by Margot Hunt
Ford nodded, understanding at once what I was saying. “Would Esme have had a chance to change her will after her divorce?”
“Or would a will made prior to a divorce even still be valid,” John countered.
“Wait.” Nick put his hands up. “Stop. What are you all talking about?”
“We’ve been working on the assumption that Esme’s death was either accidental or due to natural causes,” I said. “Which is the most likely explanation. She could have injected too much insulin, or she could have had an aneurism, or a blood clot, or something along those lines. But if it wasn’t . . .”
“Who would hate Esme enough to kill her?” John said, finishing my thought.
“David,” Nick said immediately. “He’s the only person I know who hated Esme.”
“He absolutely despised her,” I agreed. “He was furious she left him, even though they were miserable together. He’s so narcissistic, I’m sure he couldn’t bear the idea that she didn’t want to be married to him anymore.”
“And he could have driven up here in the middle of the night and been back in Miami without anyone even noticing that he was gone,” John added.
“But that’s not possible,” Ford said.
We all turned to stare at him. He looked less careworn than the rest of us. He was clean shaven and wearing a crisp white button-down shirt over khaki shorts. I hadn’t showered since the day before, and I knew I looked disheveled in my oversized black T-shirt and capri yoga pants.
“Why? Because he didn’t know Esme was here?” Nick asked.
“David was a software developer. If he wanted to trace Esme through her phone or even by putting a tracker on her car, he’d have known how to do that,” John pointed out.
“I don’t doubt it. You don’t have to be a computer wiz to track someone’s whereabouts,” Ford said. “But he couldn’t have been in the house last night. I set the alarm before we went to bed.”
“And I turned it off when I got up this morning,” I said, realization dawning. “Did anyone turn it off and on again in the middle of the night?
The three men shook their heads.
“But the alarm code is posted on the fridge, where anyone could see it.” Nick pointed at the sheet of paper.
But Ford was already shaking his head again. “Granted, that isn’t exactly a secure place to keep an alarm code, and we can pretty much assume that anyone who’s ever stayed here would know how to disarm it. But how would David have known that Esme was going on vacation, staying in this particular house, and then find out the alarm code ahead of time? It doesn’t seem probable.”
“What if Esme turned off the alarm?” I suggested.
“She was really drunk,” Nick said. “She’d passed out by the time Ford and I left her room last night.”
“But we can’t rule out that she might have woken up and even gotten up at some point after that,” John said.
“No, we can’t,” I agreed. “We should still tell the police about David.”
“I agree,” John said.
Nick sat down on one of the high stools by the counter and shook his head. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. It’s surreal. This whole day has been surreal. Do you know my dad started crying when I told him? I’m forty-two years old, and I have never heard him cry before.”
Ford rubbed his shoulder. “It’s good that he heard the news from you, rather than someone else.”
“I know. But it broke my heart.” Nick started to weep again.
John shot me a pointed look. I pretended not to see it.
No one spoke much while we ate the pizza Nick had ordered. I didn’t take more than a few bites. The cheese was oily and congealed, and it sat heavily in my stomach. I wasn’t sure if everyone was simply emotionally drained from the day’s sad events, or if there was a more ominous undertone to the silence. The fact that Esme’s cause of death was still unknown. The creepy way Nick and Ford had watched John and me walk away down the beach. John’s belief that they themselves could possibly be suspects.
After we ate, Nick and Ford turned on the wall-mounted television to watch the news. John went outside to the deck without saying a word to anyone, including me. He slumped in one of the cushioned chairs and stared moodily out at the water. I left him to his brooding and went up to our room.
I curled up in bed with my book. I expected that John would come upstairs and join me. But he never did come up, or at least not until long after I finally fell asleep, my book still clutched in my hands.
There was a loud banging on the front door at nine o’clock the next morning. I was so startled, I spilled the cup of coffee I’d been holding down the front of my sundress. I yelped in pain.
“Are you okay?” Ford looked concerned.
“I’m fine,” I said, plucking the fabric away from my skin.
The knocking continued. Bang, bang, bang! It was jarringly hostile.
“Who the hell is that?” Nick wondered.
John came downstairs from the third floor.
“It’s the police,” he said. “They’re back. I saw them pull up to the house through the upstairs window.”
“I’ll go let them in,” Ford said, turning to the stairs that led down to the first floor.
Ford returned a moment later, ushering the two detectives into the living room. One was Detective Reddick, who had spoken to us the previous day. He was accompanied by an older man who looked to be in his early fifties, and who was heavyset with a ruddy complexion and thick, dark hair. We all stood up when they entered, as though we were in a courtroom and they were the judges.
“Good morning,” Detective Reddick said. “This is my partner, Detective Mike Monroe.”
Detective Monroe tipped his head in greeting but remained silent. Both detectives looked grim.
“We’d like to interview each of you, one at a time,” Detective Monroe said.
“Why?” Nick asked.
“Some new evidence has surfaced. We’re now investigating the death of Esme Lamont as a homicide,” Detective Reddick said.
