Chapter 10 #2
With her name still on it, I’d bet this space was part of the search the police did after Gemma’s body was found, and they have probably already gathered her personal effects.
The only things left are a few black smudges—residue from where detectives must have collected fingerprints—and little scraps of paper that look like the remains of paystubs.
Still, I crouch down to see all the way to the back. There’s nothing.
I straighten up and look around in the other cubbies.
Some are vacant, but a few are stuffed with purses and sunglasses, car keys and a carton of cigarettes.
I search to the right, and that’s when I see it.
In the cabinets above, farther down the row, perched on top of a locker with a sticker labeled A.
Mccarthy, is a Mason jar with a pack of hair elastics wrapped around the band at the jar’s lid.
I recognize the elastics. They look like the ones Gemma was always wearing.
From where I’m standing, I can see that the jar is filled with something.
I have to stand on tiptoes to reach it, and with trembling hands, I stretch to the highest cabinet shelf and pick up the jar. It gives a little jingle in my hand.
Through the glass of the jar, I can see golf tees piled together. There must be more than a hundred of them, and all of them are broken. Some have cracked at the top, others are split farther down the stem of the tee.
What?
I hear footsteps, and I jump about a mile and clutch the jar to my chest to keep myself from dropping it.
My mind scrambles. I want to keep the jar, but where do I put it?
I see a plastic shopping bag slumped on the counter, a few receipts still poking out, and before I can think better of it, I shove the jar inside, burying it beneath the receipts as Tori rounds the corner.
Her gaze drifts to the bag. “What’s that?”
“Vegetables,” I spit out, hoping it sounds smooth. “Marcus left them for me. From his garden.” I lift the bag from the handles like it’s proof and pray I’m the only one who hears a tee tink against the glass of the jar. “Too ripe to make it through the weekend.”
She nods, and I force a smile.
“I should get back to Nora,” I say.
“You won fifteen dollars the other night,” Tori calls after me. “There was a heated debate about the floral arrangements.”
“Keep it.” I never collect any winnings. I’m always “forgetting” or intentionally betting on a guaranteed loss. Even if that weren’t true, now collecting anything from the night Gemma died feels grotesque.
I retrace my steps toward the bar while my brain runs in circles about what a jar of tees could possibly mean.
Luckily, Tippy’s taken up residence in the chair next to Nora and is talking her ear off, which gives me the perfect window to jam the grocery bag into my purse.
I slide onto the stool on Nora’s other side around the same time Marcus is delivering a plate of roasted beet hummus for us.
“Hey, Tippy.” He nods, and then, as if he’s avoiding Tippy Schaeffer, he decides to make himself scarce again.
I shouldn’t be surprised to see her here. Tippy is a regular at Lemon & Fig these days. So is nearly everyone else in the country club set. Another by-product of Nora and me accidentally finding ourselves at the center of Winter Park’s social scene? We’ve become unwilling tastemakers.
Great for Lemon & Fig’s revenue. Slightly less convenient for my amateur sleuthing.
I’ve barely hit my seat when Tippy zeroes in on me. “There you are!” She beams. “We haven’t had the chance to catch up since the police station. I still can’t believe it. Can you?”
Does my friend Tippy have any new information to share?
Everyone knows what little filter Tippy has dissolves under the influence of alcohol. So I offer her my flute in a friendly gesture. She takes it as I lean in and lower my voice. “How’s everyone holding up?” I ask, adding, “Have you heard anything new about what happened to Gemma?”
Tippy’s eyes widen with the thrill of being in the know. “Technically, we’re not supposed to say anything while the investigation is ongoing—”
As if that’s ever stopped anyone here—especially Tippy—from doing anything. There is no crowd more lawless than the country club set.
Right on cue, she adds, “But did Marcus tell you she quit the other day?”
“Gemma quit Lemon & Fig?” I’m too quick to respond. Too interested. The way Nora takes in a long breath tells me she notices, too, but she doesn’t say anything. “Sorry.” I recover. “Gemma and I were friends. I helped her prep for a job interview downtown, and she never mentioned that.”
“The night she died was supposed to be her last shift.” Tippy nods, and I can tell from the way her smile brightens, she’s happy to know something I don’t. “And I guess it was.”
The flippancy of her words makes me narrow my eyes.
Does anything matter to anyone around here?
While I’m giving Tippy a dirty look, though, I think back to Gemma’s empty apartment.
Did she quit her job because she was leaving town? Why? She had a job interview lined up. She had plans.
Tippy schools her face, trying for serious. “Makes you wonder if she was tangled up with someone here.” Her eyes scan the dining room like she’s sniffing for drama. “I heard Autumn was very unhappy about the news.”
“Why would Autumn care about—”
“Tippy,” Nora cuts in, cool and sharp. “Be careful. That’s a dangerous thing to say.”
Tippy waves her hand. Police procedure is some paltry excuse to her. I want to press, but Nora’s already shut the topic down.
Tippy shrugs. “I’m ready for things to go back to normal.”
“Well, Gemma did die,” I say.
Every time I speak the words, they splinter through me, jagged and sharp, until my heart aches.
Suddenly, I’m in wool socks again, and Aunt Delia’s on her way to get me.
It shouldn’t stun me like this—remembering how people can be taken.
I know about the razor’s edge. How control is a lie.
Still the edge feels so close now. Closer than it should feel after all these years, after building a life so careful and privileged.
I’m balancing right on the edge again. One turn from being split wide.
I wanted to build a fortress.
But it’s not enough.
“Right.” Tippy tries to sound sincere, but the moment is fleeting as she adds, “Anyway, I’ve been thinking. We should all have dinner. Shep and I live so close, and y’all are so fun.”
I’d rather gargle glitter.
“What do you think, Nora?” I say. “My place? Tonight?”
Nora almost spits out her champagne, but I kick her under the bar. Tippy coming to my house might be my best shot at hearing what else she knows. And hosting dinner at my place with Nora will give me a home-court advantage.
“Oh.” Nora frowns, looking nervous. “Okay.”
“Well, then,” Tippy says cheerily. “We’ll bring the wine.”
“I’ll see if Marcus can cook,” I offer. “He’s been tinkering with new recipes for the restaurant. We’ll have a test kitchen.”
“Oh, perfect.” Tippy claps. “See you at seven!”
Tippy air-kisses us both and flounces away.
Nora sputters a laugh. “Now we have to have dinner with Casa de Tequila? Why didn’t you say we had plans?”