Chapter 43
After
Gretchen
Mikey and Gretchen were seated in the living room. He’d asked to speak to Gretchen alone, without Elizabeth, who’d complied with surprisingly little fuss. Becks wasn’t home, hadn’t been home for hours, even though Gretchen had texted several times. She needed to speak with him.
“First off, I’m here as Richard’s attorney,” Mikey began. “But also as yours.”
“Why would I need a lawyer?”
The men. Oh, she had a bad feeling now. Yes, that man had claimed he’d had nothing to do with what happened. But who knew what was true?
Mikey pulled a document from his briefcase.
“This is just a precaution. For confidentiality purposes. Don’t want anyone trying to argue that something you tell me isn’t privileged because I’m not your lawyer.
” He placed the paper on her Cézanne coffee-table book and handed her a pen. “It’s a retainer agreement.”
“Yes. I understand,” she said, panic rising in her throat as she quickly signed. She returned the pen to him. “Now can you tell me what this is about?”
“Okay. I need you to listen carefully,” he said. He seemed to be steeling himself. “The DNA on Richard’s pants is not back yet. But when it does come back, which will be soon, it’s going to match Frankie Callahan’s. It’s her DNA, Gretchen.”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying.” Bang, bang, bang went her heart. “Did—did Richard say he was there?”
“Yes. He was there, but he did not kill her.” Mikey held eye contact with Gretchen. There was something careful about it—gentle and firm—like he was holding her upright with the force of his gaze. “He was in her apartment that night.”
“Oh my God.” Gretchen clamped a hand over her mouth.
Mikey held up a palm like a stop sign. “It’s not what it sounds like. When he arrived, she was already dead.”
“That’s what he told you?”
“Yes, and I believe him. And to be honest, I don’t always believe my clients,” he said. “Anyway, that’s why her blood is on his pants. It’s extremely damaging evidence, obviously. Regardless of how it got there.”
Gretchen felt like she might retch. “This is not happening.”
“It’s going to be okay,” Mikey said, though even he didn’t sound convinced. “The important thing is that he didn’t do it, Gretchen.”
“Stop saying my name!” she shouted, regretting it immediately. “I’m sorry. It’s just making me feel…worse.”
“It’s okay,” Mikey said. He was quiet then, leaving Gretchen at a loss. But at least he didn’t tell her to breathe or stay calm or make any of the usual infuriating suggestions.
“I’m sorry, but this is…” Facts. That was what mattered now. “What does this…mean?”
“We need to use whatever you know to help Richard while still keeping you out of harm’s way. I promise.”
What did he mean? Keep her out of harm’s way?
* * *
Richard and Gretchen had been married for ten years when Richard finally tried to put his foot down. He wanted to celebrate Christmas in their home, with their own Christmas tree. He wanted to start building their own traditions. After all, they had two children now.
“Next year,” Gretchen had said as she did every year. “I promise.”
This was a lie. Nothing he said would ever change the fact that they needed to go home for the holidays.
To her childhood home. Her parents expected it.
It was expected in general. Richard didn’t have his own family to visit, which, in the early years, had made the matter slightly less complicated.
But he wasn’t especially comfortable in Greenwich, with all the social obligations that accompanied spending the holiday there—Christmas dinner for thirty, the cocktail party at the club, and the annual caroling party at the Finches’.
It was all a little over-the-top. Gretchen could see that. Certainly, these kinds of celebrations were not as fancy elsewhere, but Richard didn’t seem to understand that these gatherings were what it meant to be part of a community, a family.
From the moment they arrived in Greenwich this particular year, everything had felt slightly off.
The girls had been cranky, and Richard’s mind seemed to be elsewhere.
On the night of the caroling, Gretchen had a bad feeling when her father started drinking hours before.
It was always something of a boozy affair, but this year he was fully drunk before cocktails had even begun.
“Drunk and oppositional”—that was what her mother always called it, as if he were a toddler.
But that was downplaying matters. Her father was extremely nasty when he was drunk, picking fights with anyone he could find.
Men, usually. But not this year. This year his focus was on Gretchen.
“Why did we even send you to Dartmouth?” he’d asked as they gathered in the foyer, bundling into their coats while the cars idled in the driveway.
