Chapter 35
MARTA
Marta mentally rehearsed what she needed to say, running it on a loop through her mind.
There was an officer on his way to take their statements at the marina, and just thinking about it made her feel like she needed to pee.
The OPP marine unit had already set out to look for Celeste, but they were searching in the opposite direction from the dump site.
The cheap coffee from the marina tuck shop scorched Marta’s throat as she chugged it down between bites of blueberry muffin.
Caffeine and sugar were the only things keeping her upright.
She clutched the Styrofoam cup tightly with both hands, welcoming the heat against her stinging palms. Bernie sat nearby, cross-legged on a bench and listening to a meditation, while Imogen throttled her phone in a death grip, text-ing furiously.
Marta swallowed another bitter mouthful as her stomach gargled in protest.
They hadn’t gotten back to the cottage until almost four o’clock in the morning.
Shivering, sore, and completely depleted, Marta was shaky on her legs when she got out of the paddleboat.
The rain had stopped by then, but Marta felt as though her hair would be forever plastered to her scalp.
There was a moment’s panic when Imogen wondered aloud whether any of Celeste’s blood might be visible on the tarp, prompting all three women to reflexively pat their pockets for their cellphones before remembering they’d left them in the cottage so as not to create any kind of potential GPS trail.
Marta grabbed the flashlight she’d left on the dock and shone it on the tarp.
“It’s no good in the dark,” said Bernie. “Let’s bring it in. We’ll have to do a thorough check in the morning.”
Inside the cottage, Marta stood with Bernie and Imogen in the kitchen, all of them dripping wet on the tile floor.
Marta’s feet were pickled and her hands had fresh blisters on the thumbs and across her palms. On the kitchen island, a gossip magazine was splayed open like an accusation, all lurid colours and screamy headlines.
Marta could vividly picture Celeste sitting on a bar stool and flipping through the pages, laughing as she shared bits of celebrity gossip.
She blinked her gritty eyes to clear the image.
Standing there with Bernie and Imogen, a strange sensation washed over Marta, a feeling of quiet solidarity.
She’d just done a terrible, terrible thing, but at least she wasn’t alone.
Her emotions like oil and vinegar, Marta wanted to hug them both and, at the same time, she never wanted to see them again.
“Let’s go over it one more time before bed,” said Bernie.
“I know the plan, I came up with most of it,” Imogen snipped.
“Once more can’t hurt,” said Marta, wanting to avoid a fight.
“We tell Rick that Celeste is missing. The last time we saw her was earlier tonight, when she went out for a twilight paddle. It was already getting dark and we told her not to go, but she insisted. She told us she’d be back in time for dinner. Imm, tell us what time she left?”
Imogen sighed and crossed her arms over her chest, shivering.
“Fine. But if I don’t get in the shower soon, I’m going to collapse.
Celeste left around quarter to seven. And I know it was around then, because I checked the time and told her she only had about twenty minutes before it got dark, so she should hurry back.
” Imogen gestured at Celeste’s cellphone, which sat beside the magazine.
“If it ever comes to it, the time stamp on the message we sent Milly from Celeste’s phone should confirm our story, even if the text doesn’t go through until much later. ”
“Right. Moving on—she’d been drinking all day,” Bernie chimed in. “We were all pretty tipsy and it wasn’t the safest thing for her to take the kayak out on her own, but none of us stopped her. We were all doing our own thing. I went for a nap, Marta was cooking— What did you make?”
“A pasta,” said Marta. She had, indeed, made spaghetti earlier that evening, and eaten several portions. Most of which had ended up in the lake.
“—and I was reading a book in the enclosed porch area,” said Imogen. “None of us realized that she hadn’t come back until Marta announced that dinner was ready—that was before eight o’clock.”
“We went outside and searched the island, but we couldn’t find her,” said Bernie. “We got worried.”
