Chapter 50
MARTA
Six Months Later
Appearing on Filthy Funds had been a dream come true.
Claudia and Leo were just as charming in person as Marta had imagined, and the interview had gone off without a hitch.
Plus, being a guest on the podcast had majorly opened up her social circle.
Over the last few months, Marta had connected with a number of fellow true crime fanatics who found her online after the episode was released, and she’d joined a local group that got together weekly to discuss their latest obsessions over coffee and pastries.
Meeting up with her new friends was like slipping on a warm pair of socks fresh from the dryer, and, having moulted her skin of self-doubt, Marta felt free to be her quirky self in their company.
Derrick’s disappearance remained an open investigation, but it wasn’t keeping her up at night any longer.
Shortly after Marta’s return from Saint Kitts, the Academy had held a vigil for their beloved missing Coach Williams, and the event made the news.
The coverage had apparently infuriated Antonia, who took the brave step of approaching the authorities to expose Derrick as a predator, and this prompted several other current and former students to report their own experiences with him.
After these revelations, Marta contacted the officers in charge of the missing person case she’d filed and told them she’d discovered that Derrick’s old messages were synced to their iPad.
This new evidence of Derrick’s criminal behaviour, as well as the timing of his messages to Imogen demanding to withdraw funds from the ITFF, seemed to confirm for the police that he’d disappeared of his own volition.
Marta knew it would be at least seven years before Derrick was officially declared dead, but she was in no rush.
There was no insurance policy payout to be had, and thank goodness for that, because nothing says “the spouse had motive” quite like the prospect of a million-dollar payday.
Thankfully, Marta had been able to cash in on her own insurance policy of sorts; the stacks of bills from Imogen’s safety deposit box had gone a long way toward making up the savings she’d lost from both Derrick’s and Imogen’s duplicitousness.
Marta bopped around her kitchen re-listening to her episode of Filthy Funds for the umpteenth time as she shredded cheese, chopped jalapenos, and mixed a pitcher of margaritas.
It was a perfect evening to sit outside, and the first time she’d be hosting in her revamped backyard.
Earlier that spring, Marta had dug up the small patch of land, ripping out the flagstones that had been haphazardly laid down by the previous owners.
She no longer feared the suspicion a freshly churned-up yard might engender if the police were ever to visit her home—that worry had been put to bed when a warrant for Derrick’s arrest was issued last fall.
Before filling in the space with herbs and flowers, she removed Derrick’s body from the chest freezer in the dead of night and laid him to rest in the far corner of the yard.
Now, Marta’s tulips, daffodils, and bleeding hearts were joyful bursts of colour that made her smile any time she looked outside, and two colourfully striped sun loungers sat jauntily atop the concrete pad she’d created to seal the makeshift grave.
When the podcast finished playing, Marta checked the time—she still had about half an hour before Bernie’s arrival—and went into Derrick’s former study, which she had converted into a home library complete with her favourite feature: a floor-to-ceiling ladder on wheels.
She folded the fuzzy throw that lived on the footstool, re-shelved a few books that had collected on the side table, and patted her matryoshka doll on the head (she’d re-homed Derrick’s class ring, graciously gifted back to her by Bernie, in the smallest doll).
With the room tidied up to her liking, Marta settled into her fuchsia armchair to review the stack of handwritten letters she’d prepared.
Marta knew that her continued relationship with Bernie was strange.
After their mutual confessions—and the heart-stopping moment when she’d realized Bernie had recorded them—she hadn’t known what to expect.
But Bernie had calmly explained that they were now in a mutually assured destruction situation; she’d keep Marta’s secret safe as long as Marta never strayed from the script on Celeste’s accidental death.
After leaving (fleeing would be more accurate) Bernie’s house that day, Marta thought she’d never hear from her again.
But the following week, Bernie had texted her a screenshot of the cover of Highway of Tears with the message, For next month?
I’ll host. Marta didn’t feel she could say no.
And, to be perfectly honest, she didn’t entirely want to say no.
After years of deceit and betrayal from Imogen and Derrick, there was something irresistible about the raw honesty that she and Bernie shared.
At their first meeting, Marta had suggested they rename themselves, admitting that, as the only childless member, she’d always resented the Murder Mamas moniker.
Bernie had been on board with a new name, and thus the Murder Mambas were born.
Marta and Bernie now met up every month, and neither ever suggested expanding the group.
Marta approached their meetings with a fizzy mix of excitement and trepidation; part of her remained afraid of Bernie, but she had to admit that the dash of fear that flavoured every encounter gave her a thrill.
Despite her entente with Bernie, Marta had recently realized that it might be smart to take precautionary measures, so she was protecting herself the best way she knew how.
Flipping quickly through the crisp paper covered in blue ink, she immediately gave herself a paper cut on her knuckle.
She jammed it into her mouth, grimacing at the salty taste, then reflected that it didn’t really matter if she got a little blood on the pages, all things considered.
The elaborate If I Die package had taken her a week to prepare.
There was a letter outlining what really went down on Venom Lake: the crime, the cover-up, the conspiracy.
There was a letter explaining Derrick’s death, and a hand-drawn map of her backyard with an X marking the spot.
There was a letter encouraging the authorities to investigate Dr. Bernadette Parvis for Marta’s death.
The last item she slipped into the package was Celeste’s locket, along with the instruction that it be returned to Millicent Sarkassian.
Better late than never. She had scheduled a meeting at a law firm for later that week, and planned to give the package to her new lawyer with the direction that it should be sent to the Homicide Squad in the event of her untimely demise.
Satisfied that all the documents were in order, Marta enclosed them in a large manila envelope, which she stashed under the seat cushion of her armchair.
There was no reason why Bernie would come into her study, but Marta knew all too well how easy it was for a light snooping session to go awry.
She was just about to sit down on the chair to make sure the envelope didn’t make any noise that would reveal its location when the doorbell rang.
Marta quickly grabbed her copy of In Cold Blood from the bookshelf and hurried to greet her guest.
In the backyard, margarita in hand, Marta relaxed into the warm spring evening as she and Bernie stretched out on the comfy lounge chairs with a platter of nachos between them.
Bernie raised her glass in the air. “The garden looks beautiful. You did a great job.”
A glow of pride mixed with tequila warmed Marta’s cheeks. “Thanks, it turned out exactly the way I wanted it to.”
“I’ll say. And isn’t it just the perfect spot for our little book club.
” Bernie flicked her gaze down at the concrete pad, then winked at Marta.
The glowy feeling soured into something that puckered the edges of her soul.
She’ll never let me forget. Bernie raised her glass to clink gently against Marta’s and flashed a charming grin which—how did I not see it sooner?
—stopped just short of her eyes. Marta’s mind went to the package of documents under the armchair seat and she suddenly felt as though that meeting with her new lawyer couldn’t come fast enough.
Bernie set her drink down and stood. “I’ll be right back. I forgot something inside.”