Chapter 6 Katie Morrow
Katie Morrow
“I had lunch with Willow—that’s Mark’s first wife—three days before she supposedly left him.
We were practically best friends, and she didn’t say a word to me about leaving.
We’re just supposed to believe she left town and no one ever heard from her again?
It’s bullshit. And then, three years later, he started bringing Katie around the club.
I gotta tell you, as a Willow loyalist, I refused to be Katie’s friend.
Most of the women at the club did. I mean, we all liked Willow.
She was just . . . so fun. Effortlessly chill.
If there was a queen bee of the Crestmore circle, it was her.
We all wanted to be her friend, but I was probably the one she liked the best.”
Katie slowly took the stairs down to the first level, her nerves tightening at the thought of speaking to the authorities.
She adjusted the neck of her baby-blue romper, a silk blend that elongated her legs and cinched at the waist, the neckline hinting at her cleavage without being ostentatious about it.
Her personal shopper had sworn over the outfit, purchasing it in three colors and promising that this was an ensemble Katie could put on without thought—no way to screw it up.
Nude sandals and a chunky stone necklace were the only accessories, the items placed in clear bags and attached to the hangers so no guesswork was needed.
Clothing had always been a concern of hers.
When she’d started at Mark’s agency—and chanced a run-in with a celebrity athlete at each day of the job—she had been almost paralyzed with indecision each morning over her outfit.
When she’d begun dating Mark, and confessed the insecurity over a candlelit dinner in Palo Alto, he’d immediately placed a call to Saks.
Within five minutes, she’d been assigned a stylist and given an unlimited budget, billed to him.
Such a large source of anxiety, suddenly gone.
Her student debt had been the next problem—resolved.
Mark had been like a magician, removing one obstacle, then another, and then she was suddenly in an evening gown, surrounded by hundreds of candles, him on one knee, a four-carat diamond ring in one hand.
And Willow hadn’t even been a thought. Not that night, and not during the wedding, and not until she had moved into this house and was suddenly surrounded by the ghost of a woman whom everyone seemed to love.
The housekeeper stood in the foyer with an apologetic look, and Katie smiled tightly, as if everything was okay.
And it was. There was nothing to be nervous about.
This was probably something trivial and had nothing to do with the red light she’d run last week, the one at the giant intersection that most definitely had a red-light camera, and was a home visit really necessary for that infraction?
She had assumed she would get a ticket in the mail with a hefty fine or, at the very worst, a notice to appear.
As she approached, the housekeeper opened the door. On the front mat, their shoulders side by side, as if they were blocking her exit, were two men in the standard black police uniforms of the San Francisco Police Department. “Mrs. Morrow?” one asked.
“Yes?” Katie smoothed a hand over the top of her hair, and for once the blond strands seemed to be behaving.
Idiot-proof, the expensive hairdresser had promised her.
Just do this, this, this, and nine more other things, all in the right order, and then it’ll look perfect!
You know, there had been a sound when she had zoomed through the intersection.
A horn, or maybe the squeal of brakes. What if she’d caused an accident?
They introduced themselves, the left one and then the right, and she tried to capture and remember their names but promptly forgot. “Do you have a card?” she asked. “My husband will want to see it.”
Maybe someone had been in the crosswalk. Someone she hadn’t seen. She had felt a bump but thought it was the reflective markers in the crossing path, the ones that helped to guide the visually impaired.
The officers didn’t hesitate, digging in their pockets and coming up with twin white cards, the seal of the San Francisco Police Department on the left side of each. She studied each one and repeated the names three times in her head.
Antonio Bridges. Antonio Bridges. Antonio was the one with the clipboard.
Terry Reyes. Terry Reyes. Terry was the bald one.
“Maybe I should call my attorney,” she said, and the words came out just right. Confident, like someone who was well protected and shouldn’t be messed with, especially not over a minor traffic infraction.
They exchanged a look, and the one on the right—Terry—coughed out a laugh. “Uh, Mrs. Morrow, we’re just stopping to ask if we can search the pond on the back of your property. You’re free to consult with an attorney if you like. But we aren’t here on suspicion of any crime.”
