Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
NOAH
Once Von leaves, I unpack my things.
I feel like I’m staying at a five-star hotel. The dresser drawers smell pleasantly of cedar, and the bed is enormous, with fine linen and fluffy pillows. The curtains are velvety, the carpet plush. I check out the bathroom and there are fancy soaps and little bottles of conditioner and shampoo, along with a pile of thick towels. I head back into the living room and stare at my surroundings. It’s pristinely white, the photographs on the walls looking like they belong in a trendy gallery. I’ve never gotten to spend much time in the city—I’ve always been busy working, or looking after Pop, or helping anyone in the community who might need it. I’ve wanted to explore New York, though. I have a whole wish list of things I’d like to see or do or try. And even though this is not how I imagined an extended stay in the city would come about, and I know the homesickness will set in eventually, for now, I’m delighted to find a sense of relief in getting away from Magnolia Bay .
The trial, the reporters, the reality of my situation, it all feels so far away. Like I can breathe for a minute. Buildings pile up outside the windows, creating angular patches of sky, and I hear honking and the sounds of traffic coming up from the street. I wonder how those giant glass panels Von opened work, but I don’t want to touch anything for fear I’ll break it. That doesn’t stop me from exploring though. I peruse all the photographs, sit in the egg chair, examine the giant ferns in huge clay pots on the balcony—or terrace, or whatever. There’s a set of stairs that leads up to the second floor, but I can sense a Do Not Enter sign hanging invisibly over them. That’s where Von’s bedroom is, I assume. I poke around the kitchen instead. Von’s got an incredible set of knives, Riedel wine glasses, stainless steel pots and pans. Everything is so immaculate it almost looks untouched.
Then I open the refrigerator, and my jaw drops to the floor.
Where’s the food? I see a package of shredded cheese, a jar of olives, and something in a takeout container. There are several bottles of white wine (Everton label of course). There’s a wilting bunch of kale in the crisper and a jar of expensive-looking Dijon mustard. I find some crackers in one cabinet along with spiced almonds. She’s got a Vitamix that looks like it’s never been used.
Maybe this is why Von is so snappish all the time—she’s hungry. She needs a real meal.
I get an idea. It’s the least I can do, after she’s taking on my case pro bono, putting her life on hold, allowing me into her space. I am aware I’m breaking her number one rule of don’t leave the apartment but food is a necessity and I don’t know how long she’s going to be gone for. Plus, I can’t imagine any reporter popping up here now . They’re all still back in Magnolia Bay.
I take out my phone and do a quick Google search for grocery stores nearby. There’s one a few blocks away, so I grab my wallet and head to the elevator. The doors open with a faint ping and I step into the lobby. Sam is still behind the desk, and he nods to me. Benito opens the door with a simple, “Afternoon, sir. ”
I step outside and realize I have no idea where I’m going. I glance back down at my phone, pulling up my maps app.
“Need help with anything?” Benito asks. He’s a jovial, Latino guy in his late fifties, with the broad shoulders and barrel chest of an athlete gone slightly to seed.
“I’m trying to get to this store,” I say, showing him my phone.
“Oh, it’s just two blocks up…” He points in the right direction. “And then one block to the left.”
“Thanks,” I say.
“Ms. Everton doesn’t usually have guests,” he says. I wonder what his impression of Von is. Cold, probably. Sharp. Professional.
“I’m a family friend,” I tell him. “Known her since I was a kid.”
I see Benito blink quickly, almost like he can’t quite imagine Von ever being a child. She does have that affect—like an Athena, bursting fully formed from her father’s head.
“Well, if there’s anything else you need, don’t hesitate to ask,” he says.
“Thanks,” I say again, then start off in the direction he pointed. Another thought occurs to me and I turn. “Hey, Benito? Is there a library around here?”
Two hours later, I arrive back at the apartment building, my arms loaded with grocery bags and a couple of library books.
I step into the elevator and realize that I need a special key to access the penthouse. I poke my head through the open doors. “Hey, Sam?” I ask.
Sam looks up from behind the desk. He’s a short man with a wiry gray mustache. He looks like a guy who spends his weekends betting on the ponies and playing cards with his buddies.
