The Masterpiecers (Masterful #1)

by Olivia Wildenstein

  “Was that what happened yesterday? You tried to off yourself?” the girl asks. She smells like water, mineral and tinny.

  “Yesterday was an accident,” I say.

  Chacha leans over the table to see past me. “What you in for, Sofia?”

  “I killed my professor,” Sofia says. “He gave me bad grades. He would’ve ruined my future.”

  Gracie snorts. “And killing him didn’t fuck it up?”

  Sofia shrugs. “At least I was in control of my fate.”

  “Ever killed anyone else?” Gill asks.

  “No, but I did kill an animal once. My grandma’s parakeet. I plucked it, hoping it would shut up. It just screeched louder, so I had to snap its neck.” She forks another big bite of chicken into her mouth.

  “Ouch,” Chacha says. She scoots back, probably to put some space between herself and the pallid nutcase next to me.

  “If I hadn’t killed him, someone else would’ve. The man had it coming,” Sofia says.

  “How did you kill him?” I find myself asking.

  “Followed one of his recipes to make acid, and then splashed it all over his body. Worked really well.”

  “You’re real fucked up.” Chacha readjusts her hairnet and then swings her bony bowlegs off the bench. “I need to get back to the kitchen. Gracie, you coming?”

  Her cousin stands and follows her out. No longer under the cook’s scrutiny, I push my tray away.

  “Can I have the rest?” Sofia asks. “I love chicken.”

  I nod.

  “Parakeet tastes a little the same.”

  “You ate the fucking bird?” Gill asks.

  “I wasn’t going to let it rot.”

  “Did you eat your teacher too?” Gill asks.

  “That’s sick. I’m not some cannibal. Yuck.” After sticking my chicken on her plate, she asks, “Have you ever eaten human flesh?”

  “Hell no,” Gill and I say at the same time.

  “Did you hear about your sister, Aster?” Sofia asks out of the blue.

  “Hear about what?”

  “That she might be connected to Kevin’s death.”

  Every muscle in my body coils. “She had nothing to do with it.”

  “Apparently she was in the water, next to his body and—”

  “What?” I say.

  “Apparently she was in—”

  “I heard you!” I’ve raised my voice. “A lot of people were in the water.”

  “It’s Lincoln who suggested it. She said your sister was trashed last night. She could’ve lost control—”

  “Ivy doesn’t lose control.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Yes.”

  “But—”

  Gill wraps her hands around her freckled elbows. “Drop it, Sofia.”

  Sofia’s talc-pink lips open, but close immediately. She scrapes the remainder of my plate onto hers, and then moves back to her original seat. I get another strong whiff of her boggy scent.

  Neither Gill nor I say anything for a while. After several long minutes of me staring daggers at the cup of green Jell-O on my tray, Gill speaks up, “Why were you asking about suicide?”

  “It was just a topic of conversation.”

  “My ass. You’re not the sort of person who comes up with just a topic of conversation. Everything you say and do, you think about…a lot.”

  I hoist up my shoulders, then let them slump. “Maybe I’ve been feeling down.”

  “Well let’s bring you back up then,” she says. “What makes you happy?”

  “Popcorn and a movie.”

  Gill jumps off the bench. “Consider it done.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. I hope you’re not too picky about the movie,” she says. “We’ll have to see what’s on cable.”

  “I’ll watch anything.”

  “Good.”

  She walks over to Officer Landry and, after a brief conversation, she’s granted access to the kitchen.

  A movie and popcorn sound surreal.

  “She your girlfriend?” Sofia asks mid-bite.

  “She’s my friend.”

  “You sure she’s clear on that?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Can I have your Jell-O?”

  “You can have my Jell-O.” I slide it over so she doesn’t come near me again.

  “Thanks.” As I make to get up, she adds, “Another good way to get killed is messing with the wrong person.” She tips her head toward Cheyenne. “But it could backfire. You could become that person’s bitch, although I don’t think she swings that way.” After a spoonful of the wobbly green stuff, she adds, “She’s probably your best bet. That is, if you’re serious about leaving the DOC in a body bag.”

  “I’m not suicidal.”

