or breaking them all?

  She shrugged. “I suppose a little fun wouldn’t kill me.”

  “Damn right,” Ryan said. “And if it does, isn’t that the way to go?”

  Still wondering if Ryan might be onto something, Penny shuffled into the kitchen and hunted for breakfast. She scrounged up a Pop-Tart from the embarrassingly bare pantry and plunked it into the microwave. Penny didn’t own a toaster.

  While the sprinkled slab of sugar spun around and around on a paper napkin, Penny’s finger got twitchy. She reached for her phone. Toyed with the lock screen. Eventually, she slid it open.

  She pretended that she wasn’t going to read Roman’s email— especially not with Ryan waiting for her one room over—but she didn’t fool herself. Her thumb pulled the notifications bar down to reveal an intriguing subject line. Penny couldn’t resist. She never could when it came to Roman.

  Subject: Invitation

  From: TheRomanTate@gmail.com Message:

  Dear Penny,

  I can explain—tonight, I promise.

  7:00 p.m. at the Pelican Hotel. Cocktail attire.

  Yours truly,

  Roman

  TRANSCRIPT

  Prosecution: Who was invited to the book club event on February 13, 2019?

  Eliza Tate: Well, we had two events that day. The main one—book club—had an invitation list of about twenty industry guests. I’m not sure I remember the entire list off the top of my head, but I’m sure you’ve been given a copy of it.

  Prosecution: What was the other event on that date?

  Eliza Tate: It was a mock book club. A practice run for later that evening.

  Prosecution: Why did you need a trial run for a book club?

  Eliza Tate: It wasn’t any old book club in the evening. We had several popular bloggers, Instagrammers, and journalists attending the evening’s event. Being that it was Marguerite’s first appearance for her newest work, I wasn’t going to throw her to the wolves. Especially when the media was involved. Everything needed to go perfectly.

  Prosecution: Who was at the trial run?

  Eliza Tate: Me, obviously. Marguerite Hill. Anne Wilkes. Penny Sands.

  Prosecution: It has been noted that you served wine at this event?

  Eliza Tate: Is it really book club without wine?

  Prosecution: At three p.m.?

  Eliza Tate: It was happy hour.

  Prosecution: Did Mrs. Wilkes have a glass of wine?

  Eliza Tate: She might have. I don’t remember. I don’t police my guests.

  Prosecution: Did you have wine?

  Eliza Tate: I did. Several glasses. Probably why I don’t remember if Anne was drinking.

  Prosecution: Were you aware that Mrs. Wilkes checked herself into rehab a few years back?

  Eliza Tate: Yes.

  Prosecution: And are you aware that she checked herself out?

  Eliza Tate: I picked her up myself.

  Prosecution: Why didn’t her husband pick her up?

  Eliza Tate: He thought she needed to stay, so he refused to pick her up.

  Prosecution: Was there tension between you and Detective Wilkes after that?

  Eliza Tate: I don’t know. I’m best friends with Anne, not Mark. I don’t really care what he thinks of me.

  Prosecution: So if Mrs. Wilkes needed help, she could count on you?

  Eliza Tate: Yes.

  Prosecution: Mrs. Tate, did Mrs. Wilkes ask you for help on the night of February 13? Help with anything at all? A favor? Perhaps a big favor?

  Eliza Tate: If you’re asking whether I’m taking the fall for Anne murdering my husband, then no. I love Anne, but I don’t love her that much.

  SEVENTEEN

  Six Months Before

  August 2018

  Eliza watched her husband over the dinner table.

  She sat back and fiddled with the stem of her champagne glass, sending bubbles skittering across the surface like water bugs. Roman slung his arm over another woman’s chair. Eliza frowned at her tuna tartare. For some reason, the stupid loan from Jocelyn and Todd had pushed Roman over the edge.

  Running a finger around the rim of her champagne glass, Eliza drew out a nervous, high-pitched note. When several pointed gazes landed on her finger, she retracted it sharply, watching as Roman put his hand on Marguerite’s shoulder.

