Chapter 15
Jack
IT’S ONLY WHEN I pull into my garage fifteen minutes of silent driving later, that I remember I wasn’t able to get all of the bloodstains out of Nora’s blouse. So now it’s soaking in a bucket of Oxyclean in my laundry room. Which is in the basement. So really, it shouldn’t be a problem. Why would any of the six people behind us go into my basement laundry room?
And even if they did, why would they go poking around in a bucket full of suds?
That’s right, they wouldn’t.
Probably. Honestly, with this group of people I can never really be sure what crazy thing they might do. One time I came into my house to find Stafford taking all of the storage bins out of my basement. “Don’t worry,” he said to me, “I’ll put them all back.” No explanation for what he'd be doing with them or how he’d even gotten into my house in the first place.
Thankfully he really did put them back.
Although I found a suspicious-looking powder residue in one of them that upon further inspection appeared to be Country Time lemonade mix.
I opted for the don’t ask, don’t tell policy on that one.
“You okay?” Nora asks, probably because I shut the car off a while ago and yet I’m still just sitting here, making no move to get out.
“Your bloody shirt is in a bucket in my laundry room,” I blurt and her eyes widen.
“Oh, okay,” she says. “Well, that’s okay. Why would anyone go in the basement?”
“It does seem unlikely,” I agree doubtfully.
“Yeah, it’ll be fine,” she dismisses my concern with a wave of her hand. “Nobody is going in the basement, let alone the laundry room.” Buoyed by her own words she hops out of the car, leaving me no choice but to follow her.
We go inside and I automatically head to the kitchen to prep some snacks. My mom instilled in me that a good host always offers their guests food and beverages.
“Don’t you forget,” she used to tell me with a tap of the Bible perpetually open on our kitchen table, “to show hospitality to strangers, Jack, because as it says in Hebrews, thereby some have entertained angels unawares.”
These are my friends coming over, not strangers, so I already know none of them are angels (even if some of them seem to think their wives are), but the hospitality piece of her tutelage still applies. Which is why I’m setting out a plate of cheese and crackers (including the gluten free ones I keep on hand for Mel) and pulling out everyone’s drink of choice: a glass of water for Montgomery, hot chocolate for Mel, Coke Zero for Anderson, and a trio of pink La Croix for Emily, Lucy, and Stafford.
I hesitate over the burner knob on my stovetop, though, remembering last night when I automatically started making tea for Nora. Do you have coffee? she’d asked me, upsetting the carefully constructed list I keep in my mind. The list that catalogs all of her preferences and favorite things.
Yes, I’ve got a list like that for most of the people in my life.
But hers is the longest.
“Uh, you want some coffee?” I ask, my hand dropping off the burner.
There’s a beat of silence then she says, “Actually a cup of chamomile tea would be great.”
I’m happy she can’t see the pressure that eases in my chest as I nod and light the burner beneath my teapot. A teapot I only ever purchased so I could make this woman tea.
Everyone else starts popping into the house then, none of them bothering to knock. I hear Stafford greet his wife with a noisy smack on the lips, as if they’ve been separated for weeks instead of a 30 minute car ride.
I turn to face the coming onslaught and spot Nora busying herself with the cheese and crackers, arranging them all just so. I watch for a second as she beautifies the tray I set out, then seamlessly moves over to my drawers and removes a pile of napkins to put out.
It’s not lost on me how well everything she’s doing so nicely complements what I’ve already done. How domestic this all is.
I don’t have time to dwell on this, though, since a second later the first wave of the group enters and my stomach twists at the sight of the unexpected addition to the group: Becca. Lucy and Emily’s old roommate.
“Look who we picked up,” Lucy chirps. “We were supposed to meet her for breakfast this morning too, and when she found out we had to cancel because Reynolds had eloped with none other than the famous and elusive Nora Evans she obviously had to tag along and meet her.”
“Yup,” Becca confirms with a huge smile Nora’s way.
Nora smiles back, unaware of the wrench in our “no one would ever go down to our laundry room” plan. Becca is a very nice person and I enjoy hanging out with her and her fiancé, Lucy’s brother Seth, but the woman is a walking stain magnet. If there’s something that she can spill on herself, she will spill it on herself.
She’s actually been in my laundry room before for this very reason.