  “I thought you were down.”

  “Eavesdrop much,” I grumble.

  “I don’t eavesdrop. I’m just aware. Some friendly advice: no one can hurt you if you’re aware ’cause you can figure their next move before they make it. I was a grandmaster when I was a kid.”

  “A what?”

  “A professional chess player.” She winks at me, her see-through eyelashes grazing her diaphanous cheek.

  I’ve never seen anything coming. In the past, it was because I was so focused on Ivy. Now, it’s because I’m so focused on my predicament. Or perhaps those are excuses. Perhaps I don’t want to see things coming. Who wants to keep their eyes on the headlights of a truck that’s barreling straight for you?

  “We’re all set,” Gill says.

  She’s crept up so quietly that I jump.

  “Already?” I ask.

  She nods and extends her hand to help me up. I pretend not to see it and rise on my own. Underneath her arm, I spot a brown bag with grease smudges that make the air smell divine. Together, we walk over to Landry, who signals the squat guard in the opposite corner, the one who always sports her hair in a thick braid.

  “Kim, could you take Inmates Redd and Swanson to the dayroom and stay with them. Sergeant Driscoll granted them one hour of television.”

  Kim frowns, but leads the way.

  “How did you swing that?” I whisper to Gill. “Another free wax?”

  She smiles. “Yup.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Anything for you.”

  Her eyes sparkle like the diamond in the porcelain box. The one that’s no longer there.

  Chapter Forty

  Ivy

  “Do not come near me!” I yell at Lincoln, grabbing fistfuls of the dove-gray sham.

  After the bridge incident, Danny and two cops escorted us back to Brook’s apartment where I burrowed in his guest bedroom. I haven’t spoken a word to anyone since the revolting accusation. I’ve just lain on my side, facing the cloudless sky and wondering how I could have been so shortsighted.

  “I never meant to accuse you of anything.”

  “Leave me alone, Lincoln.”

  She sticks one hand on her hip. “You think the world is out to get you, don’t you? Well, you’re wrong. And the only reason I mentioned you were in the water was because you were.”

  “And the alcohol? My vomiting? Why did you mention that?”

  “The reporter brought it up. I didn’t. Besides, it works to your advantage. If you were buzzed, then it looks less suspicious.”

  “Suspicious? Are you hearing yourself, Lincoln? Just get out,” I growl.

  I turn my gaze back to the dazzling slice of city visible through the panoramic window. The building across the street is entirely made of glass. It reflects Brook’s penthouse, down to the bodies stirring around the pool deck, setting up dinner. A hubbub erupts in the hallway.

  “She’s in here,” Lincoln calls out.

  “Ivy, we tried to come as quickly as possible but the negotiations with the network took longer than expected,” Dominic says. He steps around the bed. His perma-tanned skin looks a little orange and wrinkled. “I don’t like these new accusations. And I do
n’t believe them.” He shifts my feet to the side to sit. “Tell me what happened, sweetheart.” When I don’t, he looks toward the door. “Lincoln, go get ready. Your stylists are in the living room. Brook, shut the door, please.” Once it’s closed, he says, “It’s just us now. Tell me what happened.”

  “Haven’t you seen the news, Mister Bacci? I was accused of murdering Kevin,” I say bluntly.

  “And did you?”

  I sit up so quickly that my head spins. “Of course not.”

  “Then why are you so worked up?”

  “Because it’s all lies.” I gather my knees against me. “Just like the doctored photos.”

  “Then you have nothing to worry about. When the detectives get here, just—”

  “The detectives?” I yelp.

  He nods. “The show’s lawyer—the one you met—she’ll be here too. You have our total support, Ivy.” He pats my knee. “You know,” he adds, “last night, on the beach, I spoke to Kevin’s lawyer. He told me about the sergeant’s wife. About what she did…I even have a copy of her letter.” He pats the breast pocket of his beige linen jacket.

  “What did she do?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “No.”

  His pupils pulse.

  “Did she doctor the photos?” I ask.

  “I shouldn’t—”

  “I was wrongfully accused—twice now. I think I deserve to get some answers.”