  Eliza watched her husband whisper into the ear of her prize client, wondering what he could possibly be telling her. In the other woman’s defense, Marguerite had looked quite uncomfortable with Roman’s advances at the beginning of the night. She’d continuously glanced over at Eliza to gauge her reaction as Roman took care to refill her wineglass or brushed his elbow against hers.

  At first, Eliza had gotten a laugh out of it. Roman had chosen the wrong woman to seduce. Marguerite disliked every fiber of Roman— who he was, what he stood for, how he walked, talked, spoke. But as the night went on, Eliza’s internal laughter died down. She hadn’t given her husband enough credit.

  Marguerite eventually softened under the charms of Roman Tate. Eliza had seen the exact moment when it had clicked—during the dessert course when Roman had offered Marguerite a bite of his tiramisu. She’d given one last look at Eliza, but when Eliza didn’t react, everything changed. Instead of dubiously fending off Roman’s advances, Marguerite leaned into them, eager and intrigued.

  Her soft laughter at his words grew a bit louder. Their eye contact lingered boldly. It wasn’t Marguerite’s fault the way this twisted fairy tale was unfolding; she was just a pawn. The poor woman was being played by Roman, and that annoyed Eliza.

  Standing, Eliza pushed in her chair and flashed a demure smile around the table. “If you’ll just excuse me, I have to go check on the caterer and make sure everything’s ready next door. Please finish your dessert and join me when you’re ready.”

  “See you over there, dear,” Roman said with a flash of a smile. “I’ll stay back and make sure the guest of honor finds her way.”

  Marguerite met Eliza’s gaze dead-on. “How kind of your husband.”

  Eliza sucked in a breath. “I’m a lucky woman.”

  Leaving her husband to cuddle up with her star client, Eliza wobbled her away across the street, unsure what to make of the events from dinner. Roman’s behavior made her uneasy for more than one reason, and she wasn’t quite sure what to do about it. She needed time to think. She needed a rebuttal, but what? How could she fix this?

  Eliza made her way from the dinner restaurant to the event venue. She tottered into the Pelican Hotel on ridiculously high heels, smoothing her skirt as she bypassed the front desk and made her way straight to the ballroom. Once inside, she hesitated, leaning over a cocktail table for support. She’d just closed her eyes when a voice startled her from behind.

  “Oh God. I’m ridiculously early, aren’t I?”

  Eliza straightened, turning at the unfamiliar voice. She peered through the beautiful centerpiece—a stunning bouquet of lilies— toward the young woman standing in the doorway.

  The first guest looked supremely nervous, her eyes rapidly flicking one way then another as if hunting for the quickest exit from the room. She wore a poppy-red, one-piece jumper with teeny, tiny
straps across bare shoulders. The pantsuit swished around trim legs, and the buttons on her chest, as delicate as flowers, hid an impressive display of cleavage.

  This woman didn’t have the haunted, half-starved look of many aspiring models or actresses in this city. She had the fresh-faced, healthy glow of a woman brimming with hope and ambition. When she walked, it was on a set of chunky heels that wobbled slightly, and as Eliza looked closer, she realized the shoes were held together with a swatch of duct tape.

  Eliza hid a smile. The jumper wasn’t from anywhere fancy. A department store maybe. A secondhand boutique at best. The fabric had pilled slightly and was of dubious quality, details Eliza noticed as she moved closer. Not that it mattered, since the woman had a stunning figure and the benefit of youth. With her smile, nobody would notice her clothes.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” the guest said, twisting the toe of one shoe into the ground. “But do you know if this is the launch party for Marguerite Hill’s new book?”

  “It is. Come in and make yourself comfortable.”

  “I’m Penny.” The girl threw a hand over her face and cringed. “This is so embarrassing. I should have known when they said the party was at seven, they meant seven—not six thirty.”

  Eliza smiled. “Someone has to be first. May I ask how you heard about the event?”

  The woman’s face paled at the question. “Holy moly, you’re Eliza Tate, aren’t you?”

  “Guilty.”

  “I…er…I recognize you from pictures in your husband’s office. I’m one of his students.”