All of us were hanging out here for a board game day, and she spilled a splash of hot chocolate on herself. In the name of being hospitable—per my mother’s legacy—I offered her the use of my Tide pen.
If she spills something on herself again today, will she expect the same level of hospitality?
Nervously I eye the packet of hot chocolate I got out for Mel. Nora crosses the room to shake Becca’s hand, and I hurry toward the little red and white packet, shoving it away in a random drawer. No hot chocolate will be offered today.
“Reynolds, my man” Stafford comments as he heads for the table and grabs himself one of the pink La Croix I set out. “You always hook me up. Mind if I have one?”
“That’s what they’re for, bro,” I say smoothly, trying to will away the nervous sheen of sweat I can feel beading along my hairline. I need to calm down. Even if Becca did go into the laundry room, is she really going to look in the bucket where Nora’s shirt is soaking? And if she did, would she really assume the red tint of the water was from blood stains?
No and no.
Although maybe I should make up some excuse and go empty it just in case. But then where will I put the shirt? What if it still has blood on it?
“Jack?” Nora steps in front of me, waving a hand in my face. “Did you hear Becca? I offered her something to drink and she asked if we have any hot chocolate. What happened to the packet you put out?”
“Packet?” I echo in a voice that’s much too high-pitched to be coming out of my body. I cough and try again. “What packet? I don’t have any hot chocolate packets. You must’ve mis-seen.” I try to communicate without words that she should let it go and jump aboard the we-don’t-have-hot-chocolate train, but she completely misses my all aboard efforts.
“No, it was right here on the counter next to my tea bag,” she says, tapping the spot where the packet I swept away once sat.
“Oh, Reynolds is just trying to save me from myself,” Becca says with a laugh. “Last time I was here I spilled hot chocolate on my shirt, but don’t worry, Reynolds, that Tide pen you lent me got the stain right out.”
“Stain? Tide pen?” Nora echoes, finally catching on. “Laundry room,” she finishes, then her eyes pop wide as she realizes she said this last bit out loud. “I mean,” she corrects, “I actually just used up Jack’s Tide pen, which he stores in the laundry room.” She nods. “Yep. Spilled some ketchup all over my shirt last night. It’s soaking in the laundry room now. Tide pen didn’t work.”
My hands squeeze into nervous balls. She needs to stop talking now. The more lies we add to our fabricated story, the more lies we have to remember.
“Oh,” Becca says, looking bemusedly between both of us. “Well okay. I’ll just have water then, please.”
Phew. I let out a shaky breath as I fill up a glass of water for her. She accepts it just as Mel, the last to arrive, walks in. Anderson, who’s been quietly watching all of these exchanges from the doorway, slides over to greet her with a kiss on the cheek.
“No hot chocolate today, babe,” he tells her.
“Oh.” Mel’s face falls ever so slightly. This group may be unpredictable when it comes to their actionable choices, but they are extremely predictable when it comes to their drinks of choice. “That’s okay,” she forces her face back into a smile. “I’ll just have water.”
Having secured drinks for everyone we all head for the living room.
I take it as a good sign that Anderson doesn’t ask everyone to leave while he talks to Nora. Hopefully that means he’s not planning on asking any hard-hitting or accusatory questions.
This may just be a formality. As established, finding a dead body on a person’s front lawn does require at least some questions be asked.
“So, Nora,” Anderson begins as he settles back in the chair across from where she and I are sitting on my loveseat, “walk me through last night.”
“Walk you through last night,” she echoes, smoothing her hands over the skirt of her dress in a way that displays her nerves. I reach over and take one of her worrying hands in mine.
Just to help sell the doting new husband thing.
I don’t even notice the softness of her skin against my palm.
“Um, where should I start?” she asks.
“How about you start with when you left work,” he suggests. “Unless of course something happened at work that you think might be relevant, seeing as the victim was your boss.”
“Oh.” Nora frowns, pretending to think. “Well, nothing unusual that I can recall at work, but I should tell you that when I left work late yesterday evening, I discovered I had a flat tire.”
I try not to let my grip on her hand tighten as she speaks. I know she has to disclose this information since both the security guard and the tow truck driver are aware that it happened. But that doesn’t mean I’m happy about her having to tell Anderson who gave her a ride home last night.
