Page 15 of The Wives of Murder Club
“That was quite a night, huh?” Bernie grabbed an apple from the bowl on the counter and tossed it from one hand to the other. “Do you think Imogen’s telling the truth about the blackmail?”
“No. What? I mean yes. I don’t know.” Celeste sounded like she was about to cry. Or maybe she’d already been crying. On the one hand, Bernie had no interest in being Celeste’s personal support system this morning, but on the other hand, she was curious. Bernie leaned across the kitchen island, closer to Celeste. The moment she did so, Celeste leapt up off her stool and went over to the fridge, where she stood with the door open, looking at the bottles of wine, fancy cheeses, and various other treats they’d brought for the weekend.Something is definitely off with her.
“You’re letting out all the cold,” said Bernie.
Celeste’s hand twitched as she closed the fridge, muttering, “Right, right.” She went to the sink to pour herself another glass of water. “I didn’t sleep much last night. I brought Harry’s old cellphone up here with me and I was looking through his photos. He took so many beautiful candid shots of Milly and me.”
Ugh, this again.Bernie’s brief interest in Celeste’s emotional state dissipated instantly now that she knew it was about Harry; it seemed as if she would never stop moping about that mediocre man. She’d held on to his old cellphone like some kind of strange security blanket, and brought it with her most places she went. Bernie didn’t have the patience for her self-indulgent wallowing this morning, so she didn’t ask for details. But Celeste was not to be deterred, and she started rambling on about what it’s like to be married to someone for years, but do you ever really know them, and what if they died before you could—blah, blah, blah. Bernie tuned her out as she selected the sharpest paring knife from the cutlery drawer. Peeling an apple in one continuous motion was one of the most satisfying things in the world. She got to work, applying the skills that had made her the youngest chief of surgery in Sunnyvale’s history.
“. . . weren’t you?” asked Celeste. Bernie looked up and met Celeste’s eyes. The whites surrounding her ocean-coloured irises were webbed with pink and the intensity of her angry stare was jarring. Bernie realized that perhaps she should have been paying attention.
“Could you say that again?” Bernie asked, but Celeste continued glaring at her. “I’m sorry,” Bernie apologized, kicking herself for zoning out but unable to admit that she hadn’t been listening. “I want to make sure I understand exactly what you’re saying.”
“What is there to understand? You and Harry were pretty buddy-buddy, weren’t you?”
Bernie let out apfffof air. “We were colleagues, sure. I considered him a friend.”
“Like Isaid, I was looking through his phone last night, going through his old pictures. I decided to scroll back through his old messages and I found a whole thread of him chatting with a contact he’d named Bern Baby Burn.” Celeste’s eyes were bugging out of her head.
“Sure. That’s probably me. You know how he liked to give everyone a silly nickname.” Bernie herself had never gotten into the habit of saving people in her phone with cutesy descriptions or warnings; she didn’t need a record of her inner thoughts or grudges, nor would she ever want to show her hand if someone were to see her phone. But if she were the type of person to use that stupid naming convention, she’d have Celeste saved under CELESTE—Hot Mess Express.
“I knew it. I just knew it.” Celeste sounded disgusted.
What is her problem?Bernie placed the perfectly skinned apple beside a squiggled mass of peel and fixed her gaze on Celeste’s back. Celeste was rummaging around in the fridge again, but it was obvious to Bernie that she was only pretending to look for something. Bernie realized she was still holding the paring knife, so she set it down deliberately beside the apple. As a surgical resident, she’d been told that people found it unnerving to converse with her while she was holding a blade. “Celeste? Is there something we need to talk about?”
16
IMOGEN
The screen door banged open as Imogen entered the kitchen, trailed by Marta. “Good morning! I guess it’s closer to lunchtime, but I’m squeaking it in under the wire.” Celeste and Bernie were standing on either side of the kitchen island, staring at each other, and Imogen wondered briefly what kind of conversation she’d interrupted. “It’s gorgeous out there by the lake, but I’m dying without a coffee.” She poured herself the rest of the pot and took a long swallow as she checked her phone, where she’d left it charging on the counter overnight. Imogen was surprised to see that a text from Mark had come through in the middle of the night, although it looked as though he’d sent it shortly after they’d arrived on Snakebite Island.
