Geneva made a snap decision. “Nope. I want to remember it the way it was.”
Laurel smiled. “Does that make you a romantic?”
Geneva shook her head. “A coward.”
Laurel looked like she might want to pursue that, but Geneva forestalled her. “I’ve got to tell you something.”
A crime scene technician emerged from the hallway leading to the bedrooms, and the women fell silent until he was out the door. “Not here,” Geneva said. “Let’s find someplace more private.”
Laurel flinched the tiniest bit and Geneva caught on immediately. The thought that her friend was afraid of her was heartbreaking.
“I’m not trying to lure you to a dark corner so I can do you in.” She met Laurel’s gaze levelly.
“Oh, Geneva, I know that. I’m sorry. It’s just that—”
“I get it.” Geneva flashed a forgiving smile. “It’s a strange situation. It’s bound to disrupt our dynamic. Intellectually, I can see that it would be smart not to be alone with any of you—wait, that’s an oxymoron, isn’t it?” She chuckled.
“I know what you mean. Why don’t we drive into town?” Laurel suggested. “I don’t know about you, but I could do with a break from this place, from … ” She gestured upwards. “Unless you think I’ll run us both off the road in a spectacular murder-suicide.”
A sense of peace poured into Geneva at the thought of leaving the castle. “I’ll take my chances. Let’s get out of here.”
On the two-lane road leading away from the inn, Laurel rolled down the windows and let the wind buffet them. Geneva closed her eyes and let her head fall back against the headrest, forgetting for a moment why she’d even wanted to talk to Laurel. The wind grazing her face and hair blew away the ugliness.
“What did you want to tell me?” Laurel asked, bringing Geneva’s eyes open.
She turned her head to look at her friend’s profile, its straight nose and strong chin revealed by the wind blasting her hair back. “I had to tell the sheriff that I heard you and Evangeline arguing last night. I feel so bad about it, Laurel. He asked me point-blank if I knew of any quarrels or bad feelings, if I’d witnessed any tensions between anyone and Evangeline.”
Blanched knuckles revealed that Laurel’s grip had tightened on the wheel. “Don’t worry about it, Gen,” she said, keeping her eyes on the road. “You did the right thing.” She dropped a hand from the wheel to squeeze Geneva’s hand. “It was no big thing. While I was helping Evangeline get ready for bed—I’m not sure why she asked for help, actually, since she seemed perfectly capable of doing everything for herself—she brought up the plagiarism incident. I got a little heated.”
“Of course you did,” Geneva agreed. Something in the way Laurel focused on the road ahead gave her the feeling that there might have been more to it. At least Laurel wasn’t asking awkward questions about why she’d been eavesdropping outside Evangeline’s door. She felt like a hypocrite—she hadn’t told Boone about her own grudge against Evangeline, after all. She hovered on the edge of confessing, but instead asked, “Why in the world would she want to stir that up after all this time?”
Slowing the car as they reached the outskirts of New Aberdeen, Laurel said, “You got me. It was weird, actually.”
They were passing a high school and had to wait at a crosswalk for a gaggle of teens to cross. A large blue-and-white sign announced “New Aberdeen High School Blue Demons—Girls 3A Champions” over a poorly executed painting of a basketballer. A drugstore across the street advertised a back-to-school special on Pepsi products and binders, and a fast food joint next door to it did a steady stream of business, mostly hungry teenagers, it looked like.
“I’m hungry,” Laurel said. “Want to get something to eat?”
Realizing she was starving, Geneva said, “Yes, indeed. I only ate a couple of bites of breakfast before … Well, I could eat the proverbial horse.”
Laurel cruised slowly down the town’s main drag, a two-lane street shaded by overarching oaks that must have been planted about the time Sherman was burning Atlanta, Geneva thought. Businesses, some looking decidedly seedy and a few thriving, lined both sides of the road: a printing shop, a bank, a dollar store with a rack of clothes pulled out onto the sidewalk, a storefront church, a tattoo parlor with soaped windows, an ice cream parlor, and a small café with two round tables outside. What would it be like to raise a child here, in small town America, rather than in Chicago? Easier? Or just as hard but in a different way?