“Ian was leaving at the same time as me. He offered me a ride home.” Anderson’s response to this admission, or should I say his lack of response, gives nothing away. His face is a blank slate.
Lucy and Emily, on the other hand, both gasp loudly. Mel chokes on the sip of water she just took and Becca knocks her glass clean off its coaster, splashing water across my coffee table.
“Whoops!” she cries, “I’m so sorry.” She grabs a handful of tissues from the box nearby and starts blotting at the table. And that right there is why I did not want to give her hot chocolate.
“Wait, did you take it?” Lucy interjects, unphased by her former roommate’s spill.
“Uh, yes,” Nora says carefully. “I mean, it was late at night. I didn’t want to sit alone in the parking lot waiting for a tow truck.”
I keep my hand over hers, doing my best to support her. In my periphery I can see Stafford leaning forward to focus on what Nora is saying. Across from us in a chair he brought in from the kitchen, Montgomery’s face is grave. He’s a serious guy, though, I remind myself. Could be nothing.
“Okay, so Ian Wharfman gave you a ride home,” Andserson says carefully. “Then what?”
“Well, actually,” Nora heaves in a breath, glancing my way, “I ended up having him bring me here, to Jack’s house.”
“Oh?” One of Anderson’s eyebrows pops up in surprise and his gaze swivels my way for the briefest of seconds. “And why did you do that?”
Nora swallows, but when she answers her voice is strong and clear. “I had him bring me here because Jack’s house is closer to my work and Ian was starting to make some… unwanted advances. I wanted to get out of his car as soon as possible. So I asked him to drop me off here and told him that Jack was my boyfriend.”
“That’s why you came over last night?” Lucy exclaims. “Oh that is so much better than the popping-over-to-clear-the-air-before-Mel’s-wedding thing,” she goes on happily. “Obviously not the unwanted advances part,” she amends quickly, “but the fake boyfriend angle is really cute.”
“You told them you came over to clear the air before our wedding?” Anderson asks. “Why lie?”
Nora flushes. I can feel her getting flustered, so I run a thumb over her hand and bump her thigh gently with mine.
“It’s okay,” I whisper at a volume designed to seem like I’m trying to speak just to her but that’s still loud enough for all of them to hear. “You’ve got nothing to hide, lying about inconsequential matters is not a crime.”
Nora nods once in response, then focuses back on Anderson. “It wasn’t a total lie. I had been thinking about Jack. How I was going to be seeing him again at your wedding. What that would be like.” She lifts her free hand to fiddle with her earring. “Plus, well, I’m vying for a promotion at work. I wanted to keep what happened in the car under wraps until that was over. It was Mr. Wharfman’s decision who would get the job, and I worried bringing up accusations would make them seem like malicious lies intended to blackmail him into a decision in my favor or worse that someone might accuse me of having been trying to curry favor with him.”
Wow. That was a good answer. Depressingly believable.
“I see.” Anderson’s expression turns sympathetic. “I’m very sorry you had to go through that, Nora.”
Nora’s eyes rim with tears, and for the first time my composure slips. Some of the white hot rage I felt last night upon hearing of Ian Wharfman’s attempts at assaulting Nora resurfaces and a growl escapes my body.
“If he weren’t already dead, I’d pummel that man like a punching bag,” I state, my voice low and deadly.
Nora looks over at me in shock.
“Sorry,” I grunt, even though I’m not sorry at all. I probably should’ve kept this thought to myself, given that we’re caught up in a murder investigation, but at this moment I don’t care about what I should do. Anger has replaced my sound judgment.
Anderson’s gaze is now locked on me thanks to my outburst, and I start to feel the tiniest twinge of regret.
Nora framed his assault attempt as something more akin to sexual harassment. The intensity of my response might seem like overkill considering part of Nora’s story is that Ian Wharfman did as she asked and dropped her off here, rather than continuing with his so-called ‘unwanted advances’.
“Sorry,” I grunt again. “Pummel might be a strong word choice. I just meant, when she told me what brought her to my door, I definitely had the urge to go find the guy and give him a good punch.”
There’s a beat of silence then Anderson asks, “And is that what you did?”
“No,” I say quickly. “I didn’t want to make any trouble for Nora at work. Plus, she had her car to think about. Wharfman wanted it out of the parking lot before an important customer arrived in the morning. So we drove over there so I could put the spare on. Only when we got there, there was already a tow truck on sight. Wharfman had called them to come. So, after we confirmed with the driver where we wanted the car towed, we came back to my house.”