“We stood on the dock and shouted her name into the dark,” intoned Marta. “We even took the paddleboat out, called her name from the water, but nothing.”
Imogen took over to finish. “We made a campfire so she’d have a beacon of light if she was still out there. We stayed up late, hoping she’d make it back. Got up early to see if we could flag a boat down, but Rick was the first person to arrive. That’s it. I’m going to go shower.”
“And . . .” Bernie prompted, raising her eyebrows. “Come on. This part’s easy because it’s true, but we need to make sure to mention it: None of us were getting cell service and the land line didn’t work. There was no way for us to get help.”
“They’re not going to treat us like suspects, Bern.
” Imogen sounded as if she’d run out of patience somewhere on the lake.
“Our friend went missing in a kayak. Of course, we need to have our stories straight on when she disappeared, but other than that, it’s not like we’re going to be interrogated. ”
“You don’t know that,” said Bernie. “All I’m asking is that we take this seriously. I’m covering for one of you, and I’m not going to let you fuck me on this.”
“Shut up. For all I know, it was you. Nobody fucks anyone on this. God.” Imogen raised her voice and barked out the last word.
“Let’s meet back here at dawn—we need natural light.
Rick’s not coming until, what, ten? That gives us lots of time to check the tarp and do anything else.
I’m done.” She stalked out of the kitchen.
Marta didn’t want to be alone with Bernie—didn’t want to be alone with either one of them—so she quickly followed Imogen down the hallway to the bedrooms. She stripped out of her wet clothes, bundled herself into her pajamas, and wrapped herself in the covers, trying to get warm.
Under the thick duvet, Marta suddenly felt the fear she’d been outpacing pounce on her like a cougar, pinning her to the mattress by the throat.
There’s no lock on my door. Imogen or Bernie could come into her room at any time and .
. . Marta broke free from her paralysis and launched herself upright.
She scanned the room, her eyes falling on the writing desk under the window.
It wasn’t until she’d jammed the chair under the door handle that she felt she was safe.
Adrenalin still sloshing through her, Marta got back into bed and turned onto her side, facing away from Celeste’s empty bed.
But she couldn’t steer her mind away from the horrors of the day, and her thoughts careened around like drunk teenagers on a fatal joyride.
Either Imogen or Bernie had killed Celeste; that was the raw truth of it.
It terrified Marta that she was unable to tell which one of them had done it—they were both too convincing in their denials and demeanour—and this made her question how well she’d ever known either of them.
But what disturbed her more than anything was how easily she’d gone along with the plan.
This is who I am now. Marta did not sleep at all.
Around seven, she got out of bed. Her shoulders and back ached from paddling, her hands throbbed, and it felt as though her brain had been pulverized with a meat tenderizer.
She made her way to the kitchen, following the scent of coffee brewing, where she found Bernie up and dressed.
Imogen entered moments later, and Bernie poured them each a cup of coffee.
All three women sipped in silence, looking out the windows at the lake.
The sky had cleared after almost two days of rain, and the sun stretched out in a golden arc above the horizon, setting the lake aflame.
But Marta’s attention was pulled from the glorious sunrise to the remnants of the previous night: the mud splatter on the floor, the swipe of grime on the kitchen island, the folded tarp by the screen door.
Celeste’s absence was an abscess in the group.
Marta downed the rest of her coffee in a few quick swallows, anxious to get on with the day.
It was clear she wasn’t the only one; Imogen was tapping her fingers on the counter and Bernie was already washing out her mug.
After they checked the tarp—no visible bloodstains—Bernie returned it to the boathouse, while Marta cleaned up the kitchen.
Imogen, meanwhile, was charged with checking the back of the paddleboat and the area where Celeste’s body had lain.
Bernie and Marta joined her after finishing their respective tasks.
Imogen was on her knees, squinting at the ground.
“I don’t see anything. The rain washed everything away.
” Marta scanned the rocky area, flashing back to the previous morning: Celeste’s unmoving form, her pasty white skin, the crackles of blood on her neck.
