Chapter 31
Friday: The Night of the Party
Everyone gathers in the parlor, but no one interacts.
Preston drinks by the bar. Constance is still on the sofa, her foot elevated as much as possible with her swollen stomach.
Ava paces the room, cradling herself, refusing to look at me.
Damien stands by the fire, encouraging the flames with a stoker. Sparks rise like flares.
My nerves are ablaze now that Ava knows I killed Oliver.
Normally, she’s good at keeping secrets unless revealing them is part of some larger plan, like the way she roped Marmee into hosting tonight’s party without my approval.
But this discovery is too monumental, far more damning than some scandalous gossip.
I’ve murdered a man. Somehow, I have to keep tabs on Ava while trying to investigate Damien’s possible involvement.
I revisit the theory I unraveled to Ava moments ago, but there is no guarantee she’s willing to help me.
“Who’s going to tell Marlowe’s parents?” Constance asks, breaking the silence.
The pain in my chest is so visceral and biting, it’s hard to breathe.
Unlike the rest of us, with our complicated familial relationships, Marlowe always got along with her parents.
She was their only child. I visited them for Thanksgiving once, and it was the most flavorful turkey and dressing I’ve ever had.
That type of domestic perfection can be its own curse, in a way.
It’s why she was distraught after her divorce; she felt like a failure.
Her parents will be lost without her.
“Police will alert them,” Preston answers.
“Maybe it should be one of us,” Ava says, her voice frail, worrisome. She looks at Damien. “Did you meet them?”
“We were never that serious. I’m not going to inform them their daughter died.”
Ava and I lock eyes. Her stare is withered with shock and despondency, but there’s something else, a spark of curiosity. Suspicion. She must be considering what I said about Damien upstairs, clinging to the possibility that he’s involved.
“Earlier tonight, you said you weren’t supposed to be here this weekend,” Ava says to Damien. She’s fighting to keep a neutral tone. “What changed?”
“I was scheduled to speak at a conference down South. Plans fell through.”
This excuse piques my interest, sounds too similar to the lies Oliver used to spin. “Do you travel a lot for work?”
“Occasionally.” He raises his glass to his lips only to remember it’s empty. Annoyed, he clangs his glass against the bar top.
Ava seems to be analyzing his every word. Still staring at me, she says, “I could use a drink, too. Would Marmee mind if we grabbed a bottle from the wine cellar?”
“Of course not.” My relief that Ava is willing to interact with me, that she doesn’t completely hate me, is overwhelming. I choke back fresh tears. “She doesn’t care.”
“Come with me?” she says to Preston. “It’s creepy down there.”
“Sure.”
“I’ll come, too,” Damien says. Just like earlier in the night, he’s fascinated by Marmee’s house; Ava assumed he wouldn’t dismiss an opportunity to see more valuables. “I plan on drinking until this night is over.”
Concocting an excuse for him to leave was almost too easy. I wait for them to disappear around the corner, hear their footsteps descending the cellar stairs, then cozy up to Constance.
“Ava and I have a plan.”
“What do you mean?” she asks, shifting her leg to make room for me on the couch.
“We think Damien is the one who pushed Marlowe,” I say. “We’re going to search his room and see if there’s anything that can prove it.”
“What could possibly prove he pushed her?”
Ava had asked fewer questions, likely because she was stunned about Oliver, desperate for anything to take the edge off that discovery, but it’s Constance’s nature to probe and try to find meaning.
I can’t very well tell her my real objective, which is to see if he’s the person pretending to be Oliver, threatening me.
“We could find something that points to a motive. Before my tarot reading, Marlowe and Damien were arguing because he saw messages on her phone from Michael. I think it was a fight that escalated,” I say, glossing over details, both to save time and to put an end to the pestering questions.
“Maybe he has a reason to harm her we don’t know about. ”
Constance considers this, her brow furrowing. “If he wanted to hurt her, why do it here, of all places?”