“I see, and that’s where you stayed the rest of the night?” Anderson asks. I’m momentarily distracted by the sound of Montgomery’s pen scratching along his pad as he takes notes on what I’m saying. It’s disconcerting—the sound of all our lies being recorded.
“Well, no,” Nora speaks up. “We did go out and grab some dinner at a Chick-fil-A. Despite the late hour I hadn’t eaten anything. But then we came back.”
“I was going to take her home after we ate,” I quickly cut in, remembering my promise to her last night, “but after we decided to get married we got to talking.” I swallow, willing myself to ignore the scratch, scratch of the pen. “She fell asleep on my couch. It was so late I decided to just carry her to my guest bed. And that was that. We woke up this morning and headed straight for City Hall to get married.”
Montgomery’s pen comes to a stop along with my story. I realize belatedly that my portrayal of things didn’t sound very romantic, but before I can attempt to course correct Mel speaks.
“I like your dress, Nora.”
Her words are innocent enough in nature, but the implication is not lost on me—and it sends a rush of cold zipping through me. Does she know where I got the dress? That I snuck into Nora’s house in the dead of night to get it, crossing the police lines set up on her lawn to do so?
So stupid. I should’ve just grabbed the birth certificate and gotten out there.
Although in my defense, I never expected my friends to crash our courthouse wedding.
“Oh, thank you,” Nora answers with a glance my way, as if she too senses impending danger. The room is quiet for a few seconds. I’m not sure what all of the others are thinking about, but I’m busy wondering if I should make up some lie about where we got the dress or just move on in the hopes that no one will give the dress another thought.
The sound of someone thwacking something against their leg draws everyone’s attention Becca’s way. I watch with growing horror as she rips the top off a thin pink packet and dumps an even pinker powder into her water turning it a pink color that will very much stand out against her cream-colored shirt. She lifts a spoon that I didn’t even realize she’d brought with her from the kitchen off the coffee table and starts stirring.
“Oh, sorry,” she says quickly when she realizes everyone is staring at her. “I forgot I had this with me. Free sample from my grocery pickup order.” She holds up the now empty packet of what looks to be some sort of strawberry-lemonade flavored water mix. “Didn't mean to disrupt the investigation. Carry on.” She waves a hand toward Anderson, almost knocking the glass of pink water to the floor. Nora and I both flinch, but luckily at the last minute Becca manages to right the glass before it topples off the table and onto her.
This might be worse than if I’d just given her some hot chocolate.
I’m so preoccupied with Becca and her newfound pink drink liability, that I almost miss Stafford’s question to Nora.
“Generally speaking, did the people at your office like Ian Wharfman?” he asks, leaning back in his chair as if he’s simply asking her about the weather and not, you know, trying to build a suspect list. If Nora wasn’t the murderer, this question wouldn’t be so bad. But since she is, he’s essentially asking, is there anyone you can pin this murder on in your place?
Obviously he doesn’t know that’s the byproduct of his question, but I can see that Nora does by the way she sucks in a breath and starts jiggling one leg.
“Whether or not they liked Ian I hardly think any of my coworkers are capable of murder, if that’s what you’re asking,” she says, effectively pinning the murder on no one.
Which is fine.
I mean, it’s not like I want some innocent person sent to jail for Nora’s crime.
But isn’t there some jerk wad at her office that goes around yelling at everyone, always acts like he’s better than everyone else, and never starts a new pot when he finishes the coffee that we could at least use as a distraction from Nora?
His innocence would be proven quickly enough, but by then we’d have figured out some new rabbit hole to send them down.
Then once that rabbit hole goes cold, we’ll send them to the next and so on and so forth until they rule the whole case as cold.
Which yes, could take years and lots of wasted police resources, but I really can’t focus too much on those things right now.
Not if I want to keep my guilt in check and my mind from playing out scenarios where this fake marriage of ours eventually turns into wedded bliss.
“Don’t worry,” Stafford says, putting one hand up in a calming gesture, “I’m not asking you to accuse anyone. Just trying to get a general sense of office relations and morale. I know that you know from your time dating Reynolds that murderers don’t always fit the stereotypes. In fact more often than not in cases like these they look like regular people. People you’d never think were capable of murder.”
