Chapter 21
Friday: The Night of the Party
Marmee’s bedroom light is on.
I would have thought by now she’d be asleep. After the shock of Marlowe’s death, everything that goes against my expectations frightens me, my mind anticipating the next disaster. I burst through her bedroom door, afraid of what I’ll find on the other side.
Her bed is made with a luxe velvet comforter and a dozen decorative pillows.
I curse in frustration when I see the door to the balcony is open—I’ve already told her to stay away from the balcony once tonight—but then worry settles in the pit of my stomach.
Marlowe’s death could be just the beginning.
What if I invited danger into Marmee’s home?
I dart toward the balcony door. When I turn the corner, that’s when I see her. She’s slumped over in the armchair that rests behind the partitioning wall. Her head is tilted to the side, eyes closed. She snores loudly.
Relief floods my body, a warm and comforting reprieve from the despair I’ve been feeling. Marmee is safe. Another emotion soon slithers inside me. Dread. It’s up to me to tell her about Marlowe.
“Marmee?” I kneel in front of her and rub her hand, feel the ropelike texture of her varicose veins. “Can you hear me?”
Regardless of how gentle I am, she startles awake, her eyes bulging at the sound of my voice. She relaxes when she sees that it’s only me. A self-effacing titter escapes her lips, which are still painted coral from earlier in the night.
“Tippi?”
My hands deliver a nurturing squeeze. “We need a telephone. Are you sure there isn’t one in the house?”
“I tossed the landline ages ago,” she says, still hazy with sleep. “You know that.”
“Is there any way to contact the police?”
She sits up straighter now, piecing more together. The late hour. My pointed request. The tear trails staining my cheeks. Her brow furrows, her entire expression clouded with concern.
“Tippi, what’s wrong?”
I exhale, the right words ceasing to exist. There can be no humble delivery, only devastation and disaster. “It’s Marlowe,” I say. “She’s fallen from the library balcony.”
Marmee blanches, pulling her hand away as though I’ve played a cruel joke. “Is she all right?”
“She’s dead.” Every time I’m forced to say it, a new wave of disbelief rattles me to my core. My throat swells with grief as fresh, bitter tears begin to fall.
“My goodness,” Marmee says, leaning into the cushioned backrest. Her head turns to the open balcony door, lace curtains swelling as a gust of cool wind swirls inside. She stares at that tiny patch of night sky as if trying to imagine the ghastly scene below.
Marmee has encountered plenty of tragedy in her life.
Her parents died at an early age. Most of her peers have passed over the years.
Her husband suffered a similar fate to Marlowe’s in this very house.
My mother, her daughter-in-law, bled out mere hours after I was born, leaving her to raise me with limited help from my absent father.
I’ve often wondered how one person can endure so much sadness, so much loss.
And now she’s confronting it once again.
“How could this happen?” she asks.
“I don’t know.” I reconsider everything we’ve uncovered since touring the library. There’s no sense in holding back now. I can test my theory on Marmee, see if it sounds half as crazy as it does in my own mind. “I think she was pushed.”
“Pushed?”
“All the balconies are structurally sound. I spoke to the handymen last month when they were repairing parts of the property. She couldn’t have fallen by accident,” I say. “The glass doors in the library were shattered, as if there had been a struggle.”
Marmee remains silent. Maybe she’s simply mourning the loss of another precious life.
My friends have visited Marmee’s estate several times over the years.
While I’ve always believed she preferred Ava—they’re so alike with their beauty and glamour and charm—she had a soft spot for Marlowe, too, and not only because of the delicious meals she’d prepare upon request. Marmee has always valued authenticity, could sense it in Marlowe and people like her.
All those attributes are forever snuffed out.
“Tippi, these are your friends. Who do you think pushed her?”
It’s an unsettling thought. Who exactly am I accusing of the unthinkable?
Of murdering Marlowe? The only people inside the house when she fell, besides Marmee herself, were Ava, Constance, Preston, and Damien.
I’ve known most of them for almost two decades.
They were best friends with Marlowe, just as they are with me. It has to be Damien.
“Marlowe invited a guest tonight. Her new boyfriend. I can’t prove it, but it must have been him. No one else would have a reason to want to hurt Marlowe.”
“And he would?”
“They were arguing earlier in the night,” I say. “She said he was the jealous type.”
Or maybe there’s another motive at play. One I’m not yet ready to admit.
I clear my throat, trying to remain focused. “Could we drive one of the cars in the garage into town?”
“The garage only has golf carts and landscape machinery, which won’t get you far. I sold my car ages ago. Mrs. Wilson has her car when she’s here if I need to go into town, but she has left for the weekend.”
Likewise, I’d sold my own car before leaving the city. Figured there was no point in having it due to my upcoming travel plans. All the guests arrived via drivers and Ubers, but I was hoping Marmee had access to at least one vehicle.
I exhale, desperation weighing heavy on my chest.
“We need to call for help. If there’s a way to contact the police, a landline, an internet connection, I need you to tell me.”
Marmee thinks, her thin lips leveling into a flat line. For years, she’s prided herself on being cut off from the rest of the world. Now, that same anonymity poses a threat to all of us. Her eyes go wide again, her next suggestion a glint of light in the darkness.
“Mrs. Wilson has a landline in her cottage.”
I stand quickly, the possibility of a plan jolting me with adrenaline. “How do I get inside?”
“There should be a key hidden in a fake rock beside the front door,” she says. “You know the type. Same ones you’d play with as a child.”
In my youth, I considered the hide-a-keys scattered around the property the most inventive devices ever. Funny how happy memories resurface even during the most traumatic of times.
“I can call the police from there.”
Marmee extends her hand, her bony grip tight around my wrist. “Tippi, are you sure?”
Her expression is sensitive and sympathetic, but the question she asks is weighted with unease, as if she’s asking about more than my actions in this moment. Digging deeper. I dismiss my paranoia.
“Marlowe is dead,” I say. “I don’t have a choice.”
The police need to investigate what happened here. And if my fears are proved right, and Marlowe’s death wasn’t accidental, then someone at this house is responsible. They deserve punishment.
“Take the golf cart,” Marmee says, already refocused on the plan of action. She leans forward in her chair, reaching for her crow cane with the emerald eye. “I can go with you.”
“No. I want you to stay here,” I say. “I need to know you’re safe.”
My stomach tightens when I think of Oliver’s messages. Is there another possibility I’m failing to consider? Could someone else be on the grounds? My gaze lands on the open balcony door.
“Why is the door open again?”
“I opened it,” she says. “It’s easier for me to sleep when I can feel the breeze.”
I stare at the sliver of darkness, the silvery hue of the moon reflected in the glass.
My imagination runs wild with possibilities of what might be lurking out there in the dark.
Who might be lurking. Crossing the room, I close the door again and lower the latch.
For a moment, I’m transfixed by my own reflection framed in the shadowy distortions from outside.
“The golf cart keys are in the kitchen,” Marmee reminds me, her gentle guidance restoring my sense of urgency.
“I’m locking your bedroom door,” I warn her before I leave. “Only open it for me.”