  He fixes me for a long time. “Kevin was going to leave her. So she destroyed his dream of getting on our show.”

  “By doctoring those photos,” I say in a shocked whisper.

  Winded by this discovery, I barely react when Brook, the female lawyer with the goat face, and the two detectives file into the room. McEnvoy, without asking the ladies if they’d like a seat, sinks into the leather desk chair. Combing his fingers through his prematurely graying hair, he crosses an ankle over his knee. He’s wearing his black work boots again—in ninety-degree weather. They must stink.

  “Good evening, everyone. I will be acting as Miss Ivy Redd’s council this evening,” the lawyer says, taking out a massive number of files. She thumbs through them until she finds a particular sheet of paper. “I believe this meeting will only take a minute. Here.” She gives the paper to the female detective who glances down at it. I can’t see what it says, but it looks like a photocopy of a ripped note.

  “This only proves that Miss Redd didn’t tamper with Mister Martin’s pictures,” Clancy says, wetting her ultra-pale lower lip. I’d forgotten how her mouth blended right into her face. “It doesn’t prove she didn’t kill him.”

  “Nor that she wasn’t under the influence,” McEnvoy adds.

  “Oh, come on!” Dominic throws his arms in the air. “What is your obsession with our contestant?”

  The lawyer holds out her hand to calm him down. “I’ve spoken to the bartenders catering the event and to each waiter working last night. They’ve all testified to never having come in contact with Miss Redd. Underage drinking might be punishable by law, but I do believe it’s below your pay grade to worry about Miss Redd’s alcoholic intake.”

  “Maybe someone gave it to her,” McEnvoy says. “The gift of alcohol is illegal.”

  “Could we return to the matter at hand? Miss Redd’s alleged involvement in Mister Martin’s death.”

  McEnvoy’s mouth opens, but Clancy speaks before he can. “Ivy, a source tells us you got in a fight with Mister Martin shortly before his death. Is that true?”

  “You don’t need to answer that,” the lawyer tells me. She glances at the door, then at her watch.

  “I have nothing to hide,” I say. “Yes. We had a fight.”

  “What about?” McEnvoy asks, bobbing in the chair.

  I don’t tell them I made fun of his sensitivity; I don’t think it would look too good for me. “He stole something from my room.”

  Dominic blinks. “Are you sure?”

  I nod.

  “What was it?” he asks.

  “A piece of jewelry.” I don’t clarify it was a diamond, because if it surfaces, and it really is dirty, I can always say that I was talking about a ring or a necklace.

  “Why didn’t you come to me with that? Or to Brook?”

  Brook’s eye twitches.

  “Can you pull the camera footage?” Dominic asks him.

  “There’s no camera in the hallway.”

  “The angle of the one in the living room should be wide enough to see if anyone went into her room.” Dominic’s forehead glistens with a thin layer of sweat. “This is just absurd! I swear, the show’s cursed this year.”

  “Can we get back—” Leah begins, but Dominic interrupts her.

  “When did you notice the theft, Ivy?”

  “The night Kevin arrived,” I lie.

  “And you’re sure it couldn’t have happened before he got there.”

  “I’m sure. It was still in my bag when I left for the pool party.”

  Dominic slaps his thigh. “Absurd, I tell you. Brook, pull the footage of that day.”

  Brook’s Adam’s apple bobs up and down in his throat. “I’ll phone Jeb.”

  “What were you doing in the ocean last night?” Leah asks me, her voice sharp.

  “In case you didn’t notice, there were a lot of people in the water,” I say.

  “Yes, but what were you doing?” McEnvoy asks.

  I’m about to tell him I was swimming when a knock echoes on the door.

  “Come in,” Dominic says.

  The door opens, and Chase comes in.

  Detective Clancy frowns. “Why is this boy here?”

  “Mister Jackson is here because he’s Miss Redd’s alibi,” Dominic says. “And since you don’t seem to believe a word that comes out of my contestant’s mouth, I asked him to testify. Chase?”

  He heaves a deep breath. “Ivy was in the water last night because I asked her to come in with me.”

  “And why should we believe you?” McEnvoy asks.