Does his gaze hitch meaningfully on Nora as he says these last words? Or am I imagining things? Surely he hasn’t grown suspicious of her too.
“Look,” Nora says, remarkably calmly, “Ian Wharfman was a tough boss. Nobody loved the man. Well, except maybe for Frank.”
“Frank?” I cut in. “The security guard?”
She nods. “He practically worshiped the ground Ian Wharfman walked on.”
“Okay, see,” Stafford says with a satisfied nod, looking from Nora to Anderson to Montgomery, “that’s a place to start from the work side of his life.”
“Wait, how is that a place to start?” Nora asks in concern. “I just said Frank really liked Ian. Why would that make him a suspect?”
“Strong emotions either way can lead to murder,” Anderson explains. “Admiration can go south quickly.”
A crease appears across Nora’s brow. “No,” she says quickly. “No, no. I’m sure Frank didn’t kill him.”
“How can you be sure?” Anderson replies, looking way more interested in her answer than I’m comfortable with. It’s like he’s expecting her to confess.
No. That’s just me being paranoid.
Nobody here thinks Nora killed Ian Wharfman.
“I-,” Nora falters. “I don’t know,” she finally says. “I just don’t think he did it.”
My three friends all exchange a look. I know that look. Even if I’m not privy to the silent discussion passing between them, I still know that look. So I lower my lips to Nora’s ears under the guise of planting a kiss there.
“They’re still going to question him, but it’ll be fine,” I tell her quietly before planting a light kiss on the soft skin below her ear. I force myself not to linger. Nora looks up at me with wide panicked eyes, and I can tell that she’s worried about Frank going to prison in her place. “Don’t worry,” I mouth.
“Okay, what do you know about Wharfman’s personal life?” Anderson asks. “Anything of note?”
“Um, he’s married,” she offers with a shrug. “That’s about it.”
“Right, to Constance Wharfman?” Montgomery asks with a glance at his notes.
“Yes, but she just goes by Connie, I think. I’ve only met her once, though, so I’m not positive. She didn’t come to the office or anything, but she hosted a surprise birthday party for him last year and invited everyone.”
“I see,” Anderson nods. “We’ll have to talk to her as well.” He taps his fingers across his knees. “We haven’t been able to get a hold of her. She wasn’t at home when we sent an officer earlier. Any idea how she’ll take the news that her husband is dead?” he asks carefully.
“I assume she’ll be upset,” Nora replies.
“So you don’t think she knew about his philandering ways?” Montgomery asks, his pen poised at the ready for her answer.
“Oh.” This stumps her. “I don’t know,” she admits. “I mean, it’s not like I knew he was a skeeze when I got in his car.” She twists the skirt of her dress nervously. “But I guess I also wasn’t all that surprised to discover it.”
“Shoot!” Becca’s sudden exclamation once again has all of us looking her way. “Sorry,” she repeats her earlier iteration, but I barely hear her thanks to the strawberry-sized pink stain I spy on the top of her shirt. She spilled.
It was so inevitable I don’t know why my blood pressure is even spiking in response. It should’ve been prepared for such a time as this.
“Gosh. I swear the water just jumped right out of the cup. But don’t worry,” she trills, standing up. “I already know where to go for the Tide pen. You guys don’t have to move a muscle.”
“No, remember the Tide pen is gone,” Nora reminds her quickly. “I used it all up last night.”
Becca’s face falls for only a second before she waves off this obstacle. “Oh right. No worries. I saw you have Dawn in the kitchen. I can work miracles with some Dawn detergent.”
“Okay, great,” Nora agrees and Becca disappears into the kitchen. I relax back into my seat.
“You okay there, Reynolds?” Anderson asks. “You seem a little tense.”
“Yeah, well, hanging out in my living room with all of you discussing a murder isn’t exactly how I pictured spending my wedding day,” I gripe.
“He’s right,” Lucy declares. “We are completely crowding the newlyweds. You’ve asked them enough questions, haven’t you, babe?” she addresses Stafford.
“I’d say yes for now,” he agrees. “What do you two think?” He looks between Montgomery and Anderson.
“Yeah, I’m eager to go talk to Frank and the rest of the employees at the company,” Anderson answers.