Nick sat back down abruptly, as if his legs had gone out from underneath him. He started shaking his head, back and forth, back and forth. “But that’s not possible! This had to have been an accident. And you said it would take a few days to get the autopsy report back.”
“It should be back this afternoon, but we’ve collected other evidence that has determined the focus of our investigation,” Detective Monroe said.
“What evidence?” John asked.
“That’s not how this works,” Detective Reddick. “We ask the questions.”
“Shouldn’t we have lawyers present?” Nick asked.
“That’s certainly your prerogative,” Detective Monroe said. He tipped his head to one side. “Do you think you need a lawyer?”
“No, of course not.” Nick sounded defensive.
“Nick, if you want a lawyer, you should get one.” John’s lip curled as he glared at the detectives. “Don’t let them bully you. The police love to do that.”
I knew John was thinking about Aiden. Police had questioned Aiden for hours after his arrest without an attorney present, and even offered him a lesser sentence if he agreed to become a confidential informant for them. By the time he finally called John, Aiden had already confessed to purchasing the heroin.
“We’re not here to bully anyone,” Detective Reddick said. “We’re here to find out what happened to Mrs. Lamont.”
“We were discussing it last night, and we think you should talk to her ex-husband,” Nick said. “David Lamont. He and Esme hated each other. Caroline, tell them what happened when you were visiting Esme last spring. When David showed up unannounced.”
“Well, like Nick said, David appeared at Esme’s house without warning. He was drunk, so she wouldn’t let him in or even open the door, but I could clearly hear him yell that she was going to pay for what she’d done to him,” I said. “At the time, I thought he was talking about money. Es
me was a lot wealthier than David. But . . . now I’m not so sure. What if he meant he was planning to hurt her?”
“We’re confident that David Lamont wasn’t involved in the death of his ex-wife,” Detective Monroe said.
“How can you say that?” Nick asked. “You don’t know David. I have no doubt that he’d be capable of violence. I saw him hit Esme once.”
“You did?” I asked. She’d never told me about that.
Nick nodded. “They were arguing about something, and he slapped her across the face. I told him if he ever touched my sister again, I’d—” Nick stopped abruptly, as if just remembering we weren’t alone.
He’d what? I wondered. What was Nick really capable of?
Detective Reddick sighed, clearly annoyed that Nick wasn’t following his rule about not asking questions. His partner was more forthcoming.
“Two reasons. The first is that the security company who monitors the house alarm for this property told us that the alarm was turned on at 11:32 p.m. on Saturday, September fifth. It remained on until 7:03 a.m. on Sunday, September sixth. There are sensors on every door and window in the house, so we have proof that no one entered or exited the house between 11:32 p.m. and 7:03 a.m. Based on the statements you gave to Officer Grant yesterday, you were the only ones here during that time period. And the medical examiner’s initial report puts Mrs. Lamont’s time of death at somewhere between 12:30 and 1:15 a.m. on Sunday morning.”
“Oh my God.” Nick looked at Ford. “We were right across the hallway when she died. We didn’t hear a thing.”
I could feel John’s eyes on me, but I didn’t want to meet his gaze. Not while the detectives were watching.
“Hold on, you said there were two reasons why David couldn’t haven’t killed Esme,” I said. “What was the second?”
“Mr. Lamont was arrested by the Miami-Dade police on Saturday, September fifth, at 7:24 p.m.,” Detective Reddick said.
We all sat stunned into silence. David had been arrested? I marveled.
“For what?” Nick asked.
Detective Reddick glared at him. “You don’t seem to get the protocol here. We ask the questions. You answer them.”
Detective Monroe held up a placating hand to his partner. “It’s a fair question. David Lamont was pulled over for a suspected DUI. He agreed to take a breathalyzer, and blew a point one seven, which is well over the legal limit.”
“Mr. Lamont was in police custody at the time Mrs. Lamont died. As far as alibis go, it’s pretty airtight. So unless you have any other questions, or need us to provide you with snacks, or a note to your mommy to explain why you’ll be home late from school, I think we should get started.” Detective Reddick glanced around the living room. “We’ll do the interviews in here, one at a time. The rest of you can wait out on the deck.”
“And if we refuse?” John crossed his arms.
“That’s your choice,” Detective Monroe said. He was more pleasant than his partner. “We’d like to try to keep this as informal and comfortable as possible. But, if you’d prefer, we can take this down to the station.”
I knew my husband was right. We didn’t have to cooperate. But I also knew how refusing to cooperate with the investigation would look.
“John.” I put my hand on his arm to quell his protests. “Come on—I’d rather talk to them here than at the police station.”
John frowned at me but finally shrugged and turned away to stare out at the ocean. It seemed to be his favorite hobby lately.
“We’ll start with Nick Overfield,” Detective Reddick said. “The rest of you can wait outside.”
“None of this makes any sense,” John said as soon as we were out on the deck and out of earshot of the detectives. “How can they investigate Esme’s death as a homicide without even knowing how she died? It would be one thing if she’d been shot or strangled—”
I flinched. John saw me and looked contrite.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to be grisly. I just don’t understand where the detectives are coming from. How can they investigate a murder without any evidence that a murder took place?”
