Chapter 10
BERNIE
The first thing Bernie did when she got to her bedroom at Villa Pines was remove a glass vial from the inner pocket of her suitcase.
Then she pulled back the bedcovers and shook the contents of the vial onto the sheets.
After snapping a few photos with her phone, she gently swept the dead bedbugs into a tissue, which she deposited in the trash.
A refund on the booking from Airbnb was now all but guaranteed, not that she planned on telling anyone.
She already had her eye on the new leather jacket she’d buy with the money the other women had transferred her for their share of the accommodations.
Of course, she could afford to buy the jacket on the strength of her own salary, but wasn’t it more fun this way?
Bernie sank into one of the cushy armchairs that faced the floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the lake. Her bedroom, the only one on the upper floor, was also the only one with its own sitting area. She smiled as she gazed at the water, wondering what the weekend would hold.
It was clear that Marta was barely keeping it together—understandable since Derrick had been missing for nearly two weeks and the police weren’t taking his disappearance all that seriously.
But what on earth had possessed her to go away on a girls’ weekend at such a time?
Bernie certainly didn’t put too much stock in social conventions, but even she thought it was odd that Marta had chosen to join them instead of staying home, despite having permission to go out of town.
Imogen was all wound up, her mental state apparent from her short fuse and frayed cuticles.
And then there was Celeste, who appeared to have some kind of unspoken tension with Imogen.
Bernie had noticed that Celeste kept studying Imogen when she thought no one was watching; years of observing others had made Bernie finely attuned to this kind of behaviour.
All three women were doing their best to act normal, but Bernie could practically see the tears in the fabric of their lives, the popping of stitches that held together their privileged reality.
Witnessing this unravelling delighted her in much the same way as when she made a perfectly precise incision to expose a beating heart.
There was a bubble of raised voices from the kitchen, so Bernie decided it was time to go join her friends.
After surprising the group with the champagne, she took a small sip from her glass, mentally patting herself on the back for doing the booze run.
It was self-preservation, really, as the other girls were not to be trusted.
Imogen was cheap and had bad taste, Marta loved organic hippie shit, and if Celeste were in charge, they’d have been drinking straight vodka all weekend.
Celeste, Celeste, Celeste. What a naughty girl.
When Celeste dropped her phone—still open to her most recent text thread—Bernie had the perfect opportunity to see what she’d been up to, and she was surprised to see who Celeste was messaging.
Bernie thought back to the times she’d checked her door-cam app and seen Celeste arriving at Imogen’s house when Imogen was out.
Bernie had assumed that Celeste was dropping by the home office to do administrative work for the ITFF, but it appeared she’d been mistaken. That was at least one mystery solved.
Bernie refilled everyone’s glass but her own then raised her flute in a toast. “To the Murder Mamas! True crime, all the time.” Bernie found the group’s name cringeworthy, but she knew that Celeste was proud of having come up with it.
“If there was ever a group of women that could get away with murder, this would be it.” All the women laughed with her, clinked glasses, and took a sip—or, in Celeste’s case, a slug—of their champagne.
Bernie peered at Imogen over her glass as she drank, noting the subtle but sour twist of her lips, then scanned the others: Marta, fragile and pale; Celeste, distracted and fidgety.
Bernie’s own face was a carefully composed mask of conviviality (modelled on Phoebe from Friends): relaxed forehead, easy grin.
She winked when Imogen caught her eye, and Imogen flinched, almost imperceptibly, before tossing her a cheeky wink back.
Everyone agreed when Marta proposed moving the party outdoors.
The women took their glasses, snacks, and a bottle of wine outside to the firepit and settled into the Muskoka chairs, which were arranged in a horseshoe facing the water.
Marta puttered around with kindling and matches and got a good blaze going.
Bernie sighed in contentment—she loved the smell of woodsmoke.
By now, the lake was bands of light to dark blue and the sky was beginning to crisp up at the horizon.
After oohing and aahing over their surroundings, the group fell quiet.
The only sounds were the lapping of the water against the rocks, the crackle of kindling, and the rustling of wind through the leaves.
After a few minutes, Celeste broke the silence, her words smudged around the edges with champagne and Cab Sauv.
“Marta, can I ask you a serious question?” She didn’t wait for permission.
“Do you think Derrick left?” Celeste worried her heart locket between her thumb and forefinger.
“Or, I guess what I’m really asking is . . . do you think he’s alive?”
The question hung in the air, oppressive and heady as woodsmoke, while the crackling of burning logs intimated violence. Bernie noticed that Imogen twitched whenever there was a particularly sharp pop.
Bernie stopped herself from giggling by biting the inside of her left cheek.
She had a knot of scar tissue there from the number of times she’d relied on this move throughout the years.
Celeste could be a pain in the ass, but she certainly had her moments, and this was one of them.
Sometimes Bernie couldn’t believe that she was the one with the supposed personality disorder, when people like Celeste felt free to speak so directly.
“I don’t know.” Marta had tears in her voice.
“I’m just hoping for the best . . . but it’s been hard.
I’m on an indefinite leave from the bookstore, and I can’t seem to do anything except wait for the police to call or for him to walk through the door.
When I’m in our house, I just feel like I’m going crazy .
. . Honestly, it’s the biggest reason I decided to come away this weekend.
The walls started closing in on me—I’ve actually had more than one panic attack.
The first time it happened, I thought I was having a stroke or something, but the ER doctor told me I was presenting with classic panic symptoms. I just can’t stand being alone right now. ”
Bernie studied Marta’s face, the messy knot on top of her head, the straggles of hair held back with a mustard headband.
She wondered if Marta could ever be the type of person who makes a televised plea for the safe return of their loved one when they’ve secretly dropped said loved one over the side of a fishing boat.
