Chapter 36
The Day After the Hurricane
The phone call with Delia was brief—as most phone calls with Delia are. I had told her I needed someone to reach Chief Kennedy and encourage him to listen to evidence about someone on his police force.
“You’re going to need to show him something undeniable,” she had advised.
“I know,” I agreed before hanging up.
“So that’s it?” Nora asks. “We wait for your kooky aunt to call Chief Kennedy?”
“No, we have to find something to bring to Kennedy. Something that’s bigger than proof Gemma left that stuff in the Hall—your house. And it better be good. If I’m going to accuse Ardell of murder, I think I only get to do that once.”
“Or maybe we should go straight to baking a file into a cake? Is it time to move off the grid? Flee to an island?”
“I’ve asked Beau about the island thing,” I say. “But he never goes for it.”
Nora reaches for her heart like she’s wounded. “Hey. You can’t live on an island. What about me?”
“That’s what Beau always says. And then I agree. And then I don’t bring it up again until Carol does some annoying thing like that neighborhood Arbor Day BBQ—”
“I think you mean the B-Arbor-Becue.”
“Please never say that to me again,” I tease.
Marcus laughs in spite of himself.
“So you think,” Nora says like she’s trying to add up the balance of my nightmare, “Ardell killed Gemma, and then, he killed Simon? Why would he do that?”
“I’m not sure he killed Simon,” I admit. “Simon and Beau looked like they would have loved to tear each other apart last night. But I think whatever happened to Gemma set all of this in motion.”
It’s the only explanation. Everything started going sideways after Gemma died.
“And Simon seemed so fixated on Beau last night—blaming him for Gemma’s murder—but we’ve all seen the footage. Beau didn’t do this.”
Nora chews on a fingernail. “Maybe Ardell needed money? And Simon bribed him to frame Beau for everything?”
“I mean, he was there last night. He came into Ford’s backyard and told us all to go home.”
Marcus considers this. “What about a ring camera? If he was in the neighborhood, would someone have video footage for how long he stuck around? Whether he came back?”
“Everyone lost power, though,” I say.
“You know whose brand-new security system never loses power?” Nora says, unable to hide a wry smile.
Before she says it, I already know. And I really don’t want to know.
“If you can find out what happened to Simon,” Marcus says, “maybe that will lead us to who killed Gemma.”
I’m not really listening to Marcus, though. I’m already bracing for what Nora’s about to say.
“Carol Parker,” she swiftly finishes me off.
Well, fuck.
“So the answer to who killed Simon might be on Carol’s security footage,” I say, dazed from the impact of the realization. “Which means, we’re going to have to ask her for help.”
“You want a Xanax?” Nora asks dryly.
I don’t answer.
“Carol cornered me a few days ago when I was out for a walk,” Nora explains.
“I think she wanted me to peer-pressure you into coming clean about the TPing. But she also went into painstaking detail about how she had the security company install a backup power supply so the cameras would never go down. It was the most mind-numbing hour of my life, but now, it’s clear I suffered for this very moment. ”
Marcus looks at me, eyes pleading for me to make my move, and I reach for my phone.
“Are you calling Carol Parker?” he asks, like he can’t quite believe it.
“No. I’m calling Autumn.” But the call goes straight to voicemail. I try again, and get a busy signal this time. “Shit. Where is she today?”
Nora takes out her phone and scrolls to Autumn’s Instagram, turning her screen to show me the latest story, where Autumn is deflating a balloon arch that puts the Arc de Triomph to shame. “Today should have been Jenny Rubenstein’s bat mitzvah at Interlachen.”
“She worked so hard on that Make Your Own Mitzvah Mocktail station,” I say, feeling a pinch of sympathy.
“She’s probably up to her eyeballs in vendor logistics.” Nora waves a hand. “Let’s go talk to her.”
We leave Marcus standing in his kitchen, taking my car to the club.
When we find her, alone in a massive ballroom, the space has been transformed into a European discotheque.
Neon lights and the reflective spin of disco balls bounce off mirrored tables.
Black lights cast an electric glow, and the dance floor is a grid of video panels that flash a dizzying array of colors and images.
“I feel like I just dropped acid,” I whisper to Nora. “Do these kids take acid?”
Despite the party-ready room, there are no guests and no music.
Autumn is near the DJ booth, and with the switch of a button, the synthesized pulse of Robyn’s “Dancing On My Own” starts thumping through the room.
She doesn’t see us. She can’t.
That’s the only explanation for why she shimmies her way to the middle of the dance floor, barefoot and bopping to the music.
“We should say something,” Nora murmurs.
I swallow a giggle. “She’s having fun. Why interrupt her?”
We don’t need to bother, though, because as Autumn launches herself into a spin, she catches sight of us and almost falls over.