  “Penny—oh, you’re the Penny! You babysit for the Wilkeses. Anne is a close friend of mine. She raves about you all the time. It’s so nice to finally put a face to a name.”

  “You’re telling me.” Penny scoffed, her cheeks blooming to a rosy shade of pink. “Well, I’m a huge fan of Marguerite Hill, so I’m thrilled to be here. Take Charge was actually the book that gave me the courage to move to LA. I can’t wait to get my hands on Be Free.”

  “You’re new here, then?” Eliza thought that explained quite a lot about Penny.

  “I’ve only been living here a couple of months. I’m from a small town in Iowa. I’m sure you’ve never heard of it.”

  That explains even more, Eliza thought. “Well, welcome. Marguerite will be so glad to hear about your experience with her book. I’ll introduce you when she arrives. It should be any second now.”

  “You’d really introduce me?”

  “She’d love it.”

  “I would…” Penny cleared her throat. “Never mind. It’s stupid.”

  Eliza caught a fleeting glimpse of uncertainty in Penny’s eyes. “What is it?”

  Penny shrugged out of a small shoulder bag patterned with bright florals. It didn’t match a thing she was wearing, nor could it be described as cocktail-hour elegant. Instead, it was just plain fun. Eliza wondered when she’d last bought something just because it was fun.

  From her bag, Penny withdrew a dog-eared copy of Take Charge. “Would it be totally rude to ask her to sign my copy?”

  “She’d love it,” Eliza confirmed. “In the meantime, help yourself to something to drink. It’s an open bar.”

  Leaving Penny to fend for herself, Eliza strolled to the kitchen attached to the ballroom with thoughts of Penny on her mind. Anne would have to be careful keeping a beauty like Penny around the house, as sweet as she seemed. If Mark had already strayed once, as Anne feared, was there a chance he’d run off with the nanny?

  Mark’s indiscretion was more unfortunate than most of its kind. If anyone had asked Eliza years ago if Anne and Mark would last, she’d have given a hearty nod. They were perfect together. They made sense as a couple. If they couldn’t make it work, Eliza was leery anyone could.

  Eliza quietly sized up the catering staff as they moved like a well-oiled machine, bustling teensy plates topped with bacon-wrapped scallops to the earliest guests and ushering finely sliced strawberries and bananas and pineapples onto skewers at the chocolate fountain.

  Satisfied, Eliza returned to the party room, realizing she’d never gotten an answer from Penny as to how she’d secured an invitation. She wondered if it hadn’t come offhandedly from Roman or Anne. Not that it mattered, seeing as Penny was another warm body to add to the evening’s head count, and a bigger party made for a bigger impression on Marguerite. A bigger impression on Marguerite meant a bigger paycheck for Eliza. A bigger paycheck for Eliza meant she could get her family out of financial hot water and back to the way things were before.

  At that moment, Roman Tate strolled arm in arm into the ballroom with Marguerite Hill. Her face tilted toward his as she dedicated her full attention to his words. The lines around the author’s mouth crinkled into a smile as she laughed at whatever he’d said.

  In response, he reached out and rested a palm on her wrist. Marguerite tugged her fingers through her hair, tucking a stray piece of curl behind her ear, then licked her lower lip. Eliza wondered if it was on purpose or if it was a subconscious touch. They’d launched into a sort of dance, a seductive ritual. Objectively, it was fascinating to watch. If only it weren’t Eliza’s husband on one side and her best chance at success on the other.

  Eliza made her way to the pair, coming to a stop before them. Marguerite boldly pulled her hand away, though her face didn’t hold the slightest hint of an apology. If anything, her eyes held a dare. Eliza did a double take, wondering what had changed since the beginning of the evening when the author had so carefully fended off Roman’s advances. But the curious moment had passed, leaving Eliza to wonder if she’d imagined the whole thing.

  “Marguerite, may I have a word with you?” Eliza murmured. “There’s somebody I’m dying to have you meet.”

  TRANSCRIPT

  Defense: You’ve been in Penny Sands’s apartment, yes?

  Anne Wilkes: Yes, several times.