Not that Derrick’s case was getting any media attention; a middle-aged man walking out on his wife hardly commanded the kind of play that a blond jogger snatched from the side of the road would attract.
Marta let out a bitter laugh. “And the house has been a disaster since Derrick disappeared . . . I’m about one feral cat away from being featured on an episode of Hoarders.”
Now this was an interesting development, because that certainly wasn’t how Bernie would have described the state of Marta’s home .
. . not that Marta was aware that Bernie had visited her.
It was good fortune she’d ended up with Marta’s house key when she did—it was one of her favourite tricks, but she didn’t pull it often. The moment had to be exactly right.
The first time, years ago, it had been totally spontaneous.
Bernie was out for drinks with three med school friends.
Abdi was at the bar getting the next round, Leah and Deva were in line for the washroom, and Bernie was holding down the table, sipping lukewarm Steam Whistle from a green bottle.
Leah’s purse was open on her chair, house keys spilling out.
The idea came to her in a flash. After a quick look around—Abdi was still trying to get the bartender’s attention, no sign of the girls—Bernie decided the coast was clear.
She scooped the keys out of Leah’s bag, quickly removed one of the keys from the key ring, and replaced it with a key of her own (the one for a back door that she never used).
These days, Bernie kept a small selection of spare keys in a zippered pocket of her purse, in the event that an opportunity presented itself.
As it had two months ago, when Marta hosted book club.
That night, Bernie had noticed Marta’s key ring sitting in a felt container on the hall table, right across from the washroom.
Later in the evening—as the other women were discussing Murder in the Bayou—Bernie made the swap while sitting on the toilet.
She jammed her thumbnail into the key ring, removed the front door key, and replaced it with a look-alike (silver with a square head).
Looking at it, you’d never know the difference.
The following evening, Marta texted the group chat with a CRAZY story.
Bernie rolled her eyes when she received the message.
Is it really all-caps crazy? Apparently, Marta hadn’t been able to get into the house when she returned home from work and she’d had to wait for Derrick to come and let her in.
His key worked, so they figured that hers had gotten bent out of shape somehow and they had a new key made and didn’t change the lock.
Bernie added Marta’s key to her treasure bowl.
Almost two weeks ago, Bernie had been at home on a day off, revelling in how calm the house was with the twins gone.
Her ex-husband had them until the following evening, and she was tempted to let him keep them longer, but no, that would make him too happy, and it might jeopardize her position on the child support he owed her; better to stick to the agreed-upon schedule.
Bernie made herself a smoothie, then showered off the sweat from her kick-boxing class.
Wrapped in a towel, she entered her walk-in closet to pick out an outfit.
As she scanned her options, she idly opened the door-cam app on her phone and pressed Play on a video file that was time-stamped five minutes ago.
Bernie watched Marta walk up to Imogen’s front door.
After a moment, Imogen greeted Marta with a hug, and they both went inside.
This was an opportunity. Bernie threw on a pair of yoga pants and her favourite fleece zip-up, then rummaged around in her treasure bowl.
Bingo. She skipped down the stairs. On her way out of the house, she snagged a potted orchid—a gift from a grateful patient—and hugged it against her chest. Always a good idea to bring a prop to support the cover story.
Marta’s house was technically a twenty-five-minute drive, but Bernie made it in fifteen, blowing through several stop signs because those streets were never busy.
She knew that if she was ever pulled over, she could easily rely on her hospital pass to explain her hurry.
Bernie figured she had at least half an hour before Marta came home, and she planned on using all of it.
After parking around the corner from Marta’s house, Bernie approached the front door, cradling the orchid in the crook of her arm.
The key, which she’d never tested before, worked perfectly.
Once inside, Bernie set down the flower pot on the hall table.
Walking through the main floor of the house, she hummed to herself and sniffed the air.
A lingering chemical smell hit the back of her throat.
At the threshold to the kitchen, she stopped short.
It was different from how she remembered it, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.
Maybe a new paint job. It was unusual that Marta hadn’t mentioned it, though, her life was so boring—at least it had been until her husband disappeared.
A home reno was exactly the kind of thing she’d want to share, as if anyone else cared whether her cabinets were painted eggshell, pearl, or bone white.
Bernie helped herself to a drink of orange juice from the carton in the fridge as she leaned against the kitchen counter and looked around the tidy room.
Every surface was sparkling clean and the dishes in the drying rack were neatly stacked.
The only thing that stuck out to her as odd was that there was a fresh bouquet of dahlias poking out of the garbage can.
After replacing the juice carton, Bernie went upstairs to Marta and Derrick’s bedroom.
A faded quilt covered the neatly made bed and the squished-in pillows looked like they’d seen better days, but the overall impression was cozy and inviting.
Bernie opened the folding doors to a shared closet and stared inside, wondering whether Marta would eventually get rid of Derrick’s things.
The two sides of the bed were easily identifiable.
On Marta’s bedside table there was an orderly array of lotions, lip balm, and a copy of Behold the Monster (their book club read for the retreat—no surprise that Marta had already started reading it).
Derrick’s side looked as though it hadn’t been touched since the last time he’d slept at home.
A handful of coins spilled out around his lamp, a book on willpower was open face down, and a used Kleenex was crumpled in the corner.
A glint of gold, half-hidden under the tissue, caught Bernie’s eye; like a barracuda, she was drawn to shiny things.
When she returned to her own home, Bernie deposited Derrick’s class ring into her treasure bowl, nestling it between a baby soother and a blue toy car.
Bernie stared into the flames of the bonfire as she thought about Marta’s lovingly stocked fridge, clean dishes, gleaming bathroom, tidily made bed, and carefully folded clothing. Why does she want us to believe she’s a mess?