Vera
Esme stands aside, swinging the elaborately carved double-height door wide for me, letting me into the grand foyer that makes
mine look like a mudroom.
“You look awful,” I say.
“Thanks. Just what every girl wants to hear. Come in. But stay back, I’ve been sick for hours.”
She leads me down the marble hallway, padding in fuzzy sock feet, past the dining room where we’ve eaten at the lavish dinner
parties she and Claudia throw, beyond the elegant, but coolly modern living room dominated by white leather furniture, through
the gleaming industrial kitchen into a smaller, cozier sitting room overlooking the pool where a fireplace and big flat-screen
television dominate.
Esme returns to the pile of fluffy blankets where she’s obviously been cocooned, suffering, motions for me to have a seat
in one of the big chairs.
I’m concerned. Iggy’s in the hospital. Does Esme need to be there, too?
With certain substances, the onset is initially indistinguishable from a stomach bug.
And for that reason, most people don’t get treatment right away.
Only when things have progressed beyond repair—liver dysfunction sets in, kidneys fail, heart struggles—is it clear that you’re not dealing with a bout of indigestion.
But Esme mainly ate the prepared meal she brought, only picking at the other offerings.
I haven’t been sick; but of course I didn’t eat.
What hostess ever does? Neither Payton nor Ana is unwell.
I try to visualize the table, the sideboard. The waxy, fragrant charcuterie board with its artfully arranged offering of meats,
cheese and nuts, little pots of jam and golden honey. There was the fresh fruit platter with its bright berries, tart apples,
melon balls, and kiwi slices. Fresh bread and crackers from our local bakery. The creamy quiche Lorraine, rich and flaky.
A flavorful Waldorf salad. All of these items were catered in from local places.
Of course, there was Ana’s cassoulet. April washed all the dishes, took all the leftovers. I am, as ever, grateful for her
efficiency.
I approach Esme, tuck in her blanket, take a good look at her. But her skin is pink, eyes clear. There’s no gray or yellow
tinge to her skin. I put a hand to her forehead. There’s no fever.
My mothering instincts turn on. This is not just illness. There’s something else. I thought she seemed less than her normally
cheerful self at brunch. Now her eyes are rimmed red like she’s been crying.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
She runs a hand through her short, spiky hair. “Claudia left me.”
This comes as a surprise. They seemed so happy, so coupled, had built this home, a big life populated with friends. Their
love for each other, their intimacy, seemed obvious, unquestionable.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, sitting across the glass coffee table from her. There are books everywhere, lining the built-in shelves,
stacked artfully on the end tables, in a stylish pile on the floor. “What happened?”
“I mean—what happens in a long relationship? It’s not one thing. Then it’s everything. You know?”
Of course I know what she means. A marriage is an ongoing negotiation—who wants what, who gets what. There are the big fights that almost unstitch you, but then don’t. A thousand things you overlook until you can’t. Power struggles. Infidelities. Speaking strictly for my marriage.
“You know what’s jacked?” she says. “I’d say it was Paul who was really the final straw.”
“Paul?” That’s interesting.
“You know that whole Business Journal thing? I couldn’t let it go. He was only chosen because he was frat brothers with the editor. I should have been in that
article.”
“You’re right,” I say, because she is.
“And then to be up against him for Businessperson of the Year, knowing that he is—was—probably going to win. I just couldn’t
stop thinking about it. Like, seriously, it was keeping me up at night imagining the gala where I would have to smile graciously
as he took an award I deserved. The humiliation of it.”
She draws in and releases a deep breath. I’ve never seen her so angry.
“What’s even worse is that he probably will still win, posthumously. And I’ll just have to smile and eat crow. I’m sick with
it.”
“You don’t know that, Esme,” I say. “There’s every chance you’ll win. You deserve it.”
But she’s not listening.
“Claudia said I was obsessed with him, that I could never just be happy with things as they were. That I always wanted more,
and more. She thinks the article is meaningless, that the award is stupid and pointless, and that it doesn’t matter who wins.
Which hurts, you know? It matters. To me.”
When you care about your work the way Esme does, when you’ve worked as hard as she has, of course it stings not to be recognized,
to see accolades go to lesser people for unfair reasons.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “Of course it matters to you.”
She nods, wipes at her eyes. She’s normally so positive and upbeat; it’s hard to see her so crushed.
“Where is Claudia now?”
“She’s in Tokyo for work. Plans to stay on awhile. I’m not sure when she’s coming back. Or if she is.”
She sinks down under the blankets, looking miserable. “And maybe she’s right, that I was obsessed. It’s just—things are so
unfair all the time.”
She bats angrily at her tears, grabs a tissue from a box on the end table beside her. A crystal hedgehog catches the light
and casts tiny rainbow flecks on the wall. There’s a framed picture of Claudia and Esme walking hand in hand on the beach
where they were married.
“Claudia was always like: When is it enough, Esme? And I said, when it’s fair.”
