Chapter 19
Friday: The Night of the Party
The atmosphere inside the parlor feels altered, as though even the house can tell one of us is missing. Or perhaps it’s picked up on something else. That there’s a murderer in our midst.
An accidental fall from one of the balconies is unlikely, if not impossible.
Aside from Marmee, the only people inside the house are right in front of me.
Constance sits closest to the fire, the dancing flames accentuating her tear-marked cheeks.
Ava sits beside her. Preston walks across the room, making himself a stout drink at the bar.
Damien stands in the corner, almost catatonic.
One of them killed her.
I refuse to believe one of my closest friends—Ava, Constance, or Preston—would be capable. They loved Marlowe as much as I did, have years of memories and loyalty attached to her. My eyes linger over Damien. A stranger, an outsider.
“Marlowe’s death wasn’t an accident,” I say, incapable of ignoring the conversation any longer. “Someone pushed her.”
“Pushed?” Constance nearly chokes on the word.
“That’s an extreme accusation, Tippi,” Preston says. “It could be an accidental fall. Or maybe she jumped.”
“Really, Preston?” Ava says, disgusted.
“It’s a possibility.” He shrugs. “We don’t know what was going through her head.”
“Marlowe wouldn’t have killed herself,” Ava says.
“Nothing suggests she was suicidal,” I add.
“Listen to what you’re saying,” Preston says, and I can’t tell if he’s trying to convince his wife or me. “You’re suggesting one of us is a murderer?”
“Let’s take a look ourselves.” I force myself not to look at Damien. “We can investigate the library together.”
“What’s the point in that?” Damien asks.
“Something up there might give us more information. From where I stood outside, I don’t see how she could have fallen.”
When I was in the library earlier, I stumbled upon Oliver’s note, an unsettling discovery in its own right. Being there gave me time to look around. I even latched the balcony door shut after I saw it open. I’ll notice if anything has changed since I was last there.
One by one, the others follow me upstairs, possessed by the morbid curiosity one feels when passing an accident on the highway. You don’t want to see but can’t look away. There must be a small part in each of us hoping her fall was an accident, that something upstairs will prove it.
That seed of hope disappears once we enter the library.
Most elements are the same: books lining the stacked shelves, the neatly organized desk, the large globe that doubles as a decanter station in the corner. It’s not until I walk across the room, past the center coffee table and upholstered armchairs, that I see the destruction.
A small table beside the balcony door has been knocked over. The vibrant vase which sat on its surface is broken, a puddle of water on the floor. Leaves and stems are ground into the carpet.
“What the hell happened in here?” Preston is the first to speak. Everyone else wanders around the room in quiet disbelief.
Next, I inspect the balcony. The French doors remain open, two of the panes shattered. Clusters of glass litter the carpet, a few larger pieces broken into more threatening shapes. From the looks of it, Marlowe wasn’t just pushed off the balcony, but possibly onto it.
I tiptoe around the area, careful to avoid the larger pieces as I step outside.
“Be careful,” Constance says, calling after me.
“I’ll be fine.”
And yet, as I step forward, the breeze more powerful at this elevation, I feel like I’m being pulled, my body levitating over the ledge, in the direction of Marlowe. I keep one hand on the door handle for balance.
“See anything out there?” Damien asks, and I shake my head in reply.
Hair tickles my face as I lean over and inspect the broken railing.
As I suspected, it would take massive force to break it, a propulsive movement.
A clumsy trip wouldn’t do the trick. The only way Marlowe went over that ledge by herself was if she had a running start, but I’ve already ruled out suicide as a possibility.
And if she did kill herself, how would that explain the toppled table, the broken vase?
“There was a struggle,” I say, “before she fell.”
“I didn’t enter the library earlier,” Ava says. “Maybe it was already like this?”
I shake my head as I return inside. “I came in here after dinner. Just after I gave Marmee her cake. The room didn’t look like this.”
“If Marlowe was fighting with someone, how did none of us hear her?” Constance asks.
“Let’s confirm where everyone was at the time she fell,” I say. “I was outside. I heard her body hit the ground. Everyone else was inside, right?”
The others remain quiet, afraid to be the first to speak.
“I was in the parlor,” Preston says, finally. “I made another drink.”
“Okay,” I say. “Everyone else?”
“I was in the bathroom,” Constance says.
“Which bathroom?”
“The one connected to my bedroom. Upstairs.”
I look at Ava.