“Yes, sir?” he says.
“I, um, don’t have a key,” I say. “Von didn’t leave me one. ”
“No problem,” he says, unlocking a drawer, taking out the key, and hurrying over to help.
“Thanks,” I say with a grateful nod as the doors close. Von’s apartment is just as impressive to enter as it was the first time around. It feels a bit surreal that I’ll be living here for the foreseeable future. I’m unpacking the grocery bags when my phone rings. It’s Caden.
I answer and put him on speakerphone.
“How’s Von’s place?” he asks.
“Huge,” I say, shoving some fresh kale into the fridge and dropping the old one in the garbage. “White. Expensive.”
He laughs. “Sounds about right. Keep your chin up. I’ll try and visit—things are about to get crazy here. I’ve got to organize Sebastian’s visa and start work on implementing sustainable practices at the vineyards. Think we’ll start with the North Fork property before we branch out to Napa and Australia.” There’s a pause. “Sorry, this is the last thing you need to be hearing about. I’m a little nervous.”
“No, it’s great,” I reassure him, as I search for a bowl for the apples. This kitchen makes no sense. It seems like Von just shoved things into cabinets at random. “My brain needs a break from everything. Keep talking.”
We chat for a while about how Caden plans to step into his new role at the winery. He’s bringing the winemaker he worked for in Argentina—Sebastian Ramos—to come work for Everton, along with Sebastian’s three-year-old daughter, Esme. He’s making his dreams for the future of the winery come true. I’m really proud of him.
And it’s nice to focus on something else for a moment. To remind myself the world is still turning, even if it feels like mine has stopped.
After I chat to Caden, I call Pop. He tells me it was a good thing I left—the reporters are really encroaching on the lawn now, and Penny is getting upset. The police have finished their search. He said they took my gun but other than that he doesn’t think they found anything useful. The sheriff didn’t look pleased when he left, which is a good sign. I mean, I knew there was nothing to find but still. I never thought the sheriff would doubt my innocence or that a judge would set such a quick trial date. I feel like I know nothing about the profession I’ve loved my whole life.
Von would roll her eyes if she heard me thinking all this. We’ve never seen eye to eye when it comes to the criminal justice system. But to me, it really did always seem black and white. Cops arrested bad guys. And sure, there were some corrupt cops out there, but not in my town. Not in Magnolia Bay. It was easy to accuse her of being too caustic, too cynical. Always representing the wealthy, the guilty.
I think about what Grayson said this morning.
You’re lucky to have her on your side.
Pop tells me people have been phoning the house to offer support. Mrs. Greerson has been cursing out the reporters for disparaging me—and for clogging up the traffic around town. Jake Stein offered to let Pop use the hunting cabin he bought from old Mr. Sanderson. Mr. Sanderson used to own the Crooked Screw, until he sold it to Jake and moved to Florida. He loved to fish and bird watch. Pop and I would go out on the bay with him sometimes. The cabin is outside of town, farther up along the bay in a more rural area.
I tell Pop he should take it. Get out of Magnolia Bay for a minute. I’m sure Charlotte could help him make the transition. Because I’m positive he’s getting angry phone calls too. People saying I’m a murderer. That I deserve to rot in jail. He’s just not telling me about them.
Dusk is falling by the time I hang up. My stomach gives a low rumble. No word from Von since she left earlier. I decide to start on dinner. I’ll make something simple, so even if she gets home late, she can reheat it easily.
I grab a package of chicken breasts, an onion, and some potatoes then preheat the oven. Comfort food. That’s what she’ll need. It’s the best way I can say thank you without actually saying it.
I grab one of the beers I bought at the store, crack it open and take a swig, then set to work making a quick marinade for the chicken out of olive oil and lemon juice and garlic. The evening is turning cool, so the breeze coming in through the giant open wall offsets the heat of the stove. I play Miles Davis on my phone and the music mixes with the night air as I get to prepping the vegetables. Pop was the one who taught me that cooking was a simple thing if you didn’t overthink it. Starch, protein, vegetable. Basic ingredients. Salt, fat, acid. I was always the kind of kid who wanted to be sure I could take care of myself in any situation. Pop taught me how to fish and hunt, though I never took to the latter. I can mend my own clothes. I read voraciously. My therapist said it was because I’d suffered a major trauma at such a young age—I seek to find control in the small things.