In the movies, motive is simple. Most crimes can be sectioned into three categories: crimes of passion, pride, and greed.
The duo in Rope aims to flatter their egos by committing the perfect murder.
Unchecked jealousy and obsession influence the crimes in Vertigo and Psycho.
Money might be the biggest motivator, both in real life and on the screen.
Did Damien kill Marlowe to keep her from interfering with his blackmail plans, or did he have another motive?
“Maybe he wanted her death to look like an accident, and having an audience would help his story,” I say. “He never knew I was outside when she fell. No one did.”
Constance nods along. “What do you want me to do?”
“Keep him distracted.” I examine her injury, bright red bursts seeping through the gauze. “Complain about your foot. Maybe ask him to wrap it again. Anything to keep him downstairs.”
“What about Preston?”
“We don’t have time to explain everything to him,” I say. “Besides, he’s a shitty liar.”
Preston has the worst poker face. Once, he told me his high school coach punted him from the position of pitcher for that reason; batters could predict whether he was throwing a curveball or changeup based on his smirk.
Constance nods, agreeing to our plan. I move across the room so it doesn’t look like we’ve been talking.
Sure enough, the others emerge minutes later with a bottle of wine and a corkscrew. Preston and Damien attack the bottle greedily. After Ava receives a glass, we lock eyes. I take it as a signal she’s still willing to play along. Gratitude puddles inside my chest.
After making an excuse to head upstairs, we’re about to start our search, until I hear Marmee’s voice echoing through the halls.
“Tippi?” she calls from her wing of the house. “Is that you?”
I take a deep breath before retrieving my key to unlock the door, unable to ignore her, even amid chaos. Ava slips into the room behind me.
Marmee sits in her armchair, the crow cane beside her, as though she’s ready to get up at any moment.
“How are you feeling?” Ava’s voice exudes warmth. She’s always admired Marmee. Maybe if she isn’t capable of keeping my secret for my sake, she’ll be willing to do it for her.
“I’m worried about all of you,” she answers.
“You should be in bed,” I say.
“You can’t really think I’d go to sleep after everything that’s happened,” she says. “Tell me you were able to get ahold of someone at Mrs. Wilson’s cottage.”
“I called the police. They should arrive within the hour.”
Marmee’s eyes bounce between us, a quizzical look on her face.
“Tippi, is everything all right?”
My chest pains when I try to speak. Hiding my true intentions, especially to Marmee, is nearly impossible. Ava, beside me, rustles the skirt of her dress, declining to answer.
“Our best friend died, Marmee,” I say. “We’re just trying to cope.”
“I know, dear.” She pauses. “But you seem different.”
Oliver’s death is no longer a secret.
Ava knows what I’ve done.
I’m being blackmailed.
But I can’t tell her the truth. If Marmee knew what I did to Oliver, it would destroy her. She knows something is off. Something more than Marlowe’s death, which is monumental enough.
She leans forward, grabbing my hand. “You’ve done all you can do.”
That’s not true. There is more to be done. So much more. And I have less than an hour to do it.
“Are you sure you’re okay in here by yourself?” Ava asks her, bending to eye level.
“Fine, my dear.”
“I’ll let you know when the police arrive,” I say, closing the door behind me. I can’t stand the thought of her staring at me, seeing the best in me, one second longer.
Marlowe and Damien were given the Teal Room.
The wall color is predictable, a deep, jewel-toned hue.
Like other areas of the house, the main decorative element can be attributed to a bird.
Peacock feathers adorn various areas of the room, in a flower arrangement on the dresser, hanging in batches on the wall.
The vibrant colors opposite the sleek, ominous crow.
“Where should we start?” Ava asks. Her determination catches me by surprise. I only insisted on Ava’s participation to keep her close.
“We’ll go through their bags,” I say. “I’ll search Damien’s, if you want to look through Marlowe’s stuff.”
“That feels wrong,” Ava says, eyes drifting over the bags on the bed.
