Chapter 27
I sit on the edge of the bed with my head in my hands, listening to Marie vacuum the life out of that office. An hour later, I hear her walk past my bedroom and up to her rooms.
I count to ten, then open the door a crack. The house is eerily silent. I take off my shoes and tiptoe down the stairs.
I unlock the office door, close it behind me.
I am on my hands and knees like a cartoonish detective, examining every inch of that floor.
I check every floorboard, every corner, I look under the rug, mentally chastising Marie for not vacuuming under the edges.
I check the shelves, look behind books, I look in the most unlikely of places, I even look inside the vase of roses I put on the windowsill every other morning.
“Are you looking for something?”
I look up. Marie is leaning against the doorjamb, her arms crossed over her chest. Interestingly, she doesn’t ask how I got in. I stand and pretend to brush dust off my knees. “I lost an earring. Did you find anything vacuuming earlier?”
“An earring? No. What did it look like?”
“Small, black square, very modern.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“All right, well, thank you, Marie.” I brush my hair out of my face. “Oh, by the way, would you like to get a facial today?”
She looks at me with suspicion. “Why?”
“Because I have an appointment for one in…” I check my watch. “Fifteen minutes, but I don’t feel up to it so I was going to cancel. I know how much you enjoy your massages so you can have my facial if you want.”
She ponders the question. “Maybe.”
I walk past her to the hallway, fish around my purse, and pull out some cash. “Six hundred dollars. Keep the change. It’s at the spa on Rodeo Drive.”
Once she’s gone, I run to the utility closet. I open the vacuum cleaner and pull out the bag. If the thumb drive is not in the office, it must be in the vacuum bag.
I take the bag out the back door and down the gated side path to where the trash cans are.
The bag is only half full and I squeeze it with my fingers, moving around its bulk, trying to feel for the thumb drive, but I can’t feel it.
The drive is so small, and the bag might only be half-full, but it’s still very dense.
I leave the bag on top of the trash and go into the garden shed.
I rummage around until I find gloves and a pair of kitchen scissors.
I carefully open the bag over the trash can.
Then, I plunge my hand into that disgusting mess of dust and hair and God knows what.
I pull out handfuls of dust, thinning it through my fingers and dropping it in the can.
I keep doing that until I reach the bottom of the bag.
That can’t be right. It has to be in there.
Could I have missed it? No. It’s small, but it’s not microscopic, and I was very thorough.
I turn it upside down over the grass, just in case, but I know it’s no use.
Maybe I missed it back in the office. Or…
Or Roy already found it. He doesn’t realize it’s the drive with Deborah’s video.
Yet.
I pick up what’s left of the bag, toss it in the trash can, and close it. Then, as I turn to walk back to the house, I catch something in the top window of Meredith’s house.
I squint at the window. It’s the only window high enough to see over the ficus hedges. I let out a sigh. If that was Meredith, she got herself an eyeful. No doubt she’ll be telling the harpies how I rummage through my own trash in my spare time.
She’s really not one of us, is she. Probably looking for cans to cash in.
I brush grass off my knees. I have to talk to Erin.
When I go back inside, I find she has texted back.
I’d love to. Do you want to meet at the cafe again? 2pm?
I type my reply.
Yes. Thank you so much.
“He killed her.”
Erin and I are back in the same café. I ordered a slice of chocolate cake but now that it’s here, I find I have no appetite. I push the plate away and look up. Erin is staring at me with big round eyes, her jaw slack.
She blinks a few times. “I’m sorry?”
“He killed her. My husband killed his first wife.”
I stir some sugar into my coffee. My hand is trembling, and my spoon jitters against the sides.
“Are you serious?”
“I’m always serious. I wouldn’t know a joke if it hit me in the face.
Are you okay, Erin? You look a little pale.
I’m sorry if I’ve shocked you but I just really need to talk to someone about this, and I couldn’t think who to call because everyone I know knows my husband, except you.
I mean, I have my own friends, of course.
Amy and Nora and Abigail, but they’re sick of hearing me talking about this. ”
“Okay…” she says slowly.
“Maybe I should have waited for you to finish your coffee before I blurted it out,” I say, my elbows on the table, my face in my hands.
“No. Not at all. Perhaps start from the beginning?”
“Yes, all right.” I cross my arms on the table. “Remember how I told you that my husband’s first wife killed herself?”
“Yes…”
“She didn’t.”
“Okay…” She clasps her hands together on the table and moves her chair forward. “So what do you think happened?”
“He killed her.”
“You think he killed her?” she asks in hushed tones.
“I know he killed her.”
“How?”
I take a breath. “You’re right. I guess I should start at the beginning.”