Chapter Seventeen
Maci
Neighbors showed up wearing black. Cars lined both sides of the street, and valets made sure no one drove into the cul-de-sac. Fresh flowers decorated Camille's porch, their scent blending with the smell of catered food inside.
To most people, it probably seemed like just another Lemon Grove gathering. But this time, almost no one was laughing.
Grief can silence even the busiest room. I adjusted the casserole dish in my hands and glanced at Zaire.
"You ready?"
"I really don’t want to go, but I have to support my lovely wife," he said, sounding sarcastic.
He took my hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze before we crossed the street together.
Inside, the house was packed.
The piano had been pushed against the wall to make room for more chairs. Photos of Camille's husband covered a long memorial table near the foyer, showing moments from their wedding and vacations.
It was hard to see a whole life, once filled with smiles, now summed up in just a few framed photos.
Camille stood by the fireplace, greeting each guest with a hug. She wore a plain black dress and barely any makeup.
When she noticed me, her face softened.
"Maci."
She hugged me, and it lasted longer than either of us expected.
"I'm so glad to see your face."
She stepped back, her eyes already bright with tears again.
"Thank you for checking on me."
"Of course."
"Sorry for your loss," Zaire added.
For the next hour, people kept coming in. It felt like everyone was there.
All the women from the Lemon Pound Cake club gathered near the kitchen, quietly catching up between giving their condolences.
Danielle squeezed Camille's hand whenever she could. Simone kept everyone's drinks full. Jade sorted leftovers, as if keeping busy could help everyone stay strong.
Every few minutes, someone would whisper the same thing.
"I can't believe this happened."
Camille couldn't either, or at least it seemed that way. I watched her from across the room as she thanked another guest. She looked completely alone.
The front door opened again. At first, no one noticed. Then, all the conversations stopped.
A man cleared his throat.
"Mrs. Hayes?"
Everyone turned to look at Camille. Two detectives stood just inside the foyer, with two uniformed officers behind them.
Camille frowned.
"Detective."
"I'm sorry to interrupt."
His voice was calm, the kind you might expect from someone used to giving bad news.
"But we need to speak with you."
"Can it wait?" She looked around at the crowded room. "We're in the middle of my husband's repass."
"I'm afraid it can't."
The house grew so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Camille stepped forward carefully.
"Is there a problem?"
The detective removed a folded document.
"Over the last forty-eight hours, we've received additional evidence related to your husband's death."
People in the room started murmuring in confusion.
"We've also received information regarding several incidents you previously reported, including the vandalism to your flower beds and the note left at your residence."
Camille stared at him.
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"Our investigation indicates those incidents may have been intentionally staged."
She blinked.
"No way."
The detective's face stayed the same.
"In addition, we've received witness statements that conflict with your account of the evening of your husband’s death."
She shook her head, more firmly this time.
"No, that's not true."
"We have probable cause to place you under arrest pending further investigation."
The words echoed through the house. Someone gasped. Danielle stepped forward immediately.
"There has to be some mistake."
"There is," Camille said, her voice frantic. "There has to be."
She glanced around the room, her eyes full of panic.
"I didn't do this."
No one said a word. I guess no one knew what to believe anymore.
The detective stepped closer.
"Mrs. Hayes."
He reached for her wrist, moving carefully and slowly. She pulled away.
"I buried my husband a couple of hours ago." Her voice broke. "And now you're doing this?"
"I'm sorry."
"No, you're not."
Tears ran down her cheeks.
"I didn't kill him."
The detective nodded to one of the officers. The click of handcuffs shattered what little calm remained in the room.
Several guests turned away. Danielle covered her mouth. Simone whispered a prayer. Jade stood frozen by the dining table. Camille looked around the room one last time, and then her eyes met mine.
"Maci."
Her voice was barely a whisper, searching for someone she knew. I walked over and squeezed her hand before the officers led her away.
"This will get sorted out," I said quietly. "You hear me?"
She nodded through tears.
"I didn't do this."
The detectives led her to the front door. Outside, camera shutters clicked. Reporters shouted over one another. The flashing lights had returned to Lemon Grove Estates.
As Camille got into the backseat of the patrol car, I stayed on the porch with the women from the neighborhood. We all stood still.
We watched until the patrol car left the neighborhood. Only then did I finally let out a breath. Some endings looked like justice. Others just seemed convincing.
Danielle wiped at her eyes first.
"I can't believe they did that here and of all days."
"At his repass," Simone whispered and shook her head. "Cold-blooded."
Jade crossed her arms over her chest.
"They wouldn't have arrested her if they didn't have something."
Danielle spun around.
"So now you think she killed him?"
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to, Jade."
"I said they must have something. This is my job. Trust me, they're not coming here off a whim."
Jade let out a sigh and rubbed her temples.
"I don't know what to think anymore."
No one else did either.
Guests grabbed their purses and jackets and quietly slipped out the front door, whispering to each other as they walked to their cars. Twenty minutes later, the house was empty.
The catering staff packed up trays of food that nobody had touched.
The scent of lilies hung in the air as Danielle looked around the living room.
"I can't leave this place like this."
"I'll help," Simone said.
The rest of us quietly cleared the plates, stacked the glasses, and threw away crumpled napkins.
No one said much. There was nothing left to talk about.
An hour later, Danielle put the last foil pan in the fridge and sighed, looking exhausted.
"I'm emotionally exhausted."
"I think we all are," Nia admitted.
Jade grabbed her purse.
"I'm going home."
One by one, everyone headed for the front door.
Danielle paused beside me.
"You coming?"
"I'll stay another minute."
She frowned.
"You sure?"
"I just want to make sure everything is locked up."
She reached over and squeezed my hand.
"You're a good friend."
I smiled at her, just a little.
"I try."
Once the front door closed behind them, I stood alone in the foyer for a moment. The steady ticking of the grandfather clock filled the quiet. A half-burned candle flickered beside a framed wedding photo.
In the photo, Camille and her husband smiled back at me, happy and frozen in time.
I walked into the kitchen. Three lemons sat in the decorative bowl on the island, now rotten. No one had moved them.
I wondered how many mornings Camille had stood here, thinking she was safe. It's strange how quickly life can show you otherwise.
I turned off the lights in the kitchen, then in the dining room and living room. Darkness filled the house, room by room.
At the front door, I picked up the spare key from the bowl by the entryway and locked up. Across the street, my porch light glowed softly as evening faded. I glanced back at Camille's house one last time before closing the door.
Some homes are made to keep memories. Others are made to hide them.