I start rearranging the kitchen a bit, putting the knives here, moving the plates there. I don’t think Von knows how a kitchen actually works. I find myself smiling as I remember our exchange earlier. I really did imagine her living in some villainous lair—but less Maleficent and more like Blofeld or another one of the posh James Bond villains. All black marble with a hidden shark tank under the floor where she could dispose of her enemies.
I chuckle at the image as I find a sheet pan and nestle the chicken among the potatoes and onions. Then I shove the whole thing into the oven. I set a timer and take my beer out onto the terrace. The sun is setting somewhere behind the buildings, turning the edge of the sky rose-gold as the windows begin to light up in various apartments, little squares of orange popping up among the landscape.
How many lives are being lived right now, normal everyday lives? How many people out there don’t have to worry about what could happen to them in a matter of months? Life seems so fragile all of a sudden. And part of me feels like I should have known—I, of all people, have experienced first-hand how everything can change in an instant. How your world can be upended when you least expect it.
I have very few memories of my parents. But the night they died, I can still remember the pajamas I was wearing and the slice of moonlight coming in between my bedroom curtains. The sheriff—only a deputy back then—showed up at Pop’s door. I can still hear the echo of Pop’s agonized wail as he was told his son and daughter-in-law wouldn’t be coming home.
I chug my beer and turn away from the scene across the street. I wonder again where Von is. Maybe I should text her. The loneliness is starting to get to me. The scent of roasting onions wafts out from the kitchen, and I head inside to grab another beer.
It’s getting dark in here, but I have no idea where the light switches are. The walls are entirely smooth.
I’ve just cracked open my second beer and taken out my phone to at least text Von about the lights when the elevator doors open, startling me. It’s a bit freaky that there’s no doorbell to ring or door to knock on. Von looks as put-together as she did when she left. Not a strand of hair out of place in her smooth, sleek bun, not a wrinkle in the pencil skirt that hugs her hips. Her lips are painted a deep scarlet, and her silk blouse is the color of butter, one of those floppy bows tied at the base of her throat. I wonder what Von would look like in regular clothing. I try and picture her in jean shorts and a Yankees jersey. The image is comical but also disturbingly sexy.
Something flutters deep in the pit of my stomach, and I quickly push the image away. This beer must be going right to my head.
Von looks surprised. “What’s that?” she asks.
“What’s what?”
“That smell ,” she says.
“Oh. It’s dinner.”
“You cook?”
“Yeah.”
She eyes me suspiciously. “Where did you get the food?”
I give her a sheepish smile. “I went to the store.”
“Noah,” she snaps. “I told you not to leave! How did you even get back up here?”
“Sam has a key for the elevator,” I tell her. “And you can’t leave a person alone in a house all day with no food. It’s cruel and unusual. Plus, the reporters are still in Magnolia Bay. Pop told me when he called.”
Her eyes dart to the oven and she licks her lips. She is hungry. I feel a pinch of something like triumph. “It will be ready soon,” I say. “I thought you might want something to eat. It’s been a long day.”
Von makes a faint harrumph sound in the back of her throat and walks over to the refrigerator. I shift out of her way. She smells faintly floral, like jasmine trees in summer. Her eyes widen briefly at her newly stocked fridge before she grabs a bottle of white wine and opens a cabinet now full of pasta and rice and various nuts.
“Where are the wineglasses?” she asks.
“Here,” I say, opening a different cabinet.
“You moved my glassware?”
“They’re closer to the fridge here,” I explain. “And the pantry staples are near the canned goods.”
“I have canned goods?”
“Yeah. The kitchen is more intuitive this way.”
“I wasn’t aware my kitchen had intuition.”
I grin at her. “It does now.”
Von pours herself a healthy glass of wine and studies me as she takes a sip.
“Why are you cooking in the dark?” she asks.
I gesture around at the walls. “Where are the light switches? ”
Her mouth curls into a smirk. “Maleficent has many secrets,” she says.