“But there is evidence.” Ford stood at the railing, looking out at the ocean. “They said they found something. Either on our phones, or in their physical examination of the house. They wouldn’t be here if they hadn’t.”
“Not necessarily.” I sat on the cushioned love seat. It was exactly where Esme had been lounging that last night. I tried not to think about that. “They could just be fishing. Trying to scare us. The police aren’t under any obligation to tell us the truth about anything.”
“Right, but . . . the truth is, I know why they’re here.” Ford turned around and leaned back against the railing. He crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s going to come out anyway, so I might as well tell you.”
My heart raced. “Tell us what?”
“I have a record. So I have no doubt that the police are focusing their investigation on me.”
“A record,” John repeated. “What for?”
Ford sighed. “Insurance fraud. Forgery. Theft by fraud. And that’s not counting my juvenile record, which is supposed to be sealed, but which I’m sure these guys have access to.”
“That sounds serious,” I said. “Have you been to prison?”
“Yes. More than once. The first time, I served an eighteen-month sentence. That was for insurance fraud. A friend who worked for an oncologist recruited me—he’d find patients that were relatively young who’d been diagnosed with aggressive forms of cancer. I’d take out life insurance policies on them, small enough that they wouldn’t trigger a medical exam. Then, if the patient died, our plan was to collect on the policy. It was a pretty dumb scheme, all things considered. If you’re going to scam someone, an insurance company is not a good target. They were on to us before we made the first claim. I’m sure that everything pinged—that we used the same post office box when we took out the policies, that we weren’t related to the patients. But I was young and stupid.”
“And you got older and smarter?” John asked.
Ford looked at him directly. “Yes. I learned my lesson, and I learned not to get caught. And I didn’t for a while. But then . . .” He sighed. “I was involved with a project that prosecutors called a pyramid scheme. I won’t go into all of the details, but my partners and I convinced people to invest in series of concerts we were promoting. It was kind of a Floridian version of Coachella, complete with big-name musicians and celebrities. But the actual show never came together. The investors got angry and contacted law enforcement, who decided to pursue it as theft by fraud. That landed me in jail for about three years.”
“But why did you do it?” I asked. “You had to know the risk.”
“Money,” Ford said simply. “The investors were eager and stupid, and I was more than happy to take advantage of that. People were writing me five- and even six-figure checks just for the chance to be part of something glamorous, to hobnob with celebrities. And I was overcharged, by the way. It’s not a crime to plan an event that doesn’t come together.”
“Unless you knew it was a sham from the beginning,” John pointed out.
“Who’s to say I did?”
“A jury, apparently.”
“The case didn’t go to trial. I took a plea deal in exchange for testifying against my partners. Seemed like a smart move at the time, but I’m sure as soon as those detectives found out about my past, they started making all sorts of assumptions.” Ford jutted his chin toward the interior of the house. We had a clear view of the police questioning Nick. “They’re probably asking him all about it right this minute.”
We all turned to gaze inside at Nick, who was twisting around in his seat to look out at his husband. His expression was a mixture of shock and confusion.
“You never told him,” I said quietly.
“No,” Ford confirmed. “I didn’t. I’m not the same man now that I was then. I left that entire life behind b
efore I ever met Nick. So there was no reason to tell him. And I suppose I thought that if I did, he’d suspect that I was only with him for his money.”
“Aren’t you?” John asked, not bothering to hide his arch tone.
“As a matter of fact, I’m not. I love Nick. Very much. Not that I expect you, or anyone else, to believe that.”
“I believe you,” I said, surprised to realize that I meant it. I did believe him.
Ford’s lips twitched downward. “The police won’t.”
When Nick’s interview was finished, he didn’t join us on the deck. He went straight upstairs, and Ford watched him through the glass-paned French doors.
“Maybe I should go talk to him,” he said.
He didn’t get the chance. Detective Reddick opened one of the French doors.
“Mr. Overfield, we have a few questions for you.”
“I bet they do,” John said softly.
Ford nodded, looking resigned. He followed the detective inside.
“I told you he was shady,” John said as soon as we were alone.
“You did.”
“And yet, you just said you believed him. That he didn’t marry Nick for his money.”
“I do believe him.”
John snorted with disbelief. “He just admitted he’s a con man who’s gone to jail for scamming people. Marrying a rich guy was just another scam.”
“You’re always so black-and-white,” I said, suddenly irritated by my husband’s very presence. “People can be more than one thing. Ford can have a checkered past and still be in love with Nick.”
“Not if he’s a sociopath. They don’t have consciences and they’re incapable of love.”
“You don’t know that he’s a sociopath.”
“You want to think he’s a nice guy because he’s good-looking and charming. But that’s what sociopaths do. They charm you. They seduce you.”
“Ford is hardly going to seduce me. He’s gay.”
“It doesn’t have to be a sexual seduction. You’ve known him for two days, and you’re already on his side.”