Marta hoped the flow of painful memories would eventually scab over, but for now her mind was an open wound.
Marta rummaged in her purse for her wallet so she could buy a brownie from the marina tuck shop.
Dessert in hand, she went outside to the dock that led to the jetty.
Marta pulled her cellphone out of her pocket to check the time—surely the officer would arrive soon and they could finally go home—and she noticed the voice mail icon.
Apparently, she’d missed a call earlier that weekend when she didn’t have service.
The message was from a number Marta didn’t recognize, but it shared the first several digits with the number she’d been using to correspond with the officers investigating Derrick’s disappearance.
She used one hand to pop chunks of brownie into her mouth, swallowing the bites without tasting them, while the other held her phone in a vise, tightening her grip as she listened.
As soon as the message played through, she went back to the menu and played it again, and then again.
Her throat closed up and a sweat patch formed on her lower back.
After one final listen, Marta hung up and stuffed the phone into her back pocket, crouching down as a flood of sour saliva announced that the battle between the blueberry muffin and the chocolate brownie was over.
In three waves, she emptied the contents of her stomach into the lake for the second time in less than twelve hours.
The current carried her sick away, attracting the attention of a seagull who dove down to investigate.
A sudden hand on her upper back startled Marta so much she almost tipped forward into the water.
“Babe! Oh no, look, you got some in your hair.” Imogen gestured at a fleck of vomit trapped in a stray curl near Marta’s chin. “Here, I brought you some water. You can rinse that off and get the taste out of your mouth.”
Marta took the bottle from Imogen without looking at her, flinching as their hands brushed.
If there had been anything left inside her, she would have been sick again.
She downed the water then sat with her head in her hands, her whole body shaking with silent tears.
Imogen knelt beside her, patting her back.
“I know, babe, I know. It’s so scary that she’s missing.
” Imogen lightly touched Marta’s chin, raising it so that Marta was looking her in the eyes.
“All we can do is hope they find her, right?” Marta blinked back her tears and nodded her understanding of Imogen’s silent message.
Stick to the story. Imogen trilled her fingers twice against Marta’s shoulder then stood, offering her a hand up.
Marta waved her off. “I’m going to stay out here for now. If I go back inside, I think I’ll be sick again.” If I have to be anywhere near you, I know I’ll be sick again.
“Suit yourself,” said Imogen, calm and collected, as if the nightmare of the past thirty-six hours hadn’t penetrated her shellacked exterior.
Meanwhile, thoughts of Celeste splashed around like acid in Marta’s head, ruining everything they bumped up against, contaminating all the good memories of book club.
With Imogen back inside the marina’s main building, Marta stayed where she was and pulled out her phone again.
Should she return Detective Ramirez’s phone call now?
No, that was stupid. She wasn’t capable of talking to anyone in her current state without sobbing.
But wasn’t this relevant? No, it couldn’t be relevant, not to the lie she’d been roped into perpetuating.
Marta stared at her phone, paralyzed with indecision.
Early on Friday morning, Detective Kelsey Ramirez had left a voice mail introducing herself as an investigator with the Serious Fraud Office.
She said Marta’s husband had called a tip line with information about the Inherit the Future Fund, but never responded to their attempts to contact him.
Ramirez had recently learned that Marta had reported him missing.
She asked Marta whether she knew anything about the accusations her husband had made against the ITFF, and whether she herself had any information she could share about Imogen Garron or her associate, Celeste Sarkassian.
Ramirez left her contact details with a plea to be in touch as soon as possible.
Marta thought back to that morning at the cottage, when things were still normal, when Celeste was still alive.
Imogen had been all worked up about not having cell service and had made everyone else check their phones for bars.
Detective Ramirez’s message, Imogen’s agitation that morning, Celeste’s death later that night .
. . Marta realized that it couldn’t be a coincidence.