Chapter Thirty
THIRTY
Nicole
Nicole lay supine on the sofa, one arm flopped over her eyes to shield them from the morning sun.
Somehow, she’d managed to make small talk with the girls while they ate their breakfast and rushed out the door, but in the warm embrace of the quiet house, she grimaced against the pounding in her head.
It wasn’t just the back-to-back benders that were making Nicole feel ill.
She couldn’t stop reliving the sight of Woody and Maureen deep in conversation by the water’s edge.
She’d watched them from the window, talking on the colorful Adirondack chairs her girls loved to sit on in summer.
The intensity of the conversation, palpable even from a distance, had unnerved her—that, and the way Woody drooped in his chair.
The man had no filter, not even when sober, which was something she used to find endearing.
He was childlike in his enthusiasm, fervent and free, but that trait lost its luster when Nicole needed him to keep their secrets close to the vest. She loved her sister, but there were aspects of her life with Woody she didn’t want Maureen to know about.
It hadn’t been easy to live in the shadow of a perfect kid turned renowned detective, history-making sheriff, and all-around exemplary citizen.
Nicole had always looked up to her, but she hadn’t come close to matching Maureen’s success.
With nearly a decade on Nicole, Maureen had worked hard to prepare her little sister for the life that lay ahead, but she didn’t quite trust Nicole to live it.
What was it about Nicole that made everyone think she needed protecting?
People always treated her like she exuded a doe-eyed frailty.
She sometimes wondered if that was why Woody was so hell bent on “providing for his family,” as if Nicole’s contributions were worth nothing at all.
If maybe, in some twisted way, it was her fault he’d felt the need to partner up with Mikko Helle in the first place.
A few weeks ago, she’d gone back to the Rivermouth without telling her husband.
She’d been expecting to see progress. Machinery, inside and out.
Cement mixers and stacks of lumber, ready to shore up the crumbling walls.
When Mikko’s house underwent renovation, someone had erected that fence to keep curious onlookers safe.
There was no fence at the ice rink, though. No sign of work being completed at all.
The place had smelled rank, of mildew and rot.
Nicole didn’t have the stomach for death, could barely prep a chicken for the oven without gagging, but that’s what the building—the very one that was supposed to transform their lives—reminded her of.
Death. She knew what Woody would say if she asked him.
Be patient. It’s in the works. It’s happening.
There was nothing happening, though, not a single day of work since Mikko took possession months ago.
She’d left the Rivermouth overcome with nausea and awash in slick, cold fear.
For the first time since she found out Woody had handed over their savings to a stranger, Nicole thought about opening up to Maureen.
As county sheriff, she had contacts in every division of regional law enforcement.
Friends in high places, too. If Mikko had taken their money with no intention of following through, Maureen would know what to do.
Her sister was aware of Woody’s infidelity already, had coaxed the truth out of Nicole the way she always used to do when they were kids.
It was impossible to keep secrets from Maureen for long; she had a way of pulling confessions like taffy, kneading and stretching until they took shape.
She knew that Woody had cheated, putting their marriage and family on the line for the sake of a fling.
Worse than that, Maureen knew Nicole had done the one thing her mother—who was Maureen’s mother too—warned her daughters never to do.
Woody had been unfaithful, and Nicole had stayed with him, and in a way that was the worst truth of all.
But was it worse than allowing him to plunge their family into utter poverty?
She was staring at the ceiling when the call came through. The number was local, but not one that she recognized.
“Nicole? It’s Janelle. Do you have a minute? It’s about your husband.”
“Oh Janelle. Hi,” she said, dragging herself into an upright position.
Janelle Gunther was the mother of Blair’s friend Samantha, but while the Gunthers lived right down the road, Nicole was pretty sure the girls hadn’t hung out in years.
She couldn’t fathom why the woman was calling her now, especially about Woody.
Janelle wasted no time explaining, the words mashing together as she spoke. Nicole said nothing, not a peep. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
“I’m sorry,” she said when Janelle was through, “but I really think you have this wrong.” Nicole felt ill, her stomach roiling.
“I don’t have it wrong.” The statement was a snapped rubber band.
“Samantha says lots of her friends have been buying his stuff online—purses, sweatshirts, you name it. He’s selling through an app the kids use where you can get a discount, including on designer items. Except his products aren’t real.
He’s hawking fakes for hundreds of dollars, Nicole, and now Samantha’s out half a paycheck for a replica Coach purse that smells like rotting fish. ”
No. There was no way Woody was defrauding Blair’s friends. Did he even know apps like that existed? “Woody does have an online resale business,” Nicole said, “but I really don’t think he uses an app, and he would never sell counterfeit products as the real thing.”
“You need to talk to your husband. Samantha works hard for her money. She’s saving for college, as I’m sure you know. What he’s doing is despicable. I’m seriously considering calling the police.”
“I’ll talk to him,” Nicole told Janelle. She was having a hard time swallowing. Sour bile coated her throat. “I’ll figure this out. Just please don’t involve the police until I can find out what’s going on.”
There was an agonizing pause before Janelle agreed, telling Nicole she’d wait to hear back. When she hung up, Nicole sat quietly for a long time. If Woody was running a knockoff goods business out of their garage, their family’s home, Nicole might actually kill him.
She was about to call him when her phone rang again.
“How’s the lady of the hour?”
“Leveled,” Nicole told Stacy. “I’m way too old for Club Med cocktails.”
“You and me both.” In the background, Nicole could hear one of Stacy’s colleagues talking. “My eye bags are big enough to hold my wallet. It was a fun night, though. Your sister’s the best.”
“She is,” Nicole agreed, the feeling of dread deepening.
“Did you see the news? Word’s out about the woman who was hiding at Mikko’s, but they haven’t mentioned the bones. You’re not working today, are you?”
“Tomorrow,” Nicole said. “Why?”
“Why? There’s a maniac out there who can walk through walls, and you work alone in big houses. She could be danger--ous, Nic.”
When Nicole thought of it that way, she wasn’t especially jazzed about her chosen profession.
Stacy wasn’t wrong; most of her clients went out when she arrived, leaving Nicole alone.
The memory of the woman’s eye in the vent still provoked a crush of panic, but what choice did she have? This was her job, and she had to do it.
“She’s long gone by now,” Nicole said, as much to appease herself as her friend. “If the police haven’t found her yet, they probably never will.”
Nicole heard shuffling on the line, and a moment later there was street noise. Stacy had gone outside. “What do you mean?”
“She was about to get arrested for trespassing, remember? She might even be a murder suspect. If that was you, and you managed to escape, would you stick around and risk getting caught again?”
Stacy went quiet. “Well, I hope you’re right, because every minute she’s out there is another minute I’m afraid she’ll end up in my house next. Gotta run, but I wanted to ask about Mikko. What’s the latest there?”
“Oh.” Based on Nicole’s interview, the police were definitely looking into Mikko, but she had no idea whether he was in custody.
She hadn’t spoken with him since Saturday, and didn’t know when—or if—she’d see him again.
“I haven’t heard anything new,” she told Stacy.
“But I’ll keep you posted. I’m sure I’ll talk to Maureen today at some point. ”
“OK, yeah. Please do. If a client’s about to be charged with murder in connection to a house I sold him, I’d like to know.”
“Sheesh. What kind of damage control do you do for that?”
“You’ve got me,” she said. “Believe it or not, this situation wasn’t in the real estate handbook.”
Nicole promised to check in with Stacy later, and assured her that everything would be OK. As she ended the call, she thought once again of why she’d gone to Mikko Helle’s house in the first place.
A house with a secret only a killer should know.