Chapter 37
Carol lives at the top of Isle of Sicily Road, not exactly a far enough trip from Interlachen to come up with much of a plan. As we pull up her driveway, and I spot the fence Polly and I adorned with toilet paper a few weeks ago, an unwelcome guilty feeling floods my stomach.
Of course, the mess we left is long gone. I overheard someone say Carol had a yard crew out on the lawn before midmorning. While they did the heavy lifting, Carol followed behind with pruning shears, a pair of tweezers, and a damp washcloth to make sure her azaleas were in pristine condition.
“And so we’ve returned to the scene of the crime,” Nora narrates in her best crime podcast voice.
“We’re conflating trashing someone’s yard with murder now?” I glance over at her.
“It’s basically the same thing to Carol,” Nora says as she leads the way to the front door.
Carol’s at the door seconds after we ring the bell.
Nora is strategically placed ahead of me—Carol doesn’t have a beef with Winter Park’s favorite widow, after all.
And our plan sort of works, because I watch the smile on Carol’s face go from delighted when she sees Nora to a shriveled sort of grimace when she takes me in.
“Ladies,” she says primly. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Behind her, I can see news footage of Beau being escorted into the police precinct.
Fuck.
“Hi,” Nora starts. “Would it be all right if we came in?”
Carol seems to be having some sort of internal battle over the lesser of two evils—invite in the vandal slash wife of a presumed murderer or be impolite. But her better angels win as she holds the door open a little wider to let us enter.
I’ve only ever been to the Parker house during the holidays—when Carol hosts Carol’s Carols, a breathtaking tribute to her favorite Christmas songs complete with a professional pianist and the hostess’s pitchy warbles.
But without the grandeur and sheen of Christmas cheer, Carol’s house is a tribute to late-nineties Southern Living.
Blue-checked drapes and complementary armchairs, wall sconces in nearly every nook, and a built-in shelving unit that houses family photos, Art’s books, and a television, which Art is watching from a chair in the corner.
He sees us come in, and we say hello a little too loudly.
Art gives a jolt at the sound but his expression quickly softens to a smile. “I’m gonna go to my study. Let you gals catch up.”
He kisses Carol on the cheek before he shuffles off, and then Carol grudgingly offers us a seat.
We oblige, and discover that the upholstery of her sofa is so stiff I wonder if she scotchgards it on a quarterly basis.
Still, the room paints an inviting picture, and if she were happy to see us, I suspect she would offer us an iced tea.
Then again, I’ll never know.
“We don’t want to take up too much of your afternoon, Carol,” Nora says, looking at me like she’s trying to tee me up. But I don’t speak—and Nora kicks at my foot.
“Sorry.” I jump, and then, looking at Carol, I say it again. “Sorry. I mean, thank you for not throwing us out on our asses. I know I’m not your favorite person. But you always did like Beau, as I recall?”
She doesn’t respond. She just pins me with that flat, unimpressed look of hers.
“Well,” I continue. “I need to ask a favor.”
Carol crosses her arms and sits back in her chair.
I don’t even deserve an iced tea in this house. What makes me think she’ll show me her security footage?
But I remember what Autumn said. Carol wants to be included. All of her posturing and rule mongering are nothing but a plea for a seat at the table.
“When she first moved here, no one would speak to her, because she didn’t know the etiquette for RSVPing properly,” Autumn had told us back in the ballroom. “So she studied Emily Post like it was the Bible, until they couldn’t ignore her anymore.”
Carol’s love of rules and decorum wasn’t about power, it was about survival. In a town that has rules for everything, she clawed her way into the conversation by being studious.
Carol Parker is an underdog. Goddamn it.
Now, I press on, knowing I have to find a way to reach middle ground with her. “I understand why you wouldn’t be so inclined, but I think you have something that will help me prove Beau didn’t do anything wrong.”
The second time I mention Beau’s name, her expression wavers just barely. It’s a fraction of an opening, but I’m hoping it’s enough to get her on my side. “You’ve probably heard he’s being held in jail right now. You could be the key to his innocence.”
“I do have a soft spot for your husband. He’s always so kind to Art. They bump into each other at the driving range often. Has he ever told you that? And whenever they see each other, Beau sits down to chat with Art about what’s left of his golf game.”
Beau never mentioned it, but it sounds like him. Thoughtful. Unflashy. Kind.
“But let’s get one thing clear,” Carol warns. “I never said you weren’t my favorite person. In fact, I would have been perfectly happy to coexist. But you seem to take exceptional glee in poking at me and the rules of this place.”
“You’re right,” I offer, and Nora chokes a little.
“And I’m sorry. I was going to apologize for the TPing incident immediately after it happened.
Polly was feeling left out of her friend group—but that’s no excuse.
After Gemma was found, I was distracted.
I’d be happy to pick up the tab for the damage.
