Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
L ater that night, Aria found herself sitting at a Greenwich Village pizza place, perusing the menu while her mother checked her phone nervously, waiting for information from either Renée or Dorothy’s lawyer, whichever came first. Now that they’d learned that Aria was supposed to stick around the brownstone and fix it up, it was like Hilary’s trip to the Big Apple was for nothing.
(And Hilary felt a pressing weight to head back to Nantucket and continue work on the estate.)
Renée had suggested Hilary stick around for a day or two.
Aria speculated that Renée didn’t want to be alone in that brownstone, that the more people she had around her, the better she felt.
But she still hadn’t told Aria and Hilary why she’d come there in the first place, not where she’d been the past thirty years.
Hilary sighed and set her phone back on the table, face down. “I keep hoping the internet will start to move on from Dorothy’s death. It feels crazy. All these people are trying to ‘own’ her story, in a way, when they never knew her.”
Aria winced. Although she often hated how fleeting the passion for anything online was before people moved on to something else, she understood what her mother meant.
“I saw someone posting about Dorothy’s supposed ‘crime,’” Aria said, reaching for her glass of red wine and raising it.
“Killing Philip, you mean?” Hilary asked in a low voice.
Aria nodded. There were probably fifty memes going around the internet right now, calling Dorothy a murderer. But if her mother was correct, those memes would wane soon.
“I can’t get over the fact that Renée thinks her mother killed her father,” Aria whispered, glancing around the packed and bustling restaurant, hoping that they wouldn’t be overheard. “I mean, she wasn’t there. She has as many facts about what happened as the rest of us.”
According to what Hilary and Aria had researched so far about the circumstances surrounding Philip’s death, they’d learned that Renée had been at the Nantucket estate when her parents left to go sailing, but that she’d been with friends on Martha’s Vineyard when her mother sailed home alone.
After the incident, Renée had been questioned numerous times by the police, but she maintained that she didn’t know anything.
When they asked her if she had any reason to suspect her mother of killing her father, Renée had simply said that there was a lot of bad blood in the Wagner family, that they’d been through a great deal, and that she’d really like it if the police left her family alone.
What they’d learned about Renée’s sister, Rachel, was negligible at best. But based on the few things Renée had said, drunkenly and wildly that afternoon, they’d gleaned that Rachel had died sometime in the early eighties.
It left Aria to speculate whether Rachel’s death pushed Dorothy and Philip apart.
Was that why he started having so many affairs?
Was Dorothy grieving at home alone in Nantucket?
“It’s funny,” Hilary remembered, clicking her nail against the tabletop.
“Your grandmother talked about Rachel and Renée like they were both alive in the eighties. I’m thinking Dorothy and Philip lied about where they were.
I’m thinking they said both of their daughters were away at boarding school, rather than just the one. ” Hilary’s cheeks were pale.
“Why would they lie about something like that?” Aria asked, mystified.
Hilary raised her shoulders. “That was when Philip was becoming really, really wealthy. Maybe he thought it would impact his career somehow. Maybe Dorothy couldn’t deal with the truth.
I don’t know. Like it or not, we’re involved in a tremendous family drama.
One that makes our Coleman drama look childish by comparison. ”
Their pizzas came. They’d ordered two pan pizzas, one with meat and the other with feta cheese, black olives, and green peppers, and they shared everything, eating first with a fork and knife before switching to their hands.
Aria’s thoughts raced, and her phone dinged with messages from Gina, who burned with curiosity about what was going to happen to Dorothy Wagner’s money.
Aria didn’t answer them. She was considering blocking Gina for good.
“Do you want to walk me through your plan?” Hilary asked after a few minutes of silence.
Aria gave her what felt like a blank look.
“For the brownstone,” Hilary clarified, wiping her hands on a napkin. “I’d love to know your vision.”
Although Aria had been at the brownstone for less than twenty-four hours before the news had broken about Dorothy’s death, she had already sketched out several ideas and made lists for herself.
Her plan had been to get organized during the first five days, call Dorothy for her opinions, and then get started on logistics.
Things felt different now, but maybe they didn’t have to be.
Dorothy wanted them to continue working. She’d set them up.
Back at the brownstone, their bellies full of pizza and wine, Aria and Hilary sat on the sofa discussing Aria’s strategy for the following months of work.