“I was in the cinema,” she says, “watching the movie. I figured you’d join me after your reading.”
We all look at Damien. My chest flutters with anticipation.
“I was in the billiard room,” he groans. “Admiring the memorabilia.”
This comment, along with his reluctance to answer, bothers me.
I don’t like the idea of him wandering around the house, appraising the various trinkets for their worth.
I consider the way he marveled at the chandelier upon his arrival, his admiration of the Venetian glassware in the dining room, his questions about the cinema.
Or maybe he was never in the billiard room at all. Rather, he was in this very room, arguing with Marlowe. They’d already bickered earlier in the night over Michael’s text messages.
Everyone was upstairs at the time Marlowe fell, except for Preston, who returned to the parlor for a drink.
“Can anyone verify where they say they were?”
They look around the room, eyes wide and lips sealed. Everyone has an alibi, but no one to confirm it. Any of them could be lying, could easily have been in the library with Marlowe right before her fall.
“We aren’t the only ones here,” Damien says, making my hair stand on end.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Your grandmother is here, right?”
I charge toward him. “You can’t possibly be suggesting—”
“She’s an old woman!” Ava says, coming to Marmee’s defense before I can even finish.
Damien raises his hands in a surrender. “I’m just saying, if we are trying to account for where everyone was, it’s worth mentioning.”
“The tarot reader!” Preston shouts. “She was still here when Marlowe fell.”
Constance grumbles at the suggestion. “Opal would never do something like this.”
“I’m only saying she was here. The rest of us don’t know anything about her,” he says. “I mean, how well do you know her?”
Constance braces to respond, but I raise my hands to stop her.
“I was outside when Opal left. She was gone before Marlowe fell.” For the sake of future argument, I add, “And Mrs. Wilson had already left, too.”
“Again,” Damien says, “how did no one hear the struggle?”
“It’s the house. The movie playing inside the cinema would have blocked out the sound, especially if everyone was scattered.”
If. Someone here must be lying about where they were, I admit, even though it leaves me oily with shame. The others must weigh similar possibilities. The collective attitude shifts from curiosity to grief to panic as the finality of the situation sinks in.
Marlowe is dead. Someone murdered her.
“This can’t be happening.” Ava is on the verge of hyperventilating, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
The men stew in silence. Preston inspects the balcony as Damien wanders around the rest of the room, seemingly looking for more evidence.
Constance, still huddled by the balcony, begins to cry. “I have to get out of this room.”
She stumbles backward toward the door, but her heel catches the lip of the coffee table, causing her to trip. The side of her body crashes to the floor, and she whines in pain.
“Fuck!”
“Constance!” Ava almost falls rushing toward her.
“Are you hurt?” I lean over her, inspecting her body for injury.
“My foot,” she moans, struggling to stretch past her swollen stomach to reach it.
A shard of glass has slipped beneath the strap of one of her Mary Janes. She kicks off her shoe to examine the cut. The sliver is about two inches wide, puncturing the arch of her foot. Without waiting, she plucks the glass free from her flesh. Bright red blood trickles from the wound.
“Great,” Damien says, already on his knees to help her up. “This is exactly what we need.”
“We’re all under stress. Let’s just take a second to think.” Preston bends down on her other side, helping her stand. He looks to Damien. “You can wrap this up, right?”
“I’ll need gauze. Probably some alcohol in case of infection.”
“There’s a first aid kit in the kitchen,” I say.
“On it,” Ava says, rushing past me.
“We should stay downstairs until we figure out what to do,” I say. I look to Constance. “Are you okay?”
She nods, but her cheeks are flushed with fresh pain. She leans on Preston and Damien as they make cautious strides toward the hallway, slowly descending the stairs.
“Get her settled in the parlor,” I tell them. “I’ll be down as soon as I talk to Marmee.”
I turn to head toward her bedroom when a distant but menacing sound grabs my attention. A blend of shrieking, high-pitched strings. My heart thunders in my chest as I rush forward, the sharp notes stabbing my ears.
It’s coming from the cinema. I enter the room to see Psycho is still playing.
Norman Bates, dressed as his mother, is attacking private investigator Milton Arbogast, sending the detective stumbling down the staircase.
I’ve watched this scene dozens of times, but now it feels personal, taunting.
The music is as haunting and unsettling as ever, maybe even more so now, in the wake of tragedy.
I flick on the lights and switch off the projector, then pull the heavy door closed behind me.