Lawn care, conciliatory chardonnay. Whatever I owe you. ”
It’s the smallest concession. But I think Nora’s eyes might pop out in shock.
Carol smirks, satisfied by my acknowledgment, so I press on.
“I imagine you’ve heard about Simon Avery,” I say. “Beau’s in a lot of trouble right now.”
“Word does travel fast around here.”
“Then you probably know how bad it looks.”
She nods. The simper on her face makes it clear she really does enjoy having the upper hand.
“Right.” I take the hint and try to hurry things along. “About your security cameras.”
Once we explain hers were the only working cameras in the neighborhood during the storm—and that we think whatever happened to Simon had something to do with Gemma’s murder—Carol appears to be torn.
Rule followers don’t break easily.
“I’m sure the police are going to be asking for the footage, too.
But I have to see it. Please,” I say softly, thinking about her and Art.
And the work she put in to find acceptance here.
If she understands anything, it’s loyalty.
Carol clawed her way into this community and holds tight to Art like he’s her anchor.
Maybe she’ll understand that Beau is mine.
“Beau’s my home. Everything I have. I have to prove he didn’t do this. ”
Without another word, Carol stands and walks toward the hallway. I look at Nora.
What just happened? Are we about to get thrown out?
“Aren’t you coming?” Carol calls over her shoulder.
We fumble off the sofa in a rush to catch up, following Carol down the hall to her office.
“Welcome to my she-shed,” she announces as we step over the threshold of a pastel dream. Beach whimsy comes alive in the office of Carol Parker—driftwood on bookshelves, sea glass in jars, and a bouclé sofa. And in the corner is a desk with dual monitors.
Carol shakes the mouse to wake up her screen and sits down at her desk. It’s like a little command station.
Someone plowing through Carol’s prized fence last year really did a number on her.
She clicks a few buttons, and suddenly the screen is cut into quadrants of camera feeds.
“I have every corner of the exterior of the house. I can even zoom in on faces,” she says proudly. “What do you want to see?”
“Can we see your view of the Isle of Sicily the night of the hurricane, starting from about eight p.m.?”
Carol nods and clicks on the history icon.
She runs the footage back, going all the way to the night Polly and I TPed her house.
On the screen, toilet paper rolls fly toward the sky, swaying on a breeze as Polly and I shower the tree between fits of laughter.
“Whoops. Went a little too far back.” She turns to me, knowing she’s finally bested me.
I very much did the thing I denied doing.
Nora’s giggling so hard she has to turn in to my shoulder to hide her face.
“Well played.” I tip my head to Carol. “I would have done the same thing if I were in your shoes.”
Carol gives a satisfied nod and then gets to the night of the hurricane. As she hits play, we all lean in, watching with such intensity I’m not sure any of us takes a breath.
The video rolls at double speed to make quick work of scanning for cars. I get home, Simon arrives, and then Ardell. It happens in staggered intervals.
Around 9:40 p.m., Ardell’s car leaves the neighborhood.
But as the time stamps elapse, no one else comes into or out of the street—neither by car nor on foot.
We run the tape up to 2:00 a.m. and then past it.
There’s rain and wind and a few branches hitting the street as the storm gains momentum, and then, the storm abates when the sun starts to rise.
I know we’ve reached the end of any possible evidence when I see the first police cruisers racing down the street in the morning, coming to answer my 911 call.
Ardell definitely left. And he definitely didn’t come back. Fuck.
“No,” I say out loud, not wanting to believe it. “But it has to have been Ardell.”
Nora puts a hand on my shoulder. “Whatever happened to Simon, Ardell wasn’t there.”
Then, something dawns on me. “Carol, can you go back to the video of Polly and me?”
Carol obliges with smug satisfaction, like she’ll never tire of showing me the footage that proves we TPed her house.
“A little after, though,” I direct once she’s had her fun.
We watch as Tippy’s SUV rounds the corner onto Isle of Sicily Road and into her driveway. We can see Polly and me hiding in the bushes.
“Jesus, Carol. Is this 4K?” I ask. Tippy appears on the screen, tumbling out of her car. “Can you zoom in on who Tippy’s with?”
“What?” Nora asks, as I wait for Tippy’s mystery man to come into sharper view. And then, when we all see it, there’s a collective gasp.
“Holy shit!” Carol says, but I’m already moving.
“I have to go. Now. Call the police.” I’m out the door with Nora at my heels, but I shout back a thank-you to Carol as we go, Ms. Dowling’s warning about the things people get up to ringing between my ears like a siren’s blare.
I bark at Nora to call the police and wait for me at my house, then I take off. Unable to shed the collection of Gemma evidence I’ve been carrying, I throw my purse over my shoulder, and the jar of tees smacks at my side with every step.
Fuck. I hate running.
But I can’t handle being in a car. I need to get where I’m going. Now.