  Defense: What was it like?

  Anne Wilkes: Simple. She’s young. It’s easy to forget what it’s like to move to a new city and have no money. She did the best she could. I helped her out when I was able.

  Defense: Do you think Ms. Sands needed money?

  Anne Wilkes: Who couldn’t use a little extra money?

  Defense: How far do you think Ms. Sands would have gone to procure additional funds?

  Anne Wilkes: Roman’s murder wasn’t about money. That was personal.

  EIGHTEEN

  Six Months Before

  August 2018

  Anne felt wildly out of place as she headed toward Beverly Hills and her best friend’s book launch party. A pinch of annoyance sat with her at the sheer fact that she was driving a minivan to the big event. Eliza and her husband would no doubt be showing up in some trendy new ride. She had no clue what the rest of the guests would be driving, but it certainly wasn’t a minivan. Especially not one that ran on a prayer and crossed fingers.

  Anne drove past the entrance twice, the first time because she missed it, the second time because she couldn’t believe the valet rates posted out front. Fuming at the injustice of a twenty-four-dollar fee, Anne parked blocks away from the venue and vented some of her frustration by stomping the half mile back to the hotel gates.

  “Twenty-four dollars,” she huffed, swinging her purse onto her shoulder as she continued to stomp inside. “When’s the last time I spent twenty-four dollars on myself?”

  Anne curbed her stomping at the entrance to the banquet room at the hotel. She paused, taking in the stunning expanse before her. Eliza had orchestrated a brilliant display of elegance intertwined with glamour.

  The demure, pearly tablecloths were offset by sparkling centerpieces. The simple uniforms of the waitstaff contrasted with the tiny elegance of the appetizers they carried on crystal trays. Champagne flutes filled with glittery shades of pink and gold complemented the bronze molding around the edges of the room.

  “Anne, sweetie, you made it!”

  Anne looked up to find Eliza rushing toward h
er. She inched her purse higher on her shoulder, sliding it behind her body to mask the obscure logo.

  “So glad you came.” Eliza took Anne by the shoulders. “And don’t you look marvelous! When’s the last time these ladies have seen the light of day?”

  Weak with relief, Anne laughed when Eliza winked at her chest. “Are you sure I look okay?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You look amazing. Nobody would ever guess you had four kids in that little number.” Eliza gave her a stare that told her she wasn’t joking. “Did you find the food?”

  As soon as Eliza mentioned food, Anne realized she was starving. “As a matter of fact, I came ready to eat. To hell with my diet. I’ll start tomorrow.”

  “That’s what I always say,” Eliza agreed.

  “That’s not what I say, though.” A new voice joined the conversation. “I always say why start tomorrow when you can start today?”

  Anne turned toward the woman at Eliza’s elbow, a striking figure who appeared just a few years older than Anne but in dramatically better shape. It took a moment for Anne to place the woman, and only when Eliza gave a hefty clear of her throat did she put it together.

  “Marguerite Hill?” Anne managed. “I recognize you from the picture on the back of your book. Take Charge has been in my van forever, and I can’t wait to get my hands on your newest one. Eliza’s been telling us all about it.”

  “I guess you haven’t gotten to the chapter about starting today instead of tomorrow?” Marguerite gave a sly smile, then leaned in and raised a hand conspiratorially toward Anne. “I’m just joking, love. Easier said than done, yeah?”

  Anne gave a nervous chuckle at the strange accent in the author’s voice. Anne could’ve sworn Eliza had said that Marguerite was from somewhere like Montana, but her words had an oddly European note to them. “You can say that again.”

  “Anne, help yourself to the appetizers,” Eliza said. “If I could just have a moment alone with Marguerite, that would be lovely.”

  Anne left the two women to chat and strode over to a table filled with dainty trays of finger foods. En route, she realized she was holding her head higher. Tipping her shoulders back. Adding a sway to her hips. Almost as if she was on her way to recovering some old relic of herself that she’d forgotten existed, a woman who met interesting people and wore intriguing clothes and tasted exotic foods. A woman who did more than clean up vomit and wipe snotty noses.