Page 71 of Summers at the Saint
“Oh man,” Felice said, pointing at one of the suitcases. “Look at all those killer shoes. I bet those Jimmy Choos cost more than my car.”
“Mine too,” Livvy said, as she knelt beside the bed and poked her head beneath it.
“Nothing under here,” she reported, sitting back on her heels. “If you were Parrish, where would you keep something like a notebook?”
“My purse, or my desk at work, or my nightstand,” Felice said.
“I think the cops took her purse, and it’s not in her desk at work, and I checked the nightstand first thing.”
“My car,” Felice added.
Livvy stood up and snapped her fingers. “The Audi. I should have thought of that.”
“Which the cops towed away this morning,” Felice said.
Livvy moved to the dresser and began picking up clothing, carefully folding each item and placing it in one of the suitcases: Parrish’s silk thong panties, the matching bras, shirts, shorts, bathing suits.
“What are you doing, and why?” Felice asked.
“I don’t know,” Livvy admitted. “Someone from Parrish’s family— maybe her dad, or that stepmother of hers or even Mrs. E, is going to want to come in here and pack her stuff up.” She began folding dresses. “And they’re gonna feel so awful, and so sad, when they see this mess.” She gestured at the floor, still littered with the dead girl’s clothes and other belongings.
Felice nodded and silently began picking up clothing, following Livvy’s example.
Within ten minutes, they’d packed everything into the suitcases.
“Give me a hand with this,” Felice said, grabbing one side of the mattress.
Together, they replaced the mattress and by unspoken, mutual agreement, began stripping the bed, folding the high-thread-count sheets, then the quilted coverlet, even folding the down comforter and placing it at the foot of the bed.
Felice pointed to the mound of decorative throw pillows stacked beside one of the nightstands. “That girl sure loved her pillows. Must be at least a dozen.”
“And they’re all so pretty,” Livvy said, picking one up and placing it against the headboard.
“Not like that.” Felice grabbed the smaller pillow and replaced it with a large, square Euro sham. “Parrish always had these big square pink-and-white-striped ones against the wall.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Livvy said, placing the matching Euro on the other side of the bed. “But how do you happen to know how she made up her bed?”
“Some days, after she’d left for work, I’d sneak in here, just to look,” Felice admitted. “She had it fixed up like something from a magazine. Not like our rooms with those crummy Walmart bedspreads.”
“I used to do the same thing. Parrish had such great style. Without even trying.”
“Rich-girl style,” Felice said. “You think she was born with it?”
“Maybe.” Livvy picked up a pair of matching slightly smaller pillows, patterned with green vines and pink flowers, holding one in each hand.
“Hey,” she said, dropping the pillow in her left hand and holding up the one in her right hand. “This one’s heavier.”
She searched the pillow’s flanged seam and found the invisible zipper, sliding it open. As she did so, a slender blue-and-white composition book slid onto the floor.
Both women stood staring down at it, before Felice picked up the book and handed it to her coconspirator. “Looks like the bitch book to me.”
CHAPTER 37
On Wednesday morning, the Chapel by the Sea was full to overflowing. Traci made a conscious decision to arrive late, slipping into the last available seat in the last row of pews in the tiny nondenominational church.
The woman seated on the aisle looked up and glared at Traci, resolutely refusing to slide over, so Traci stepped over her and her husband and son and managed to squeeze into the middle seat.
She knew the family, of course. Jolene and Pete Woods were Ric Eddings’s neighbors. Their son Pace had been in Parrish’s class in elementary school, until Ric sent his daughter to boarding school in Virginia.