I can see why Claudia might have lost patience with this line of thinking. It’s childish to imagine that the world should
be fair. It’s not, nor has it ever been, or ever will be.
Still, I feel the motherly urge to brew her some tea for that stomach. I know she has my special blend because I gave it to
her and Claudia in a ceramic canister for Christmas. I make this suggestion, and she nods weakly. “Thanks.”
She follows me to the kitchen as I boil some water, find her fresh ginger, and grate it into a cup. The tea is in her cupboard.
I spoon it into a tea ball and let the whole thing steep. Everything in the kitchen is meticulously clean and organized, as
if it’s never been used.
“So now Paul is dead,” I say, finally handing her the cup.
She holds it in both hands, breathes in the strong aroma, blows on the hot liquid before she takes a tentative sip. Tea is
a whole experience of comfort, scent and warmth soothing before you ever take a sip. It calms your nervous system, the plants
working their healing magic in multiple ways.
I watch her.
“Hmm,” she says. “This is so good.”
Could she have killed Paul? Did she hate him that much? Would Ana have helped her, provided the necessary ingredients? Maybe my sister’s whole bit of I loved him and I’m going to find out who did this is just an act.
In all the years I’ve known Esme, I’ve never seen her cross, or losing her temper. But that doesn’t mean anything. Women are
good at hiding their darkest feelings. We learn early that we’re not allowed to be angry, get skilled at burying our rage
deep. But sometimes it just explodes.
I’ve been there myself.
“You know if I’m honest, I’ve wished for it,” she says, maybe reading my mind. “Car accident. Heart attack. Fall from a cliff,
whatever. But I don’t feel any better now that he’s gone.”
“No?”
“Because as I’ve been lying here sick what I get now is that I wasn’t just mad at Paul. He was just the symbol of all the
ways the world is dangerous and unfair for women, all the shit we have to eat. How men help each other, and bend over backward
to laud their own mediocrity. Paul’s dead but there are a million more just like him.”
“Esme,” I say, leaning toward her. “They think it was Ana. She’s in real trouble. So, if you know something, please tell me.”
Her dark eyes grow wide; she puts down her cup. “Vera. No. No way. You think I had something to do with Paul getting killed?”
“I don’t think anything,” I say, lifting my palms. “I’m just trying to take care of my sister. The police have an easy narrative.
The jilted ex. Ana’s got a history. I need to figure out who did it before they arrest her.”
“It wasn’t me,” she says. “I wish I had a killer instinct. But I don’t.”
“Any theories?” I ask.
Esme shrugs. “Probably the list of people who didn’t hate him is shorter.
There’s a young woman who works for me now who says she worked late with him one night.
After they finished, he poured her a drink.
She woke up the next morning in her car in the office parking lot and couldn’t remember what had happened.
She had bruises, felt—you know—violated. ”
“Who was that?”
“Jessie Parker. She works in the IT department, a crazy-talented coder.”
Jessie Parker, here you are again. I think of the picture she posted, she and Amanda cheek to cheek.
“What about Amanda Alessi? Did you know her?”
“She was Jessie’s friend, maybe a little more than that. I got a vibe, like Jessie might be in love with her, but that those
feelings stopped at friendship on Amanda’s part.”
Okay. It might be nothing. But at least it’s something to throw at the detective. Someone Paul harmed, holding a grudge. Then
he’s going out with her best friend. But what kind of friend dates a man who harmed someone she cares about?
She sips at her tea again, some of the color returning to her face.
“This tea. It’s like magic.”
But she still looks pale, clammy. I put a motherly hand to her forehead, wonder again whether she needs a doctor.
“It’s Agnes’s recipe. A blend of peppermint and lavender, among other things.” Willow bark, which contains salicylates, an
organic aspirin, a dash of baking soda to neutralize acid. She called this one Tummy Soother. It never fails. Unless there’s
something more seriously wrong.
“Let me run you to urgent care?” I suggest. “Or call your concierge doctor?”
She wipes at the slight sheen of sweat on her brow. “I’ll power through.”
I’m about to protest when she goes on.
“You know what I still don’t get? Why would Ana be with Paul at all? We all hassled her about it.”
I shake my head and offer a shrug. “Ana has always had dangerous appetites when it comes to men.”
Esme runs a hand over the crown of her head, expression puzzled, worried. “The girl is a mystery.”
She has no idea.
Before I pull out of the drive, I thumb out a quick text to Claudia, mention that Esme is unwell and should go to the doctor.
Maybe it will get them talking. If something happens to Esme, and I didn’t do anything when I had the chance, I won’t be able
to forgive myself.
As I start to drive, I’m still thinking about things she said.
Why would Ana be with Paul?
Why would Amanda? Especially knowing her friend had been harmed by him. What little I know about her, just from social media,
Amanda—unlike Ana—doesn’t seem like the type to be attracted to an abuser at best, a rapist, a predator at worst.
But we all have our dark appetites, don’t we?