The Finches lived only a few houses down, but it was a freezing-cold night, so her parents’ drivers would take them. Gretchen knew the extravagance drove Richard to absolute distraction. Who doesn’t drive their own car?
“What are you talking about, dear?” her mother asked, though only an idiot would have missed that this line of conversation wasn’t worth pursuing.
Her father had been picking on Gretchen all night.
Her hair, her clothing, the baby weight.
That last one a joke about the price Richard had to pay for children—losing his wife’s figure.
Richard had glared at him before turning to Gretchen, who had motioned to let it go.
But Richard didn’t approve of ignoring her father’s “oppositional” behavior.
Easy for him to say when his own drunk father was long gone.
Her father’s face was flushed as he leaned back against the wall, coat on, highball in hand. “I’m saying, look at her.” Gretchen was crouched down, zipping Elizabeth’s jacket. “Breeding doesn’t require an education.”
Gretchen had closed her eyes and kept her back to him. Would Cassandra and Elizabeth remember this? The moment when her father spoke to her that way, and she let him? But the two girls were obliviously giggling.
“Hey, Chad,” Richard said. His voice crackled with anger. “Talk to my wife like that again, and I will level you.”
Her father laughed. “How dare you—”
“And you won’t get back up.”
Her father left her alone for the rest of the evening. It wasn’t until they were being driven back to the house, the children asleep, that they spoke of it.
“We don’t have to go back inside,” Richard had said.
“We could get in our car with the kids and go home.” He hesitated, took her hand, and squeezed it until she looked at him.
“We could leave our life behind there, too, if you want. Start new.” And when Gretchen turned to look at him, his eyes were so hopeful.
Gretchen felt like she might cry. “Leave behind your whole career and our apartment and all the children’s friends?”
He nodded, his eyes filled with love. “All I’ve ever needed was you.”
* * *
“Gretchen,” Mikey said, drawing her attention back to their conversation. “Richard told me about the spray paint.” His eyebrows were raised expectantly. He clearly believed this was the moment Gretchen was going to fill in some sort of gap.
“What spray paint?” Cluelessness could be an art, in and of itself.
“Apparently, someone broke into Frankie Callahan’s studio and vandalized it.” He paused. “Richard told us he found cans of spray paint and other related items in your home. He suggested you might know something about the damage?”
“He thinks I broke into her art studio and vandalized it? Me?” He was right: She wasn’t just going to sit there. But vandalism?
Mikey’s gaze was unwavering, and disconcerting.
“He doesn’t know, Gretchen. The only explanation he could come up with was that you must have…
” He paused. “When Richard went to Frankie’s apartment the night she was killed and saw what had happened, he panicked.
Because he was concerned that maybe…” He nodded at Gretchen.
Becks. He’d been following Richard and Frankie. Becks whose troublemaking friend Luke lived with “street artists.” No. No. No.
“Gretchen?” Mikey pressed.
“He thought that I…” She couldn’t even finish the sentence. “Unbelievable.”
“To be clear, he started trying to clean up only because he was trying to protect you. So the blood on his pants is Frankie’s.
That’s also why he panicked when the police turned their attention to you, why he started making incriminating statements.
He was concerned there was something to cover up. ”
“Did he move her body?” Gretchen asked softly.
“God, no.” Mikey waved a hand. “When he got there, the door was open and there was blood everywhere, but no body. She had already been moved.” He hesitated as if to give her another opportunity to explain what had happened.
Did Mikey Pearce actually suspect her? “In any case, the police don’t seem to know about the studio damage yet.
But surely Frankie told someone other than Richard.
So if you’re saying it wasn’t you, it would be helpful to tell the police. ”
“Fine. It was me,” she said. “We will need to keep that to ourselves.”
—
It took forever for Mikey Pearce to leave.
He wouldn’t stop with questions to which there were no safe answers; it was with no small amount of relief that Gretchen finally saw him to the elevator.
She was heading upstairs when the doorman called up again.
A moment later, Deborah was in the foyer.
She had on a long-sleeved pink dress with huge white flowers, a Zabar’s tote bag over her shoulder, and a casserole dish in her hands.
“Lasagna,” Deborah said, smiling sheepishly as she stepped into the foyer. “It’s ridiculous. You must have someone who cooks for you. The last thing you need is my lasa—”