Upstairs, they could hear Renée’s feet creaking across the floorboards, but neither of them mentioned it.
It was a relief to throw themselves into a world they understood, at least for a little while.
But at around nine thirty that evening, the doorbell rang.
Aria was at the kitchen counter, pouring glasses of water, and hurried to the foyer to get it, hoping that the sound hadn’t irritated Renée.
The minute she opened the door, her eyes filled with painful flashes of light.
She drew her hands up in front of her face.
Her breathing was sharp and strange. It took a second for her to realize that photographers and journalists stood outside the door, screaming questions at her.
“Why did Dorothy kill Philip Wagner?”
“Where is Renée Wagner?”
“Who are you? Why are you staying at the Wagner home?”
“Can you comment on the past twenty-five years of Dorothy Wagner’s life of solitude?”
The voices were heinous and mean-spirited. Aria was frozen with alarm. When she finally pulled her hands away from her face, she felt her mother beside her, guiding her back into the foyer and locking the door behind them. Hilary’s eyes were buggy.
“I shouldn’t have opened it like that,” Aria whispered, stricken.
She realized she’d been operating on Nantucket Island rules, where you always opened your door with a smile, no matter if it was a stranger calling or not.
In the big city, especially when staying in a place like this, you had to be on your guard.
Hilary touched Aria’s shoulder. “It’s okay. It is.”
Aria couldn’t stop shaking. She returned to the sofa and wrapped herself in a ball. They waited for what felt like half an hour, peeping out the window till the journalists went on their way.
“Maybe it’s too dangerous for you to stay here and work,” Hilary said, her hand in a fist. “Dorothy should have considered the fallout.”
“She probably didn’t really think she would die,” Aria whispered.
“She changed her will,” Hilary said.
“Maybe it was just a precaution? I don’t know.” Aria shook her head.
They sat in silence, considering the selfish wants of a woman who was no longer in the world.
That was when they heard the footfalls on the staircase, a percussive smash-smash that brought Renée back into the living room. She’d changed back into that same nightdress, and she was clutching an empty glass that she soon refilled with wine. Her face was blotchy.
“Well, I met with the lawyer,” Renée said, her voice syrupy. It was like she hadn’t heard any of the commotion at the brownstone front door, like she lived in her own little world.
“What did he say?” Hilary asked.
“It’s just like I thought. Dorothy didn’t want me to be happy. Not immediately. She left me a few things to do before I can receive my inheritance, which are annoying. One of my tasks is to make sure the two of you keep up your end of your contracts.”
Aria and Hilary glanced at one another, mystified.
In many ways, Aria wished that Renée would go back to wherever she’d come from and leave them alone. But at the same time, Renée brought with her a wealth of mysteries about a family very nearly lost to time.
“We won’t be annoying for you,” Hilary assured her with a soft smile.
Renée sucked her teeth. Aria hated when people did that.
“What are your other tasks?” Hilary asked.
“What?” Renée was distracted, already making her way back upstairs.
But before she could escape them fully, Aria walked after her, eager to know more. “Renée?” she called. “Where did you live? Before this?” She blinked up at her, standing at the base of the stairs while Renée paused in the middle. Her wine glinted in the light coming from the upstairs landing.
Renée sighed deeply. After a long pause, she said, “You aren’t the only one going through a breakup, my girl.
But sometimes I wonder if I was doomed to unhappy relationships because of what I knew of my parents’.
How ironic that the only refuge I knew was this old brownstone, the very place my father brought his mistresses.
But hey, I’m more broke than I’ve ever been.
I have nowhere else to live. I suppose, in that sense, my parents are still watching out for me. What do you think?”
Aria was stunned into silence. Eager to know more, she gripped the railing and spoke in a soft voice, asking, “Do you want to talk about it?” She imagined the three of them—Aria, Hilary, and Renée—recounting their terrible past breakups and laughing about how difficult it was to find true love.
But Renée bristled at the idea. “I don’t need cozy times. I’ve never needed them.” She twisted back around and headed upstairs.
Hilary and Aria were left in the living room by themselves, at a loss about the state of Renée’s heart and how to help her. But Aria reasoned that it wasn’t up to them to figure it out.
They both had jobs to do.