“We can go and talk to his wife,” Montgomery volunteers, indicating himself and Stafford.
I realize then that by acting impatient for them to leave I’ve shot myself in the foot. It would be nice to go with Anderson to talk to Frank. I don’t think there’s anything he could say to incriminate Nora, but I’d be more comfortable knowing for sure.
Then again, I also wouldn’t mind going with Montgomery and Stafford to talk to the wife. What if she’s heard about the mystery man who jumped the fence to get out of the neighborhood, leaving his sweatshirt behind? And what’s she going to tell the police about Ian’s car? That it just appeared in her driveway, no Ian inside?
Yeah, actually I’d really, really like to talk to Connie Wharfman, ideally before the police even get their chance to do so.
But how am I going to achieve that? An idea strikes me. It’s not a great one, but it’s all I’ve got.
“You know,” I hedge thoughtfully, “I wonder if that important customer Wharfman was so worried about impressing could have anything to do with this. Why haven’t you heard anything from them about the fact that Wharfman didn’t show up for work?”
I’m genuinely curious about this actually. Maybe they wouldn’t have been alarmed enough by his absence to alert the police, but surely someone at the company would have contacted his wife to see where he was, and she in turn would have reported that he’s been missing since last night. That length of time is usually enough to prompt a loved one to make a phone call to the police. So why hasn’t his wife called?
Unless nobody from work reported his absence to her. What if someone from Nora’s work is the person responsible for moving Ian’s body and therefore chose not to alert the police?
No, that wouldn’t make sense either. If anything, whoever moved the body wants Nora to be caught. Why else would they put his body on her front lawn?
These questions rotate around in my head like the spin cycle of a laundry machine: fast and furious.
“I’ll talk to them too,” Anderson responds to my question with a deep nod.
“Sounds like a lot of people to manage on your own,” I point out.
“Unfortunately my partner chose today of all days to play hooky,” Anderson replies dryly. “I’ll just have to call over someone from the force to come with me and help.”
“Or you could take Montgomery and Stafford,” I suggest. “That would be easier since they’re already briefed on the case. Meanwhile you can send someone back to the Wharfman’s house to check on his wife, make plans to meet up with her after you finish at the company.” I try to make the suggestion sound casual rather than as if I’m eagerly hoping he’ll do as I suggest.
“That makes sense to me,” Montgomery offers. “I’d like to get a read on some of the female employees there anyway. See if perhaps Nora’s experience with him isn’t so unique.”
“Yeah, I agree.” Stafford slaps his hands to his knees and gets up from his chair. “We’ll come with you, Anderson, and send Officer Moore over to the wife’s house.”
Officer Moore. That’s who I was hoping they’d send. Great officer, but the guy recently met someone and I’ve noticed him taking extended lunch breaks a lot lately. At this time of day he’s probably off with his girlfriend feeding each other bites of their food in between kisses. If we hurry, Nora and I should have a head start on him.
“I guess we’ll collect Becca and be on our way,” Emily says, sidling over to Montgomery to give him a kiss goodbye.
Lucy hoists herself up too, patting her bump affectionately as she heads to her husband for a kiss of her own. Mel is already by Anderson; the two of them are exchanging words in a soft whisper. I try to listen, but they might as well be two insects buzzing at each other for all I can make out.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” Lucy announces loudly, striding between me and their conversation on her way there.
Giving up on overhearing, I stand and offer Nora a hand up. She takes it then begins clearing away the cups.
“We can take these to the kitchen, but save the cleanup for later,” I murmur to her as Montgomery, Stafford, and Anderson all head toward my front door to leave. “We need to beat Officer Moore to the Wharfman’s house.”
Nora stiffens in surprise, but then nods. Out of the corner of my eye I spot Mel staring at us but then her phone rings and she turns away to answer it.
“Here let me help, Nora,” Emily offers, then, using her former-waitress superpowers, she proceeds to carry the remaining six cups to the kitchen using only her two hands. “Hey, where did Becca go?” she asks as Nora and I follow her inside with our measly one cup each.
I look around in concern. Emily is right, Becca is not in here. There are signs that she was: my dish soap has been moved to the edge of the counter by the sink and her glass of pink water and a wet dishcloth sit next to it. But she’s not in here now.