  “Because I brought proof.” Chase fishes a picture from the back pocket of his khakis. “Here.” He gives it to the female detective first.

  She studies it.

  “Will that do, Detective? Can I be dismissed?” he asks.

  She lifts her gaze back up to his face. Her eyes are as round as billiard balls.

  McEnvoy rips the picture out of her hand and ogles it. Then he repeatedly flicks his index finger against it. “How do we know this hasn’t been doctored?”

  The vein in Chase’s forehead throbs.

  “Shut up, Austin,” Detective Clancy mumbles, eyes flashing over the room. “Thank you for your time, Council, Mister Bacci, Mister Jackson. Miss Redd, I’m sure we’ll see each other again soon.”

  “Why would we?” I ask.

  “Just a hunch,” she says.

  Goose bumps scatter over my skin, because I can tell it isn’t “just a hunch.”

  “Let me walk you out,” Dominic suggests, ushering the lawyer and the two detectives out of the bedroom.

  Chase leaves right after them. Before Brook can follow them out, I call him back. He seems reluctant to stay behind.

  “I have a paper to give to Dean. It’s for Aster’s trial.” I fish the signed form from my pocket and hand it over.

  “Okay,” he says, stuffing it in his pocket. “So you and my brother, huh?”

  “There is no me and your brother.”

  “But the picture—”

  “Pictures lie.” I think of Kevin and the picture that got him disqualified.

  “Kevin’s personal effects are being packed up as we speak. I’ll have the cleaners check for jewelry. What was it exactly that was stolen?”

  “A necklace,” I finally say.

  “Can you describe it for me?”

  “It was a diamond pendent. I kept it in a porcelain box.”

  “Why weren’t you wearing it?”

  “Because the show lends the jewelry. I thought my stylist would make me t
ake it off.”

  “You should’ve left it at home then.”

  “I don’t have a safe at home.”

  Brook stares at me, but then his eye twitches again, and he lowers his gaze.

  “Sorry to interrupt, Mister Jackson, but we need to get Ivy ready for dinner,” Leila says.

  “Already?” Sure enough, the light has softened outside.

  Brook gives a jerky nod.

  After he leaves, Leila shuts the door and points to the chair McEnvoy occupied just minutes ago. “Sit.”

  Even though she makes up my face, her kohl-lined gaze never once grazes mine. Perhaps I owe her an apology—or rather I owed her an apology. Now, it’s too late. Amy feels like she needs to fill the silence with chatter. She talks about everything, from the latest clothing trends to the newest weight loss cleanse. She switches from one topic to the next so swiftly that her skin purples from lack of oxygen. Strangely, I find her babbling soothing.

  Leila puts the final coat of gloss on my lips and repacks her stuff. Once she’s left the room, Amy unhooks the rollers from my hair and brushes them out to soften the rich curls. The effect is beautiful. I pull off my T-shirt and shorts, and yank on the electric blue frock laid out on the bed. The top is loose and gauzy, unlike the bottom, which is made of tight, overlapping bands of fabric.

  “If I could keep one outfit, it would be this one,” I tell Amy as she folds the garment bag.

  “I’m sure Mister Bacci would allow it. You should ask him,” she says. “It looks really pretty on you. Then again, is there anything that doesn’t?”

  “That zombie get-up,” I say. It feels like it was a lifetime ago that I wore it.

  “Even that you pulled off.”

  “You’re way too kind, Amy. And very talented,” I tell her. “You’ll have to leave me your card.”

  Her cheeks turn as pink as her hair. “Of course! Here.”

  She fishes a business card from her box of pins and elastics. It’s totally tacky: gold with swirly pink lettering. “Can you leave it in my room?”

  She nods so many times that it looks as though she’s pecking the air.

  As I walk out of the bedroom, I feel lightheaded—perhaps because my stomach is near empty, or perhaps because of how resilient I’ve grown since arriving in New York. The Masterpiecers has transformed me. I think of Aster and wonder if prison has changed her too. I hope it’s hardened her, made her more able to cope with life in society, to deal with her insecurities without having to fabricate stories about aborted pregnancies. And then, I think about the dead man and the tear in my quilt, and my sympathy for her dries up.