Chapter 77
“I hope this becomes a habit,” Henry’s voice came from the open Zoom on her laptop screen. “It’s incredibly provocative seeing you get dressed via the internet. I’m gonna stop talking, and watch. And will you do it again tonight when you get back to the hotel? I’ll send the kids away.”
Henry’s chuckle was so familiar, such a reminder of home and what she’d left behind. She almost didn’t care about the yellow walls or the photos on the stairway. She’d told him to handle things, and he’d handled them.
Tessa wrapped the white bath towel around her and tucked it in at the top, wondering about the propriety of appearing online wearing only a precariously attached towel.
“You’re an idiot, Henner,” she said. “The best kind of idiot. And I’m sorry I’ve been… distracted. Lots going on. Anyway, you were saying. On the plane. About the—my schedule?”
“Let me get to the kitchen,” Henry said. “Hang on a minute.”
“What?” But the camera blurred, and she could hear Henry’s footsteps as he walked. She grabbed the hotel’s fluffy white bathrobe, tied the belt over the towel. Home seemed impossibly far away. But again, things like impetuously buying a new house paled in comparison to being blackmailed for murder.
A murder that, she was hoping as hard as she’d ever hoped for anything in her life, was imaginary. A weapon. A story.
Had Emily made it up? To get—Tessa shook her head, wondering. Revenge? Money? People can be jealous, DJ had warned her. Bitter. When you get something they don’t.
Emily was your friend, though, Annabelle said. Wasn’t she?
She’d scoured the Facebook pages for more Emilys, but no one fit the description or history.
Barbara Willoughby, also nothing. But Nellie Delaney popped right up.
Her entire Facebook history tracked exactly what Henry described—traveling husband, mathy son, home in Rockport.
And many photos. She was not Emily. But did she have an agenda?
That kind of information was never on social media.
Emily might be dead.
Wherever Emily was, in this world or departed, she was not the one who’d pretended to be “Harper,” an author escort. Emily was not sixty.
Tessa took herself out of the camera’s view as she waited for Henry to come back on the line, quickly tugging on her underwear and stashing the dirty stuff.
She’d put those mysterious blue earrings in the laundry bag, too, not quite able to throw away potential evidence.
She figured Harper had planted them during the missing-suitcase debacle.
We always know where you are, that woman had said.
Tessa still could not face the embarrassing necessity of telling Evelyn Wickwire about the tracker in the locket.
Might Harper have planted another one in the earrings? She’d think about that later. And what would she say to the audience tonight, if they asked about Locket Mom?
“So, yeah, weirdest thing about that schedule,” Henry was saying now.
“I put the printout, with all the contacts, on the refrigerator. But the other day I looked for it, and it was gone. See?” He turned the camera, showing the refrigerator.
“The banana magnet, too. I thought it had slipped under the counter, or, who knows, but no one has seen it. Someone must have thrown it away by mistake. Can you email me another one?”
“It’s on my website,” Tessa called over her shoulder as she selected her dress from the closet.
“I know, but that’s only the public stuff. It doesn’t have the people at the bookstores, your exact flights, your hotels, that kind of thing.”
Tessa stood, one hand in midair Tessa is not hovering over the hanger, her finger is hovering over the wooden hanger. She could hear the sound of the internet transmission, the soft hum of the hotel’s ventilation system, the low murmur of the television. “How long has the schedule been gone?”
She turned from the closet, picked up the laptop. Held it at eye level. “Henry? How long has the schedule been gone?”
Henry scratched his forehead, made his thinking face. “Hard to tell.”
“The kids?”
“They say they don’t have it. Why would they? And they didn’t throw it away.”
“Where are the kids now? Are they okay? Who else has been in the house?”
Past five o’clock now. Time was ticking by. Tessa needed to get to the bookstore.
If no one had died that night in Maine—what was all this about? Harper certainly thought she had some blackmail-worthy ammunition. Were Henry and the kids in danger?
“Oh crap,” Henry said. “Who knows who’s been here.”
“ You do,” Tessa said.
“It was a figure of speech, Tessie, let me think. A bunch of movers. The dishwasher installer. The dishwasher repair guy. Don’t get me started on that, I’m just saying. The guy who delivered the paint. And yeah, the kids are upstairs, doing whatever they do. We’re getting pizza for dinner.”
“Henry? Come on. Who else was in the house?” And why are you avoiding it ? She left that part out.
“Well, Nellie, who helped with the painting. And her son Tris, he was here with Zack. And Barbara, she’s dropped off mac and cheese and all kinds of goodies almost every day, got to say, she’s like the mom I never had. The kids love her.”
Tessa had to get ready, she had to. She put the laptop on a pillow, moved out of camera range, and stepped into her dress. “A mom? Pretty young for a mom.”
“Who said she was young? Tessa? Where’d you go?”
“Linny said she was Barbie. That she looked like Barbie. Barbie, at least the doll Barbie, is nobody’s mom.”
“Huh. That’s the story about her you created, I guess. She’s thin, and blondish hair, but she’s older than you. Twenty years or so, I’d say. In her sixties, for sure.”
Tessa tried to calculate, envisioned a calendar. “When did you last see her, Henry? Seriously.”
“Umm, geez, two or three days ago?”
“Is she home? Now?”
“How do I know? I mean, I could look out the window? See if her car is in the driveway. Not that it would mean anything.”
“Do.”
“Why?”
“Could you just do it? Please? I’ll tell you in a minute. But I have to go, I’m about to be late, just tell me if Barbara’s car is in the driveway.”
Tessa struggled with her zipper again, slid her feet into her pumps. She would throw this dress away when she got home. If she ever got home.
This person, this Harper, had promised—threatened—to keep in contact. To let Tessa know how much money they wanted, and how to pay it. Harper had appeared at the Des Moines airport yesterday.
She imagined Henry at their front window, peering across the street to wherever Barbara’s driveway was.
Harper had not seemed to care about—or even know about—the bad thing.
Harper was solely focused on—and had known about—the Maine accident.
Known some version of what happened. Known about Emily .
Plus she’d known exactly where Tessa was on book tour, even things that weren’t public.
Who could possibly have all that information?
About now, and about so long ago? Who would still care?
Was it possible that Barbara Willoughby was part of the family of the victim they’d—but no.
No.
If they had not hit anyone that night, there was no victim. Which meant Tessa’s entire theory of the victim’s family demanding retribution was completely and totally wrong.
And someone sixty-plus years old was not the real Emily.
But where was Emily?
And where was Barbara?
“Her car isn’t there,” Henry said. “For whatever that’s worth.”
“Okay. One more thing,” she said. “Can you see if Nellie is home?”