The other one frowned at her, and if they hadn’t been here on suspicion, now they kind of looked like they were.
She shifted her weight to one leg and hoped they didn’t look down at her feet.
She had missed her weekly pedicure due to an overbooking at the spa.
Inconvenient, since there was a chip on her left big toe.
“You want to search the lake?” That made no sense.
The small pond was behind their firepit area, to the left of the pool.
It wrapped around the back guesthouse and second garage, and provided a nice buffer between them and the golfers, who sometimes got loud and obnoxious.
Once, one hit a ball into the pond and waded up to his knees in an attempt to get it. “Why?”
“Something was found on the course last night, and we’re trying to find the source of it. It appeared to be from a body of water, so we’re searching all of the course lakes and private ponds.”
“Something?” Katie pressed, her toe forgotten. “Like what?”
Antonio shifted his stance. “We’re keeping the details private at this time, but we’ll let you know if we find anything.”
“I’ll have to ask my husband.” Keeping the details private.
That was interesting. Almost juicy. This was something she could share at the Chinese checkers game Thursday at the country club.
Finally, she had something to contribute.
She always felt like a stump, taking up one of the chairs, with nothing worthwhile to say.
“Sure. Would you like us to speak to him?” Terry asked.
“Time is of the essence,” Antonio added, as if whatever it was might crawl out of the pool and slither up the bank.
“Um, maybe.” She twisted around, and the maid was right there, hovering. “Oh, Jackie. Can you please get me the house phone?”
The woman jumped into action; she had definitely been listening to their conversation.
Katie was beginning to understand why Mark’s first wife had insisted on not having help.
She had started to hide in her bedroom in the hope of avoiding them.
She turned back to the officers. “Can you give me a few minutes?”
“How long have you been married to Mr. Morrow?” Antonio asked, his head cocked to one side.
“Uh, two years.” She adjusted the neck of the romper and patted the chunky necklace, making sure it hadn’t twisted out of place.
Terry spoke up. “How long did you date before that?” This wasn’t a good feeling, being a ping-pong ball between the two of them.
“Six months. But I worked at his agency for at least twice that, so we knew each other well. Mark’s a sports agent. Represents a lot of really big athletes.”
“So . . . did you know the prior Mrs. Morrow?” Antonio glanced at the clipboard in his hand. “Mrs. Willow Morrow?”
Willow Morrow. It sounded like the name of a gated neighborhood. “No.” Katie shook her head. “She left a year or so before Mark and I met.”
“‘Left’?” Terry smiled as if she’d said something funny. It was annoying, when people did that, and everyone seemed to have an annoying opinion where Willow was concerned.
The maid returned with the cordless handset, and Katie took it and pressed the digits of Mark’s cell phone quickly, then held up a finger to the officers and stepped back into the privacy of the small library just off the foyer.
“Yep,” Mark answered on the third ring, and from the shouts in the background, she could tell he was at the office.
There were only eight agents in the firm; it wasn’t like it was the stock market trading floor.
But yelling at each other and on the phone seemed to be how they landed the big names and fat deals.
Whatever the equation, she didn’t question it, not with the size of the commission paychecks he brought home.
“It’s me. There are some police officers here. They’re asking if they can search the pond.”
“What?” The background noise softened. Mark must have closed the door to his office. “What do you mean?”
“They said they found something and are searching the lakes and ponds in the neighborhood. They want to search ours.”
He was silent for a long moment—rare for a man who loved to hear himself talk. “They’re searching all of the lakes and ponds in the neighborhood?”
“That’s what they said.” She glanced back at the front door, where both of the men were staring at her, their faces fixed in a scowl. She must be taking too long. She wiggled in place and willed Mark to hurry up.
“Do they have a warrant?”
“A warrant?” Katie repeated, surprised at the question. “No. They’re going door-to-door. They said this is urgent. Or of the essence, or something.”
“And everyone is letting them do it?”
“I don’t know,” she huffed out. “Do you want to talk to them? Because right now they are just staring at me.” She gave the officers an apologetic frown.
“Tell them I’m fine with them searching the pond, but I want to be there when they do it. I have a call I need to reschedule, then I’ll head there. Are they searching the golf course also?”