Since I’ve promised Bonnie I’m going to fill all the vases, I have no choice but to follow through, but my priority right now is to inspect the carriage house, and I only need a single vase for that purpose. After snatching a pair of cutting shears from a hook on the wall, I hurry outside to one of the nearby cutting gardens, quickly clip a mixed assortment of flowers, and return with them to the shed. With little attention to design, I stuff all the flowers into a vase. Henry could have probably done a better job, but I don’t have the time to fuss.
I’m halfway down the path to the carriage house when I notice Wendy emerge from the doorway.
“How you doing this morning?” I ask when we meet up. She looks as if she slept as poorly as I did.
“It’s a nightmare, isn’t it?” she says. “I’m just trying to go easy, not stress out too much.”
“That sounds wise. Listen, I was planning to drop off this arrangement in the carriage house. Are there any already there, do you know?”
“How nice of you. I don’t think we have any—oh, wait, there’s a jar of fresh herbs in our bathroom.”
“Okay, I’ll find a spot for these then. Is anyone still inside?”
“Blake is up at the big house with his dad, and Nick and his lady must have gone to breakfast. I heard their door shut a little while ago.”
Good, I think, I can get into her room, and then I notice Wendy’s mouth morph into a faint grimace.
“What?” I ask.
“It’s just a shame that in the middle of this, we have to deal with that . . . that interloper.”
Oh wow, however bad the timing, this is an opportunity I didn’t see coming. “Did something happen with Hannah—besides her hijacking your announcement?”
“Between us girls? I’m not so sure that I like her. For one thing, I think she made up her experience with dressage. I asked her a question about it yesterday at the pool, and she clearly had no idea what I was talking about. Totally clueless.”
“Why would she have done that? To ingratiate herself with you?”
“That’s my guess. I bet that Nick told her about my interest and she researched it before she came out here.”
“How strange,” I say, keeping my tone casual. “I wonder what that says about her.”
“Me, too. Hopefully Nick will catch his breath and take some time to figure her out before they set a date. Sorry, I should stop. I don’t want to sound like a total bitch.”
I hardly fault her for it. In fact, I’m relieved she’s gone from simply being offended by Hannah’s action the other night to spotting the cracks in her facade.
“No, I hear your concerns,” I say, before we wish each other good-bye and continue in opposite directions.
Though I saw the renovation of the carriage house in process, this is my first glimpse of the final results, and they’re impressive. It’s double-heighted downstairs, a great room with an open living and dining area and a small separate kitchen at the far end. The couch and chairs are comfy looking, and there are a few antiques scattered about, echoing the style of the main house, but the overall design is modern. I scan the space, confirming that there are no flowers anywhere, unless I count the framed botanical prints on the wall.
After taking a quick peek out the window to make sure no one is coming along the path, I carry the vase up the stairs to the open landing that runs the width of the house. There are two doors, which, if I remember the plans correctly, each lead to an en suite bedroom. I twist open the handle of the first one and slowly push it open until I notice Wendy’s Louis Vuitton duffel bag on the whitewashed bench at the end of the bed. I close the door and inch down the landing until I’ve reached the next room. The only sound besides my shallow breathing is from a bird outside one of the windows chirping “Peter, peter, peter.” I slowly twist the handle and ease the door open.
The room is nearly identical to Blake and Wendy’s, though one side of it is strewn with shoes, shorts, and T-shirts that obviously belong to Nick. The cloying scent of Hannah’s patchouli-vanilla mix still clings to the air.
I scan the room. There aren’t any flowers in here, either, which means neither Hannah nor Nick stupidly picked the foxgloves and stuffed a vase with them. As I start to back out into the hallway, ready to beat a retreat, I hear the soft tread of footsteps. I swivel in place, and my heart skips as I see Hannah standing at the top of the stairs.
“Looking for me?” she asks, raising a thick, perfectly groomed eyebrow.
“Yes. I mean, sort of. I’ve been dropping off flowers this morning.”
For a moment she says nothing, simply takes me in with her eyes, which in the dimness of the landing seem coal black, not brown.
Her lips swell briefly into a pout and then she opens her mouth. “Don’t you know it’s not nice to go into someone’s room without their permission?”
I feel my chest flush, followed by my cheeks, like there’s a red tide surging up through my body. “I wasn’t going into the room. I was planning to set the flowers inside the door.” I shrug, a pathetic attempt at nonchalance. “But I can hand them to you instead.”
“If you don’t mind, actually, I’ll pick my own.”
“Fine.” Get out of here, I command myself. Shut up and leave. But I can’t resist. “Be careful, though. Some of the flowers around here are poisonous and shouldn’t be brought into the house. Like foxgloves.”
“Thanks, I didn’t know that,” she says, her expression even. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
That’s one more lie she’s told me.
12
Hannah stares straight at me, unblinking, committed to this falsehood. I think of Billy’s comment—that Hannah Kane has ice in her veins.
“If you’ll excuse me,” I say, “I’m going to do some more deliveries.”
She doesn’t hug the wall to let me pass, just swivels her torso an inch or so to the left. As I edge past her, I’m unable to avoid contact, and the bare skin of my arm brushes unpleasantly against hers. I also detect a whiff of cigarette smoke. Hannah clearly has a bad habit that she’s hiding from the rest of us.
As soon as I descend the stairs, I hear a soft click, her bedroom door closing behind her. I wonder if she’s smiling. Because it must absolutely delight her that she’s unnerved me—and I’m not a good enough actress to disguise the fact.
“Couldn’t find any place to put them?”
Again, I’m caught by surprise. This time it’s Wendy, standing a foot or so inside the front door, holding an orange. I must look like an idiot, still lugging the fucking vase around.
“Sorry, I’m operating in a daze today,” I say. I set the vase down on a side table with a soft thud. “I guess this spot is as good as any.”
“Did I hear you talking to someone?”
“Yes, Hannah’s back.”
“Ahh. Well, thanks for the flowers.”
I end up taking the long way back to the cottage, doing a sweep down beyond the pool and across the bright green lawn, and gnawing at one of my cuticles. It’s clear to me now that the missing foxgloves aren’t anywhere on the property, that no one clipped them for a bouquet, unaware that they’re toxic. So perhaps someone—and Hannah’s name is at the top of my list—did do something horrible with them. Like kill Claire.