Maybe I didn’t know my mother-in-law as well as I thought I did. Was I in denial all this time about who she was and what she was capable of?
My attention is torn away as the door to the dining room opens and Nick saunters into the kitchen, dressed in khaki shorts and a wrinkled pink polo shirt, his hair rumpled.
“Morning,” he says, stifling a yawn and letting the door swing closed behind him.
“Morning, Nick. Did you decide to sleep in the house last night?”
“Yeah. Staying in an isolated carriage house the day after a murder seemed too close to a Scream sequel for my liking.”
“What about Blake and Wendy?” I ask. I’m eager to tell Wendy about Billy’s text from last night.
“Yup, they’re here, too. She seems pretty shaken. I think they’d love to get out of here, just like the rest of us, but we’re all sitting tight for now.” His gaze briefly roams the countertops. “Any clue where Bonnie’s stashing the muffins?”
“I put a basket of them out on the patio.”
“Sweet, thanks, Summer.”
“Before you leave, can I ask how your debrief with Paul went? I want to know what to expect.” What I want even more is to observe Nick when he answers a question or two about yesterday. I’m wondering if he’s worried the police might suspect him. And though I hate to admit it to myself, I’m still wondering if he actually killed Jillian, thinking it was Hannah.
“It was all right, I guess. He seems like a smart guy.”
“I’m so sorry about yesterday, by the way. Telling you Hannah was dead. That must have terrified you.”
He shakes his head. “Yeah, I wouldn’t want to repeat that moment, but I can see now how you made the mistake.”
“Bonnie thought it was Hannah, too,” I say, studying his face. “Because she’d seen her walking across the lawn earlier, like she was going for a walk.”
“Right, Hannah mentioned she might do that.”
Nick’s never been a good liar. I used to wonder how he managed to succeed in real estate, but I guess people in that game often hear what they want to hear. And because he’s a gregarious, expressive guy, it’s always been easy for me to notice his tells—either his body language won’t match what his face is saying, or he’ll scratch the side of his nose.
Well, he’s scratching his nose at the moment. Is he simply feeling embarrassed that he and Hannah had been fighting and he had no clue what she was up to?
He excuses himself to grab a muffin. As he slips out the back door, I feel a pang of guilt, for sitting here in this room I’ve always felt so happy in while trying to get a bead on my brother-in-law, attempting to sense whether or not he’s a murderer.
I sigh, then try to redirect my anxiety. I collect the remaining dishes from the dining room, wipe the sideboard with a wet sponge, and then check the living room. As I’m returning through the hall, carrying a couple of drinking glasses, I hear a faint sound from the side corridor and turn to investigate.
Hannah’s standing in there, her hand in the pocket of one of the slickers.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“What am I doing? Why does that matter to you?” Her haughtiness might have been subdued yesterday, but it’s back full throttle now.
“It just does.”
“Well, if you must know, I wore one of these coats yesterday and I left my earbuds in them.”
She’s obviously telling the truth because the next moment she extracts two wireless earbuds from the pocket and holds them up for me. “Satisfied?”
“Actually, no. You shouldn’t be around here. Jillian was wearing one of the slickers yesterday and the police might need to examine this area later.”
“How do you know that?” she asks.
“I watch cop shows. Police examine things.”
“No, I mean how do you know what she was wearing?”
“Because I saw her body, remember?”
She hesitates briefly and then brushes past me, looking suddenly flustered. It’s easy to see that a certain thought is starting to form in her head, the way it formed in mine.
When I return to the kitchen, I spot Wendy through the window, sitting alone at the table under the pergola and drinking what must be a cup of tea. Just the person I wanted to see. I step outside and wish her good morning.
“Hi,” she says, her voice subdued. “Want to join me?”
“I’d love to.” I slide into the chair across from hers. “How’d you sleep?”
“Staying upstairs beat being in the carriage house, but mainly I want to get out of here.”
“I know, and hopefully it won’t be much longer.” I pitch forward in my chair a little, so she can hear me as I lower my voice to tell her about the text from Billy. I’m worried she’s going to think I’m beating a dead horse, but her expression reads pensive, not annoyed.
“Okay, my bad,” she says. “I told my guy to only find out if she’d actually attended USC, not whether she graduated. She must have done something pretty serious to get thrown out on her ass, right?”
“I know,” I say, grateful to have her interest back. “What do you think it could be?”
“People get expelled from college for plagiarism, but do you write many term papers in a school for dramatic arts?” I shake my head. “Maybe she presented someone else’s play or screenplay as her own. Or cheated in another way?”
“I wish we could find out.”
“Let me go back to my guy and ask him to dig deeper.”
“Thanks so much, Wendy.” If only Gabe was this receptive to my concerns. “I know we have a lot going on here, but I don’t want to let this go in case it’s a serious issue.”
I’m about to rise when I see Wendy’s attention snagged by something behind me. I turn to see four state troopers tramping across the yard, obviously headed for the crime scene. Two of them nod in greeting. Wendy and I return the gesture and then immediately look away, not wanting to encourage any further interaction.
“What do you think they’re looking for?” she whispers.
“Evidence, I guess. Footprints through the woods—though the rain last night must have washed those away. Even the murder weapon.”
She pulls her lips into a gesture of distaste. “Do you think they’ve found it yet?”
I shrug. “I have no idea.”
There wasn’t anything lying by the body, at least that I noticed. And then I see Jillian in my mind all over again, the vultures tearing flesh from the wound with their beaks. I shake my head, trying to chase the image away.
“What?” Wendy asks.
“Nothing.” I’m not really supposed to be discussing the crime scene. In fact, I probably shouldn’t have mentioned the detail about the slicker to Hannah, I’m realizing now.
With the troopers now out of sight, I bid Wendy good-bye and return to the cottage and to Gabe. In an attempt to busy myself, I strip the sheets from Henry’s bed, make cups of coffee that I don’t end up drinking, and try to read the news online—which Gabe seems to be doing, too—but I feel so anxious it’s impossible to focus.
Just after eleven Paul Mizel, the attorney, calls my cell, asking if I have a few minutes to talk. I relocate to the kitchen and ease the door closed. It’s not that I have any secrets from Gabe about the events of the last twenty-four hours, but he seems to be doing his best to chill and I don’t want to disturb him.