“Becca?” I call, panic spiking my heart rate. After Mel’s comment about Nora’s dress, I’m no longer just worried about Becca going into the laundry room. What if she went into my guest room and saw Nora’s suitcase? While this wouldn’t be quite as damming as the blood-stained shirt soaking in the laundry room, it would certainly prompt some questions.
“Here I am,” Becca calls back as she steps into the kitchen, her cheeks slightly flushed. Her eyes dart over to Nora then to me then down to her toes. Something’s wrong. She’s nervous. Why is she nervous?
Or is this me being paranoid again? Maybe that’s my life now. Always worrying that the people around me are only one step away from realizing my wife is a murderer.
“You okay, Bex?” Emily asks, debunking the theory that I’m just being paranoid.
“I’m fine,” she squeaks. A giant wet spot has taken the place of the pink stain that initially sent her fleeing to the kitchen. “Anyhoo, uh, are we leaving? Okay, let’s do that. Nora, it was so nice to meet you. You seem so nice and, uh, kind. Yup. Nice and kind. Not at all like a murderer. Not that anyone said you were a murderer. You’re not. Dead body on your front lawn aside. That’s not your fault someone put that there. Nope. Nope. Nope.” On the third nope her rambling finally comes to a stop. There’s silence in the kitchen.
“Becca!” Emily is the one to break the silence. She steps closer to her friend looking appalled. “What are you even talking about?” she whisper-shouts, darting a glance toward the doorway as if worried one of the others will overhear. “Of course Nora isn’t a murderer!”
“I know,” Becca hisses back. “That’s what I just said.”
“Yeah, that’s what you literally said, but it’s not what your tone of voice and body language conveyed,” Emily exclaims, still at whisper volume.
“Don’t talk to me about my body language,” Becca retorts. “Look at your body language, karate kid.”
She’s not wrong. Emily has adapted a pose I recognize as the ready stance: feet shoulder width apart, knees slightly bent, arms up at her sides. It’s as if she thinks one of us might attack.
She knows. They both know.
The reality of this crashes down on me like an anvil, squashing my former allusion that we’d somehow find a way for Nora to get away with murder.
I can’t speak, can’t even move from the fear gripping my very soul.
“Listen, Reynolds, don’t freak out,” Emily bypasses Becca’s karate kid comment to address me. “It’s not as if we’re going to tell anyone. Our lips are sealed.” She mimics locking her lips with two fingers.
“Right, yeah, of course,” Becca says. “We won’t tell. We are great secret keepers. Don’t tell Mel, though,” she adds as an afterthought. “She’s horrible at keeping secrets.”
“Yeah, she’s the one that told me,” Emily says, wrinkling her nose. “Well, sort of. I don’t think she’s actually figured out that you,” she lowers her voice, “murdered your boss, but she was the one who kept asking where your dress came from if you spent the night here and why Reynolds, who’s never lost his phone a day in his life, conveniently lost it when everyone was trying to get ahold of him. She knows you two are hiding something, she just hasn’t figured out what. Probably because she knows you too well, Nora. It’s harder to imagine your close friends being capable of murder, but I knew you did it the second you said that Ian guy made unwanted advances. I know that’s code for he tried to assault you. And believe you, me…I have been in a scenario where it was my life or the other guy’s and I had no problem picking myself over him. Of course, I didn’t end up murdering him, just kicking the gun out of his hand. But not all of us are trained in martial arts. Some of us just carry really sharp knitting needles.” She breaks off, breathing hard, then looks at Becca. “How did you know?”
Becca looks uncomfortable as she explains, “The Dawn wasn’t working on the stain, so I decided to go see if you had anything in the laundry room that might help. I saw the bucket with the red water, and well, it smelled like blood.” She shudders. “Like Emily, I sort of guessed that you meant he tried to assault you when you said he made unwanted advances.” Her expression hardens. “So in my opinion that makes whatever happened next self-defense.”
“Yes, absolutely,” Emily impassions, dropping out of defense mode to hurry over to Nora’s side. She puts an arm over Nora’s shoulders. Nora looks as if she’s on the verge of tears as Emily continues, “You acted in self-defense.”