Laurel pulled into a slanted parking slot in front of the café and when they’d ordered their food at the counter, they sat at a table on the sidewalk. Laurel adjusted the red umbrella so it shaded them and sipped her iced tea while Geneva sucked hard at the straw plunged into her vanilla milkshake. The creamy sweetness was heaven on her tongue. “I haven’t had a milkshake in … oh, I don’t even know how long. I’m having one every day between now and when Lila comes. Pregnant women are supposed to gain weight, right?”
Laurel laughed. “Absolutely.”
“That’s the sign of a true friend,” Geneva said, licking her tongue around her mouth. “Not even trying to tell me how hard it will be to lose extra baby weight.”
A young waitress brought their sandwiches and napkin-wrapped utensils. A skateboarder whizzed by, and a car horn blared down the street. It would have been an idyllic fall day, Geneva thought, without the specter of possible murder and another police investigation hanging over them. “Sheriff Boone asked me something weird this morning,” she said. “He wanted to know if I’d ever had trouble with ‘things going missing’ from my room here. If I’d ever suspected Mindy of stealing.”
“And?” Laurel bit into her sandwich.
Focusing on squirting mustard onto her pastrami and rye, Geneva said, “I don’t think she stole, but she did mention once that she’d taken a vodka bottle from my trash and recycled it. I got the feeling she was after something more than reminding me to recycle.”
“Like what?”
“Like”—Geneva hesitated, remembering the awkward encounter—“like if I’d acted embarrassed at all, she might have … I don’t know. In the same conversation, she mentioned that she’d had to replace two tires on her car and how expensive it was. It sounds silly, but I got the feeling she was hinting that I should give her some money.”
“Blackmail?”
“Maybe? I didn’t take the bait and she never brought it up again.” Geneva grabbed for her napkin as the wind tried to whisk it away. “Hey, do you think you could find Vangie’s house?”
“I only went there a couple of times, and she was driving, but I might be able to. Why?”
Geneva shrugged, not sure why she wanted to see the house. “I don’t want to go back yet, and, I don’t know … it seems like paying our respects, somehow.”
“Sure,” Laurel said, rising. “We can give it a whirl. Do you remember the street name?”
“Willow-something? Willowbrook? Willowdale?”
Twelve minutes of driving in circles and wandering down streets that boasted a house or a tree that looked familiar but turned out not to be what they were looking for, finally led them to Willowglen Lane. It was a short street featuring 1980s vintage two-story houses. “That one,” Geneva said, pointing to the third house from the end on the right.
Laurel pulled the car to the curb and idled, both of them staring at the house. It showed signs of neglect: faded paint; a scruffy yard that hadn’t been weeded, seeded, or mowed in far too long; a wheelchair ramp leading to a concrete stoop that listed to the left; and windows so grimy they looked opaque, like eyes filmed with cataracts. The eerie thought made Geneva shiver. Like a goose had walked over her grave, as Mama Gran would say. A “For Sale” sign was the cleanest, brightest thing about the property.
“Evangeline was selling up?” Laurel asked. She cut the engine.
“I
guess so.” Geneva got out of the car, stumbling a little on the curb. “She must have moved into Ray’s place, don’t you think? It doesn’t look like she’s done anything to this place since her mom died. That was six months ago, right? Did you come for the funeral?”
Laurel joined her on the sidewalk and said, “No.”
“Me neither.” She’d had a raft of reasons why she couldn’t leave Chicago—clients, home renovations, the pregnancy—but they seemed petty now. “We—I—should have come. She was our friend.”
Laurel kicked at a trio of acorns and they skittered off the curb. The front door opened, surprising them. A young couple appeared, accompanied by a sixtyish woman in a green linen suit. The trio stopped when they saw Laurel and Geneva hovering on the sidewalk. Geneva was stuttering for something to say when Laurel broke in with, “We saw the house was for sale and wanted to take a look. Are you the listing agent?”