“Damien could have hidden something in there.”
She nods, walking around to Marlowe’s side of the bed, and unzips the light blue weekender bag. On the opposite side, I find the duffel I saw Damien holding on the porch earlier in the night and begin my search.
“There’s a note,” Ava says, after only a few moments.
My blood runs cold. It could be a fourth message. Another threat.
“It’s to me.” Her response catches me by surprise. “From Marlowe. Her handwriting and everything.”
Ava grips the paper in her hands, mirroring her discovery moments ago. She sits on the bed. I glance over her shoulder at the envelope, recognize Marlowe’s hurried scrawl instantly, and relief falls over me.
“That’s strange,” I say, returning to Damien’s bag, my original mission renewed.
“I don’t understand. Marlowe wrote me a letter. This is weird, right? It’s your party. If she was going to bring something, you’d think it would be for you.” Ava’s voice cracks. “What if Preston was right? What if Marlowe’s death wasn’t an accident. If she—”
Ava can’t bring herself to finish the sentence. Marlowe, so full of bravery and fervor, would never end her own life, would she? I’m certain of it.
“Marlowe didn’t want to die,” I say. “Someone killed her.”
A noise from downstairs captures my attention, followed by voices. It worries me that someone is coming. Perhaps Constance can’t stall Damien any longer. This could be my only chance to search through his belongings.
“Ava, I know how important this is, but I have to keep looking.”
I turn my back on her, wanting to use what little time I have left.
All Damien has brought is the duffel bag.
I open it, sifting through a change of clothes and a Ziploc bag full of toiletries.
The other pocket holds chargers and a few medications, anything you’d expect a person to pack for a weekend away. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Unsatisfied, I continue searching, seeing if it’s possible he stored something else in the room, away from his things. I slide out the drawers in the nightstand. Empty. I reach under the mattress, feeling to see if something has been stored there, and that’s when I feel it.
Hard material. Rectangular shape. A cell phone.
My heart beats faster as I hold down the power button, waiting for the phone to wake. The tension in my body builds until I think I might explode.
Finally, the screen illuminates, and I’m greeted with my own picture. The photograph was taken on the day of our engagement in this very house.
Damien has Oliver’s phone. The one that was stolen from my apartment at the beginning of the week.
I’d put his remaining personal items—his phone, his wallet, and the engraved Rolex—into a box.
Criminals aren’t always stupid. They’re human.
Adrenaline and paranoia and exhaustion clouding the ability to think clearly.
In my haste to get rid of the body and clean up the crime scene, those last few belongings became an afterthought, something I vowed to get rid of later.
I’d planned on dropping them off at a dumpster between the city and Marmee’s estate.
Someone broke into my apartment before I had the chance.
“What the fuck!” Ava shouts from behind me.
She must be as disturbed by the discovery as I am. If Damien has Oliver’s phone, it confirms he’s the person who left the messages. He’s the person who has a photo of me disposing of Oliver’s body. The blackmailer.
But Ava isn’t looking at me or the phone. She’s staring at the letter in her hands, shock and confusion written across her face.
“Ava, what is it?”
Her expression disturbs me to the point I almost forget about the phone.
“This doesn’t…I don’t…”
She can’t finish her thoughts. Shaking fingers fumble the note, the paper floating to the floor. Ava storms out of the room, muffled sobs following her down the hallway.
Sliding Oliver’s phone into my pocket, I turn my attention to the letter resting on the carpet. I retrieve it nervously, afraid of what it might say yet drawn to the contents.
I begin to read:
Dear Ava,
I apologize for not telling you the truth sooner. I wanted you to hear this from the people responsible and not me.
Constance and Preston are having an affair. I learned about it weeks ago during Tippi’s bridesmaids’ dress fitting. I should have told you about it the moment I found out, but I didn’t know how.
This news has devastated me; I can only imagine how you must feel. Know that I love you and am here for you. I’m on your side, always.
—Marlowe