She walks over to a panel I didn’t notice before because it’s smooth and flat and white, so it blends into the wall. When she touches it, a series of buttons illuminate. She presses one of them and lights begin to glow from various spots around the room, creating a pleasant atmosphere that I’m sure was carefully cultivated by whoever she hired to do the lighting.
“I decided you’re more like Blofeld,” I say, wondering if she’ll get the reference.
To my surprise, Von laughs. It’s a nice laugh, soft and light, one I don’t think I’ve heard before. “Which version?” she asks. “Christoph Walz or Donald Pleasance?”
I raise an eyebrow. “I hadn’t pegged you for a Bond fan.”
“Al and Finn loved all those movies. From Sean Connery to Daniel Craig. When either one of them got to pick for movie night, we all knew it would be some Bond flick.”
I used to go to the occasional Everton movie night, the times Caden would get to choose the movie. He’d even let me pick sometimes. I remember sinking into one of the plush recliners in their home theater, a big bucket of popcorn between me and Caden, and a giant soda in my cupholder.
“What movies would you choose?” I ask.
Two pink spots appear on Von’s cheeks. “Anything with Hugh Grant,” she admits.
Then she turns away from me and takes out her phone, back to business. She types as she sips her wine, walking over to one of the couches. Her eyes dart to me for half a second before she kicks off her heels and sits, tucking her feet underneath her. It’s such a not-Von pose. She’s always so stiff and poised. I find my eyes tracing the soft folds of her blouse, the taut line of her skirt as it hugs her thighs, the firm curve of her calf. I feel that stirring in the pit of my stomach again and turn away .
This is weird. I’m probably just hungry. And tired. I’ve never spent this much time with Von one-on-one.
I lean against the island, waiting for the timer to go off. The food really does smell good, I’m proud to admit. I’ve almost finished my second beer by the time I hear the beep declaring it’s ready. I pull out the sheet pan and let the chicken rest for a few minutes. I can tell by the set of Von’s shoulders that she is deeply aware of the food. Her hand reaches toward her bun, like she wants to let her hair fall free, then she stops herself and smooths one palm over her crown instead.
I guess she’s not going to let her hair down around me. What a metaphor.
I get out two plates and load each one up with chicken, onion, and potatoes. Then I grab the bottle of wine from the fridge because Von’s glass is empty like she chugged it when I wasn’t looking. I can’t really blame her. This must be even weirder for her than it is for me. I put everything on the large white table on the far side of the room. It seats six. I put Von at one end and myself at the other, thinking she might want some space between us. Then, at the last minute, I grab a glass and pour myself some wine.
Von looks up, a tiny dent between her eyebrows. “What are you doing?”
I gesture to the table. “Dinner’s ready.”
“Oh. I…I’m okay, thank you.”
“Come on. I can see you drooling from here.”
She looks affronted. “I do not drool.” But her hand twitches toward her mouth and I hear her stomach give a faint rumble. “Fine,” she mutters, getting up from the couch. She’s much shorter without her heels, I notice, as she walks over to the table. And her body moves differently. Less angular and more graceful. She sits down at the opposite end of the table and I dig in. The meal is simple and filling, just like I’d hoped. I chance a glance at Von and her face has relaxed as she focuses on the meal. She makes such precise cuts of food, ensuring each bite has a little bit of everything.
When we’ve finished, she tops up her wine and leans back in her chair. “Okay, that was really good,” she admits. There’s a bit more color in her cheeks.
“You’re very welcome,” I say in my best Sean Connery voice.
She smirks. “Let’s get to business, Mr. Bond,” she says in a stunningly awful German accent.
“Was that your Blofeld?”
“Yes, and it was spot on.”
“It was something, that’s for sure.”
“Says the man with the terrible Connery impression. You know he’s Scottish, right?”
We’re grinning at each other and suddenly it doesn’t feel quite so strange, to be having dinner alone with Von.
Then her face turns serious. “We need to talk,” she says. “It’s time to finish the interview from this morning.”
The weight that had lifted since my arrival plops back down on my sternum. My full stomach gives an unpleasant lurch. How was that only this morning? It feels like a lifetime ago.
It’s time to come clean about where I was on the morning Marion was murdered.