“No,” the woman said, “but I can give you his number. He represents the bank handling the foreclosure.” She scribbled on the back of a business card and handed it to Laurel.
The trio drove off in the Realtor’s Lexus, and Laurel and Geneva returned to their rental. Geneva braced herself with her hand on the warm hood, and Laurel stood with her back to the car, staring at Vangie’s house as if she were trying to puzzle something out.
“You know,” Laurel said, “the Realtor said the house was foreclosed on. I wonder if Evangeline was having money troubles. I’m sure her medical expenses over the years have been astronomical, and traveling to and from Mexico for whatever procedures she was having there must have been expensive, too. Did she have that kind of money coming in?”
“Ray might have been funding her. He looked well off. Did you notice that gold bracelet? And his athletic shoes cost upwards of two hundred dollars. I know because one of my clients—fourteen years old, mind you—came in with the same shoes a couple weeks back and bragged about them.”
“Huh.” Laurel stood silently for a moment, making no move to get in the car. The breeze stirred her hair. “I wish I’d learned more about him. Did you talk to him, get his last name, learn what he does or where he’s from? I don’t even know if he and Evangeline were living in the state. I assumed she was living here”—she gestured to the house—“but it’s clear she wasn’t.”
Geneva cast her mind back, disconcerted to realize that despite half an hour’s conversation, she didn’t know much about Vangie’s fiancé, either. “He was raised by his grandmother, like I was,” she said. “I don’t know how we got onto that—I think I said something about Mama Gran—and he told me he and his brothers were brought up by his grandmother, too. I learned a lot about his grandma, but not much about him.” Geneva was irked by the realization. “Why are you so curious about Ray?”
Laurel opened the driver’s-side door. “He’s an unknown quantity. Women are more likely to be killed by spouses or boyfriends than by anyone else. Given the situation we’re all in—again—I think it might be wise to have a little ammunition to counter Sheriff Boone if worse comes to worst.”
Sobered by the thought, and impressed with Laurel’s farsightedness, Geneva got in the car and pulled the door closed.
Fifteen
Sheriff Boone snagged Laurel when she came through Cygne’s front door at two o’clock. He looked as worn down as she felt, with his eyes slightly bloodshot and cushioned by the hint of pouches beneath them. “Your Honor,” he said, breaking off a conversation with a deputy as she came in. “I’ve been looking for you.”
His tone invited her to explain her absence but she merely said, “You found me.”
“Come with me.” Without waiting to see if she was following, he disappeared down the hall leading to the bedrooms.
Laurel followed reluctantly. Boone stopped, as she knew he would, in front of the open door to Evangeline’s room. A breeze wafted from the window, opened to disperse the heat and odors, Laurel figured. Gooseflesh chilled her arms as Boone made room for her beside him in the doorway. His bulk was warm and almost comforting in the circumstances. Her first glance told her Evangeline’s body was gone, and she slumped slightly with relief.
“Tell me what’s different from last night when you helped her get ready for bed,” he ordered.
She gave him a disbelieving look. “Everything. It’s a mess. None of that”—she waved a hand at the disorder in the room—“was like that.”
“Try. Is there anything in the room that wasn’t there when you left last night? You can go in—we’re done processing it.”
The last thing Laurel wanted to do was enter the room where her friend had died, but she took a small step forward and then another until she was almost centered in the room. Focus. The wheelchair was immediately to her right, tipped on its side. She touched a finger to the upright wheel and it spun with a faint whisking sound. The impotence of it struck her—a wheel spinning in mid-air, nothing to bite into, nowhere to go. She stepped back. Clothes were still strewn around, the lamp on the floor, although someone had swept up the shattered bulb. Someone had also taken a stab at cleaning up the vomit and other bodily fluids. An overpowering odor of harsh cleansers lingered, searing her nostrils. She breathed shallowly through her mouth and looked around, wanting now to find something out of place, a clue that spoke to another person’s presence in the room after she’d left, but there was nothing new. She shook her head. “I’m sorry.”
