Chapter 46 #2
Celeste didn’t have a chance to make a sound.
Her airway was completely restricted and the pressure against her carotid arteries cut off the flow of blood to her brain.
After approximately ten seconds she was unconscious, and then it was simply a matter of holding on.
As Bernie maintained tension in the rope, her mind flashed to the army medic course she’d taken for fun, where she’d practised applying tourniquets, and she realized that pretty much the same principles applied here.
The garrotte was crude but effective, and it couldn’t have been further from the precise demands of surgery.
Still, it gave Bernie a very similar feeling of satisfaction.
Strangulation wasn’t her first choice (drowning would have been the best—as long as there were no signs of a struggle, a forensic pathologist would conclude it was accidental, especially with Celeste’s blood alcohol levels), but Bernie couldn’t get Celeste into the water without the risk of making a lot of noise.
So here they were. Eventually, she released the tension from the rope.
Celeste’s body was sprawled backwards against the rocks, one arm above her head.
Bernie looked over her shoulder and saw that the lights in the sunroom were still on.
Good. Bernie stripped off one glove then pressed her fingers into Celeste’s neck, on top of the discoloured band of skin that was visible even in the darkness.
Her flesh was warm and soft, but already felt different to the touch.
Bernie held her fingers in place and counted to three hundred while she stared up at the sky, trying to make out the Milky Way.
But the storm clouds had blotted out the stars and there was only black.
She disassembled the garrotte quickly as she thought about what to do with its constituent parts.
The paintbrushes she threw one after the other into the lake, which swallowed them each with barely more than a plop.
The short coil of rope she tucked back into the front pouch of her hoodie—she had loose plans for it.
Finally, Bernie collected her souvenir and took one last look at the body.
Regret was not the right word for it; regrets were a waste of time.
It was more like disappointment. If only Celeste hadn’t been so narrow-minded, this wouldn’t have had to happen.
Cutting diagonally across the island property, Bernie approached the cottage from an angle until she could peer inside.
Imogen and Marta were deep in conversation, curled up on either end of the leather couch, wineglasses in hand.
It was the best scenario she could have hoped for.
The call of a loon echoed over the lake as Bernie glided around to the back of the cottage.
She opened the door cautiously, then proceeded more confidently when she heard raised voices from the sunroom—the girls were still going strong.
She crept up to her room and closed the door.
Tomorrow, Imogen or Marta would find Celeste.
And, as the resident doctor, Bernie would examine the body—an excellent explanation for her DNA on the body if things ever got forensic.
But she was pretty sure they wouldn’t. Things usually worked out the way she wanted.
In the witching hour between three and four in the morning, Bernie snuck downstairs, dipped into the kitchen to grab a knife, then made her way to the sunroom.
When she was done, she stood and her heart skipped a beat.
A silhouette appeared in the hallway, exiting the kitchen.
Imogen. Everything is normal, everything is fine.
Bernie gave a casual wave, which Imogen returned, blinking and bleary-eyed, before disappearing into her bedroom.
Safely back upstairs, Bernie fingered Celeste’s locket, clicking it open (without emotion, she examined the tiny photos of Harry and Millicent) and shut.
A hiding spot came to mind, inspired by tales from an old med school classmate who now worked as an addiction medicine specialist at a rehabilitation facility.
In-patients evidently got quite creative with their toiletries, which had to be thoroughly searched upon admission.
Bernie unscrewed the pump lid of her conditioner and dropped the necklace into the half-full bottle.
Using her toothbrush, she pushed it down to the bottom and gloop-gloop the thick liquid swallowed it whole.
It would make a very special addition to her treasure bowl.
There was this feeling—one that zinged behind Bernie’s heart and sent hot currents through her limbs—that she got when things were about to go bad.
It was the same feeling that had struck before that almost-incident with the elderly patient and Nurse Paula at her last hospital.