“Which is notoriously hard to prove,” I repeat this truth from last night not to spoil the unified/together-we-can-face-this-injustice mood of the room but because it’s a truth that evidently needs to be repeated. It may seem as simple as an act of self-defense to these women, but I’ve been in a courtroom testifying in cases where the defense attorney argued for self-defense and things almost always get sticky. The character of the defendant gets dragged through the mud, oftentimes no one on the jury seems to buy the story, and without fail the defendant is forced to relive the whole horrible event that led them to being in the courtroom in the first place. Not to mention the prison time. Rarely do judges set bail for people accused of violent crimes. Meaning that Nora would spend time in prison regardless of her innocence.
These are the things that need to be remembered when it seems as if things in my kitchen are getting all cozy and people are acting like everything is going to be fine.
None of this is fine.
“Let’s not be a Debbie downer,” Emily chides with a disapproving frown.
“I’m not sure it’s possible to be anything other than a Debbie downer when it comes to my wife going to prison,” I reply dryly.
My point is completely missed due to the fact that Becca and Emily are currently sighing over my use of the words my wife. These women, I swear. When it comes to romance they’re like dogs at the mere hint of a squirrel—must focus all attention on it no matter what else is going on around them.
“I’m not going to let her go to prison,” I repeat over their crooning. “Which means you two can’t tell Montgomery or Seth about this.”
Immediately Becca pulls a face. “Um, that might be a bit of a problem for me. You see our pre-marital counselor has really been emphasizing the importance of trust and honesty in a marriage. I can’t lie to Seth. But don't worry, he’s not going to tell. Who would he even tell?” Not like he has four million YouTube subscribers anymore,” she adds with an awkward laugh. “He used to be a golf YouTuber,” she explains to Nora. “But don’t worry, he just owns and runs a golf course now. Sure he talks to lots of people on a daily basis, but usually it’s about golf clubs and how the greens are reading. Murder has never come up.”
“When you say don’t tell Reed,” Emily interjects, “I assume you meant don’t tell him via text or phone call to avoid leaving a digital trail, and not that you meant don’t tell him period.”
“I absolutely meant don’t tell him period,” I growl.
“Oh, yeah, no.” Emily shakes her head. “I can’t do that. I have to tell him. But like Becca said, he won’t tell.”
I close my eyes against the pressure and anxiety building inside me.
“What’s going on in here?” Lucy’s voice penetrates my attempts at finding some semblance of inner calm. “I thought we were leaving so that the newlyweds could have some alone time.” She steps further into the kitchen, her gaze bouncing around to each of us. “Why do you guys look so serious?”
“Serious? Us?” Emily forces a laugh and Becca hastily joins in, letting out a noise that I think is meant to be a laugh but in reality sounds more like a donkey breathing its last breath. “We’re not serious. Just shooting the breeze while we waited for you and Mel to get moving.”
“Hmm, I see.” Lucy crosses her arms over her chest. “And here I thought maybe you guys were discussing whether or not Nora stabbed that guy with her knitting needle before or after Reynolds took him out for trying to assault her.”
In a less dire situation the collective gasp that follows her words would be almost comical. As things stand it’s more like the sound of impending doom.
“Jack did not kill him,” Nora speaks for the first time since Becca came into the kitchen, her voice ringing out clear and steady as she proclaims my innocence. “It was all me, okay?” Some of her control waivers as she moves onto her own role in what happened, the tiniest of tremors punctuating her speech. “He lunged at me and I reacted instinctively, trying to defend myself. I didn’t think…I never meant to…I still can’t believe…I killed him.” She leaves the words hanging in the air as her carefully constructed facade shatters like glass, each tear that pours down her cheeks like a shard piercing my heart.
I’m at her side before I’ve even realized I’m moving, pulling her against me and whispering every promise I can think of to let her know I’ve got her back.
“You know what, it’s all going to be fine,” Lucy announces. “Because we are all team Nora and who better to orchestrate a murder cover up than four detectives and their significant others. And Becca,” she adds magnanimously with a pat to Becca’s shoulder. “In fact, Becca can take Mel’s place because we all know she should never be involved in the cover up of anything. She already suspects you two are hiding something, but I don’t think she knows exactly what.”
“So we just have to make sure she doesn’t figure out that what you’re hiding is that Nora is the one that killed Ian Wharfman,” Becca says pragmatically.
“Too late,” Mel says from the doorway and I swivel around to see her standing there with wide, panicked eyes, and that’s when I start to think maybe we should all just bite the bullet and head to Antigua to start a new life.