“Este! Nora!” she trills, running back to the booth.
She recovers quickly, though, cutting the music and clearing her throat as she walks across the room to greet us. “What are you guys doing here?”
“We heard there was a floor show,” I start, but Nora slaps my arm. “Sorry.”
“The Rubensteins’ plans got caught in the storm,” she says, looking around the room. “Poor Jenny. She’s been working so hard. But by the time they canceled, a lot of the vendors had already finished their setup. I thought I’d enjoy one little dance before we have to break the whole thing down.”
In an instant, I regret teasing Autumn. Nora always says Autumn might be the hardest-working person in Winter Park.
A part of me has written her off for the frivolity of it all—all this life and death going on and Autumn’s still popping a vein over party favors.
But the childlike blush in her cheeks is such an honest tell.
She loves this job, making little moments come alive for people.
I am an asshole.
“Well, it looks really stunning,” I say. “You’re very talented.”
Autumn’s cheeks flush pink. “It would have been a fun night. But we’ll reschedule. Jenny will get her moment.”
“Este needs your help,” Nora chimes in.
Right.
“Sure.” Autumn nods. “One second. I don’t think Ms. Dowling got the cancellation email.”
She’s looking past us now to a figure standing in the door, and at the mention of Ms. Dowling, I spin around.
Polly.
I haven’t had time to think about how Polly’s doing right now. As Autumn goes to greet the stern-looking woman, I’m quick behind her.
“Hi, Ms. Dowling,” Autumn greets her sweetly. “I’m so sorry, but we had to cancel because of the storm. There was an email, but it might have gone to Ford.”
Ms. Dowling is holding a gift bag, and the multicolor tissue paper sprouting from the top is an ironic contrast to her permanent scowl.
“Oh,” she says, and I get the impression Dowling even reads nursery rhymes to infants in that stern tone. “Well, that’s too bad for Jenny. I was coming to share a gift from Polly along with her regrets. There was a death in the family last night. Mr. McGinnis and Polly are home today.”
Somehow the words—formal and sterile, as Ms. Dowling is wont to be—hook into me and tear a hole in the center of my chest.
I can still picture the hopeful pride Polly looked up at Simon with, and she had to sit next door while the police studied the finality of finding him in my pool.
I hate knowing Polly is curled up in a ball somewhere right now grieving. At least she’s with Ford. He’s a good dad. That much was apparent in the way Polly kept looking to him last night—for a joke or some signal of approval.
I was probably a little too hasty to suspect him.
“I’ll make sure she gets this.” Autumn graciously accepts the bag, and Ms. Dowling says her goodbyes.
I stand there for a moment, watching Nora and Autumn go back into the ballroom while Ms. Dowling walks out. And I know I need to get to Carol’s house quickly, but I can’t resist chasing after Polly’s nanny.
“Is she okay?” I ask as I catch up to her in the hall. “Polly? She must be devastated.”
Ms. Dowling takes a moment, and the pause feels heavy, like she’s considering what it is to watch a child be confronted with the cruelty of the world.
“She’s going to be okay,” she says finally. “You should come by the house and check on her when you can. I’m sure she’s going to need you.”
“What?” I blurt out, my thoughts faltering. “You’re not mad at me? For breaking into Ford’s garage?”
This makes her laugh. “You certainly dance to the beat of your own drum.”
What a very nice way to say “I think you’re batshit crazy.”
“But so do most people around here,” she continues. “And whatever your reasons for poking around in Mr. McGinnis’s golfing equipment, I’ll always have a soft spot in my heart for you after you took Polly out to TP Carol’s house.”
She knew?! While I was trying to keep Ford from finding out, Dowling knew.
“Does Polly know you know?”
“No way.” She rocks back on her heels. “I can’t let her think it’s okay.
Someone’s got to be the stick-in-the-mud that keeps her going to bed on time and turning in her homework.
But a little trouble is good for her. It helps build character—and grit.
And after seeing the things people around here get up to, you could do a lot worse than nicking a few ball markers. ”
A smile blooms across my lips. “She had a lot of fun.”
“Good.” Then, her face hardens, and she wags a strict finger. “Just promise you’ll never do it again.”
“Adding it to the list of things I won’t do again.” I salute.
“And do check on Polly.”
That part I don’t need a reminder for. Turning back toward the ballroom to talk to Autumn, I give Ms. Dowling one more wave, thinking it’s too bad I won’t be able to tell Polly that Dowling knew about the TPing incident until she’s at least in college.
But something about the way she said “after seeing the things people around here get up to” echoes in my head as I walk back into the ballroom.
“So what’s up?” Autumn asks when she sees me.
“I need Carol to hate me about fifteen percent less so she’ll show me what’s on her security footage.”