“Did this all happen when you fought with the victim?” Sheriff Boone asked.
Her gaze flew to his face. His hooded eyes were fixed on her, evaluating her reaction. “What? No! We argued, we didn’t fight.”
“About?”
“Ancient history.” She should share the details of their conversation, she knew, but it didn’t have any bearing on Evangeline’s death, so why go into it? She sought for something to distract him. She swiveled her head, only now remarking the absence of men’s clothing and effects. “There’s nothing of Ray’s in here.”
Boone didn’t act surprised; he’d undoubtedly already noticed.
“Don’t you think that’s strange?” she persisted when he didn’t respond. “Evangeline said he was coming back.”
“It’s noteworthy.” He wasn’t going to speculate with her, she knew. From the corner of her eye, she spotted the Hemingway book half-under the bed, pages crumpled, and it struck her that Evangeline would never finish it, never read another book, and the sadness of that, the emptiness, roiled her stomach. “I have to—” She shouldered past Boone and burst into the hall, where she bent over, hands on her thighs and hair flopped over her face, panting. She concentrated on not throwing up. After a moment, the wave of nausea receded and she slowly straightened.
He stepped through the door and closed it, not commenting on her hasty departure. “Thanks for your help, Your Honor. We’ll chat again tomorrow.” He gave her a considering look but didn’t say anything more as he led the way back to the foyer.
Dinner that night was awkward and late. Sheriff Boone and his team hadn’t left until almost seven, and he’d dropped a bombshell on them as he departed. Evangeline Paul, he said, had died of strychnine poisoning. The medical examiner had completed his autopsy, working overtime on a Sunday, and had no doubts about the cause of death. Toxicology results would verify it in a couple of weeks. With a long look at each of them, Boone said he’d be back in the morning to interview each of them again. He recommended Ellie have her lawyer on hand because he was going to insist she answer his questions. There was dead silence when he left, and then Geneva asked Ellie if she had a lawyer. She sheepishly confessed that she didn’t, and went to her room to call Scott for his advice. The others went to their rooms, too; at least, that’s where Laurel had gone, and she assumed the others had done the same.
When the dinner gong sounded, the four of them gathered in the breakfast parlor rather than the dining room. A pall of unease and even suspicion
hung in the air. Laurel hated thinking that one of her friends could have murdered Evangeline, but she couldn’t help analyzing their expressions and postures, what they said and what they didn’t say. What did Ellie’s sidelong glance at Dawn mean? Where was Geneva when Evangeline died? Come to think of it, Geneva’s room was at the far end of the hall from Evangeline’s—how had she overheard their argument? Why was Dawn so fidgety, twiddling her spoon, tinging her finger against her water glass, jiggling her foot?
Mrs. Abbott brought in a hearty lentil stew, and Ellie excused herself. When she returned three minutes later, she carried a microwaved pot pie.
“What?” Her gaze challenged each of them as they stared at her. “Someone poisoned Evangeline. I’m not taking any chances.” She thrust a defiant fork into the pie which showered pastry flakes on the table.
“You think one of us killed Evangeline?” Dawn asked. A line appeared between her brows.
“Well, duh.” Ellie wasn’t giving an inch. “One of you or one of the Abbotts or Mindy, maybe Ray. Either way”—she gestured toward the pie—“I’m playing it safe.” She took two bites while the others fiddled with their stew without eating it.
Laurel finally swallowed a spoonful of the savory stew, trying not to think about how the cumin and oregano could conceal the flavor of poison. She was not going to be paranoid. “It’s good.” She took another bite, and first Geneva and then Dawn began to eat. Geneva asked Dawn about her recent vacation and conversation stumbled forward.
Ellie, midway through the meal, burst out, “Let’s just talk about it,” interrupting Dawn, who was describing a temple she and Kyra had toured in Bangkok. “One of us probably murdered Evangeline, and now we’re trapped here together until Sheriff B. figures out who it was. That’s creepy. I’d like to ask the guilty party to turn herself in so we can all go back to our lives.”
That Last Weekend Page 13