Bernie still thought about him from time to time; he’d never know that Paula’s sudden appearance had saved his misogynistic ass (how dare he request a male surgeon).
She’d learned this was a feeling that could not be ignored.
Bernie vaulted up the stairs silently in her bare feet, taking them two at a time.
At the top she paused, seeing that the external door to the ensuite was still closed.
Sneaky girl. She crept down the hallway then slowly opened the last door to her left.
Bernie stood quietly in the doorway to her bedroom, her breath already settled thanks to all the high-intensity kick-boxing and spin.
She stared at Marta, who was standing inside her walk-in closet with her back to her.
Bernie’s heart beat slowly, an internal metronome, keeping her regulated and calm.
This was not at all what she’d planned for her afternoon tea with Marta, but she’d pivot and make it work.
In some ways it might be better, not needing to pretend.
“Did you find it?” Bernie asked softly.
Marta startled—it might have been funny if the stakes weren’t so high—whipping around and darting her gaze to Bernie with eyes wide. Scared little bunny. Except Bernie knew that wasn’t the full story; Marta had some fox in her too.
“Oh!” Marta put her hand to her heart. “God, Bernie, this is so embarrassingly nosy of me. I’ve just never been up here before and, um, the door to your bedroom was open, and I just wanted to take a look, but then I got carried away.
” Marta’s face was getting redder. “I’m so sorry.
I shouldn’t be in here. I’m such a mess today, my hormones are all over the place.
I think I’d better go home and lie down.
” Marta spoke too quickly, her words battering the air like the frantic dying kicks of a rodent in the fatal grip of a cat.
“You found the necklace,” said Bernie. “I know you did, so cut the shit. Come downstairs and let’s talk for real.”
Marta looked like she was choking on her own spit. “I put it back,” she whispered. As if possessed, Marta’s right hand went to the butt pocket of her jeans.
Bernie tracked the movement, then gave her a disappointed look. “Sure you did.” She could see that the little hairs on Marta’s arms were standing on end.
“I’m sorry, I panicked, no, I didn’t put it back.
I don’t know why I lied. But it’s not . .
. I don’t know why you have it and I . .
. I genuinely don’t want to know. Shouldn’t we make sure that Millicent gets it?
I’m sure she’d love to have it to remember her mother by, and I could give it to her when Celeste’s family decides to hold a funeral, or a celebration of life, or whatever you do when there’s no body . . .”
Bernie didn’t acknowledge her ramblings—she’d already left the bedroom, certain Marta would follow. Halfway down the stairs, one hand floating above the sheet-glass railing, she looked back over her shoulder and gave Marta a playful smile. “Come on.”
She walked them into the kitchen and poured them each a glass of Sancerre—the tea abandoned in the living room—then fetched two glasses of water from the kitchen sink.
Bernie watched as Marta took a deep swallow of wine, then another.
Assured that Marta wasn’t suddenly going to bolt out of the room, Bernie settled onto the bar stool opposite Marta at her spotless kitchen island.
“Let’s clear the air,” Bernie said, crossing her legs and taking a sip of her wine.
“Celeste was going to present a problem for me in my professional life and she simply would not be reasoned with. It was unfortunate.” Bernie took another sip of wine and skewered Marta with her sharp grey eyes.
“To be very clear, I don’t have anything against you, as long as you don’t ruin this for me.
Change the story now and it’ll be murder charges all around.
Your word against mine—and who knows what Imogen would do—it would be total chaos. ”
“I’m not going to go to the police, Bernie. Believe me. I know it’s too late.” The gold of Celeste’s locket shone brightly, as if it had been recently polished. Marta had taken it out of her pocket and was pouring the chain from one palm to the other.
“Good. I think you understand the position we find ourselves in. But here’s the other thing.
Just in case you start feeling squeamish—I don’t know, latent guilt or the awakening of a moral conscience or whatever—you should think about Derrick.
” A smile flickered in Bernie’s eyes, lightning in a dark sky.