Marisol lightly slapped her shoulder. “Please, Connie. ‘Vera who?’ Don’t you remember? It was on the news last night.”
Connie said, “Oh, she was the one you found in the flood, all wrapped up in a tarp.”
“No,” Josie said. “That was her daughter, Beverly.”
“Oh, right,” said Connie.
Marisol shook her head. “I can’t believe you don’t remember! It’s so tragic.”
Josie and Gretchen looked at one another, silently agreeing to hold back the news of Vera’s murder for now. Some of the other residents had stopped engaging with the protestors and begun drifting closer to them. Connie said, “Mind if we talk about this somewhere else?”
Marisol said, “Come back to my house. It’s the closest.”
The four of them walked along the tree-lined lanes of Quail Hollow until they came to the section where the original homeowners lived. Marisol Dutton lived only a block over from Calvin Plummer in a large, stately brick home. It was silent as a tomb when they entered. Single file, they followed Marisol through a large tile foyer into her kitchen. Connie scooped up her small dog and carried it in her arms. To one side of the kitchen was a solarium that looked out onto a deck. The sliding glass doors were closed but beyond, Josie could see the Duttons’ large yard and trees beyond that. A small table sat near the doors with four chairs, one for each of them.
Wordlessly, Connie took a seat at the table. Josie and Gretchen followed. One of the panes of glass near the table had been broken. Someone had sloppily taped a plastic bag over it. Fragments of glass rested on the floor beneath it. Marisol saw them staring at it and said, “Kurt broke it. He hasn’t called to have it fixed yet.”
From the refrigerator, Marisol pulled a bottle of red wine. She poured a glass, then held out the bottle in their direction. “Anyone?”
Gretchen said, “We’re working, Mrs. Dutton.”
She shrugged. “Suit yourself. Connie?”
With a scowl, Connie replied, “You know I don’t drink, Marisol.”
Marisol rolled her eyes and sauntered over, languidly taking a seat of her own. “Oh right. Forever the addict.”
Two spots of color rose in Connie’s cheeks. “I’m an alcoholic, Mar. That’s not something that goes away.”
Marisol raised her glass and took a sip of wine. The sleeve of her sweater slid down, and Josie saw a series of purple bruises along the inside of her wrist. “Whatever. I don’t want to argue right now.” She turned to Josie and Gretchen. “Why are you here to ask us about Vera Urban?”
Josie said, “We understand that you were both clients of hers when she worked at one of the local salons. Back when it was called Bliss. We were wondering what you could tell us about her?”
Connie’s lips pressed into a thin line. “God, that was… what? Thirty years ago? Something like that? I don’t remember that much.”
With a mischievous grin, Marisol swished the wine around in her glass and said, “Because she was drunk.”
Connie’s jaw tightened. “Dammit, Marisol! This is why I never—” She stood up, pressing her little dog against her chest. “I’m leaving.”
Marisol shook her head. “Calm down, Connie. Honestly. You’re too high-strung. Sit.” She turned to Josie. “We were Vera’s clients. But that was a long, long time ago. We were all in our twenties, married to successful, powerful men. Bored out of our skulls. Weren’t we, Connie?”
Slowly, Connie sat back down, loosening her grip on her dog. “Speak for yourself.”
Marisol laughed. “Please. You were just as bored as the rest of us.”
“The rest of you?” Josie asked.
Marisol said, “Well there was a group of us, Vera’s clients, we became friendly. It was Connie, myself, Tara—” she leaned in toward Josie and Gretchen and in a stage whisper said, “The Mayor.” Leaning back, she said, “Who else, Connie?”
Connie’s back was ramrod straight. “I-I don’t know. How would we know Vera’s clients?”
“I’m talking about our WORMM club.”
“WORMM club?” Gretchen echoed.
“That’s with two ‘m’s,” Marisol explained. “It’s an acronym. Wives of Rich Missing Men. WORMM.”
Connie’s eyes flitted to the dog in her lap. She stroked its head. “Our husbands all traveled. That’s why we called them ‘missing men.’ You forgot Whitney.”
Marisol snapped her fingers. “Whitney! Yes. She didn’t live around here, but she did join us for some of our parties.”
Gretchen took out her notepad and flipped a few pages. She found the list of names they’d gotten from Sara Venuto. Whitney was one of the women on the list they’d discovered to be deceased.
Josie said, “What kinds of parties?”
Connie said, “Oh, they really weren’t parties.”
Marisol said, “Sure they were.”
“A handful of us sat around drinking and complaining about our husbands,” Connie said. “That is not a party.”
Marisol gave a shrug as if to say “whatever.”
Gretchen asked, “Was Vera Urban ever at any of these parties?”
“She was,” Connie said.
Josie looked back and forth between the two women. “Mrs. Prather,” she said. “What is it that you and your husband do?”
“She doesn’t do anything,” Marisol teased. “Her husband is the CEO of a software company.”
Connie bristled. “I have a job.” She turned toward Josie and Gretchen. “I’m the head of the Prather Foundation. We give out scholarships to female college students who want to major in STEAM—that’s Science, Technology, Engineering, Art, and Math.”
“That sounds wonderful,” Josie said.
Connie smiled, a true smile for once. “My oldest daughter is an epidemiologist, and my youngest is a computer network architect,” she said proudly.
“You must be very proud of them,” Gretchen put in. She turned to Marisol. “We know what your husband does, but what about you?”
She sighed and gulped down the rest of the wine. “I am Kurt Dutton’s beautiful, dutiful wife. I sit around all day looking good and coming up with inventive ways to spend his money. That’s what I do. That’s what Connie used to do before she became the alcohol police.”
Connie glared.
Josie tried to bring the conversation back to Vera. “The two of you as well as Mayor Charleston and this Whitney—you were all well-off, you all had busy husbands, and spent a lot of time together and you invited Vera? Your stylist?”
Connie swallowed. “Yes. Vera was a friend.”
Marisol slammed her wine glass onto the table, eyes flashing. “Oh for goodness’ sake, Connie. Just tell them. What does it even matter now?”
Connie’s eyes widened but she didn’t speak.
Marisol looked at Josie and Gretchen. Laughing, she said, “Vera was our drug dealer.”
“Mar!” Connie exclaimed.
“Oh please,” Marisol said. “What? You think they’re going to arrest us for buying pills from some hair stylist thirty years ago? Come on.”