Chapter 19
True to AJ’s description, Margaux had taken over one of the multipurpose rooms. Papers were spread everywhere on one of the tables, and she had a laptop set up, complete with a power cord running to a nearby outlet.
She held a red pen in one hand, and she was marking up a page as she read.
There wasn’t anything nefarious about it; she wore a patterned shirt with dark jeans, and she could have as easily been a corporate executive on casual Friday.
But then she looked up, and those yellow eyes that didn’t blink met me.
“Yes?”
“I was wondering if you had a moment to talk.”
“No. Please shut the door on your way out.”
“Uh, no?” (I hated that it came out as a question.)
“This is a public space,” AJ said.
Margaux’s gaze swiveled toward AJ, and she stepped back—bumping into Charlie in the process.
“Where were you the night Vivienne was murdered?” I said.
Margaux turned her attention back to the paper. Her perfect nails gripped the page a little too forcefully, though, making tiny indentations that I could see from where I was standing.
“You weren’t doing one-on-ones,” I said. “That was a lie.”
Margaux pretended to continue reading.
“And it was a bad lie,” I said. “But I think that’s because you were desperate. You hadn’t planned on anyone asking you where you’d been, and you hadn’t prepared an alibi. I guess that’s because it was a crime of opportunity rather than something you’d planned in advance.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Margaux said. “But you’re on the edge of slander.”
“I didn’t hear anything,” Charlie piped up.
Margaux shot them a flat look, and AJ put a warding hand between them.
“It’s a lie that was easy to disprove,” I said. “I checked the schedule.”
“I was having unofficial meetings with clients,” Margaux said. “Not everything is on the conference schedule.”
“Great. I’m sure you’ll be happy to provide a name or two.”
Margaux stared at me with those hard, yellow eyes for a moment.
Then she stood and began packing up her belongings.
Charlie looked like they might be sick, and AJ was hugging herself, both of them shrinking back until they were practically plastered to the wall.
Thatcher, on the other hand, had put himself halfway between me and Margaux.
Maybe he thought she was going to attack me.
Maybe he was finally going to get that life-or-death struggle he was so excited about—he and Margaux could have a nice, old-fashioned knife fight.
“Is it true that Robert was trying to convince Vivienne to fire you?”
The little arrhythmia in Margaux’s movements was barely there. But it was there.
“It is,” I said. “Isn’t it?”
“I don’t know where you heard that story,” Margaux said, “but it’s ridiculous. Why would Robert have any interest in that part of Vivienne’s business?”
It was like feeling a piece of ice slip underfoot.
“Because Vivienne was his business,” I said, fighting for a conviction I’d suddenly lost. “And cutting you out of the picture would have made it easier to deal with Vivienne.”
Margaux buckled her bag and hoisted it to her shoulder. She didn’t look at me as she started toward the door, saying, “I don’t have anything to say to you.”
“That’s a mistake,” I said. “Because you don’t have an alibi for the night Vivienne was killed, just like you don’t have an alibi for the night Robert was killed.
But you do have opportunity and motive. You found the body, Margaux.
I mean, my God, that’s rule number one. You don’t have to talk to me, but you will have to tell the sheriff. ”
Margaux spun around so quickly that I almost took a step back. “How dare you? How dare you come around and—and start picking through the rubble like you have any idea what you’re talking about?”
“Someone killed Vivienne to silence her. Someone killed Steven to silence him. Someone killed Robert Kessler and got away with it. And the link between all those people, Margaux? It’s you.
You hated Robert. You ‘found’ his body. You needed to get rid of him so he’d stop whispering poison into Vivienne’s ear.
And you managed to find a way to make sure Simona took the fall for it.
But Vivienne figured it out, eventually.
She told Steven she’d made a mistake. And Steven made an even bigger mistake by telling you.
That’s why you had to get rid of him. That’s why you had to get rid of Vivienne.
You might have hated her, sure. But you were afraid of her; that’s why she had to go. ”
Margaux stared at me, disbelief sharpening her features until they were almost vulpine.
And then she laughed. It went on and on.
And when she stopped, she said, “You’re as stupid and arrogant as she was.
Did you know that? It worked out rather well, how you took over for her.
The same bumbling questions. The same arrogance. You are just like her.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But you’ll still have to explain this to the sheriff.”
“I didn’t kill Robert. God knows I wanted to.”
“You’ll have to do better—”
“I was with Simona,” Margaux said. For a moment, the facade cracked, and the pain rushed to the surface. “That’s where I was the night Robert died.”
It was like the pieces of a puzzle clicking into place. Somehow, I heard myself say, “But Simona didn’t have an alibi.”
“Of course she did. She was with me. But I was too much of a coward. I begged her not to say anything. I was sure that—” Margaux’s voice broke. Her hands opened and closed at her sides, and the light rippled along her nails. “How could they convict her? She hadn’t done it. She was innocent.”
But they had. And by then, it was too late.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because Vivienne hated her. Because Vivienne would have crucified me for sleeping with the enemy.” Margaux started to shake her head, then stopped. A hint of sweat showed on her upper lip. “The things I did for—for that woman.”
Staring into that grief, still raw after all these years, I tried to find a hint of deception. I couldn’t. But the part of me that had read too many detective novels said, “That’s easy to say with Simona not around to verify it. And you still don’t have an alibi for when Vivienne died.”
Margaux’s smile was bleak. “You want to know where I was?” Her gaze moved past me to Thatcher. “I went for a drive. With my newest author. Isn’t that right, Thatcher?”
I turned in time to see the confusion on Thatcher’s face—the first moment, while he was still processing, and the truth rode on the surface.
I remembered Thatcher’s excited questions the first night of the conference.
I remembered him asking me if I’d ever heard of Margaux Mendez.
And then I watched him decide.
He adjusted his beanie and said, “Yeah. We were on a drive.”
“No, you weren’t,” I said.
“Thatcher,” AJ said. “What are you talking about?”
“You were with us,” Charlie said.
“I know you think this is—” I stopped because for a moment, I didn’t have words. “I know you think this is going to help you. Help your career. But you’re making a bad choice right now.”
Thatcher gave me a sneer that was somewhere between pity and contempt. “What do you know? You’re just jealous.” More slowly, enunciating clearly, he said, “We went for a drive.”
Margaux hoisted her bag and started for the door. “There you have it.”