She read the message twice.Shit.This was bad. She tried to see if she could open her email, but the loading wheel just spun uselessly.
“Anyone else getting service?” Imogen asked, but no one was paying attention to her. “Hey! Ladies!” She snapped her fingers. “Anyone’s phone working?” She thought she was speaking normally, but it seemed like her voice was coming out at an oddly high pitch. Marta gave her a funny look. “Something for work came up last minute and I want to reply. I don’t have any bars now, but I somehow got a new message that looks like it was sent yesterday.”
“It’s in and out,” said Celeste. “I sent a good night text to Milly yesterday and it didn’t get delivered until, like, four o’clock this morning. I haven’t had reception since I woke up.”
Marta pulled her phone out of her pocket. “Doesn’t look like it. Hmm, I might as well call . . .” She lifted it to her ear, listened, and then shook her head. “I’ve been trying Derrick’s phone every day since he left. It always goes straight through to his voice mail, but I keep hoping that maybe . . . Well, anyways, I couldn’t even place a call just now.”
“Ugh, I’m sorry, babe. That . . . sucks,” said Imogen. She tried to think of something more sympathetic to say to her friend, but the implications of Mark’s message had blown a fuse in her brain, so she gave up. “I thought we were all going to love being offline, but I was wrong.”This couldn’t be happening at a worse time.She shouldered Celeste away from the fridge, opened it, and stuck her face inside. She took a deep breath and tried to pull herself together. She’d have to deal with Francesca when she got back—I never should have taken her on as a client, her risk tolerance was always too low—and pray that she’d be able to sort everything out quickly. Maybe she wouldn’t be able to salvage the working relationship (the fact that Francesca had shown up at her house . . . did not bode well), but she’d make sure her request was satisfied. She didn’t have any other choice. For now, there was nothing she could do about it except get drunk, and she intended to do so quickly. Imogen pulled out a bottle of Prosecco from the clinking tower in the fridge. “I am in dire need of a hair-of-the-dog cure if I’m going to have a hope in hell of kicking this hangover. Who wants to join me in a mimosa?”
Celeste gave a one-sided shrug. “Why not? It’s a holiday, let’s get day drunk!” But her expression was serious and nothing about her energy saidshe was in the mood to party.
“That’s the spirit, Cee!” said Imogen. “C’mon, girls, let’s take advantage of the day. The sun is shining and we’ve got that gorgeous dock. Let’s get changed and meet there in ten.” Imogen strode off to her bedroom, closed the door, and screamed into her pillow.
The sun was beating down on the dock and reflecting off the water, which was sparkling in ripples of blue diamonds. In the distance, it looked like clouds were gathering—the impending storm Rick had warned them about—but for now the weather was perfect for a lakeside lounge. The women started off with mimosas, then switched to rosé. Celeste and Marta were leafing through magazines, Bernie was filing her nails, while Imogen was plowing her way through a bowl of wine gums and a bag of ketchup chips, alternating bites from each. Her binges were usually far more secretive, but with everything going on, she needed a constant stream of sugar to keep functioning. Deliberately avoiding eye contact (she didn’t need to see Bernie’s raised eyebrow or Celeste’s judgmental lip purse), she ripped open a bag of Twizzlers to add to the mix.
Imogen took another sip of wine from her plastic goblet and felt the warmth of the alcohol continue to loosen her limbs and paint her cheeks pink. She willed herself to relax, telling herself that everything was under control. Except it wasn’t. Mark wouldn’t have messaged her if he hadn’t been worried. Imogen told herself again that she’d sort it out on Sunday when she had internet access. She’d make some phone calls, move some money around, and contact that potential new investor she’d met through Ari’s piano teacher.You can fix this.She told herself that the structural beams of the ITFF were solid, but the feeling that termites were burrowing through her abdomen persisted.
Imogen watched as Celeste poured herself another large glass of wine. If she’d been paying closer attention, she would have realized that Celeste was also majorly out of sorts. Celeste flicked a nervous glance in her direction, took a large drink from her goblet, then blurted out, “Who do you think it is, Imm? It’s literally crazy that we aren’t talking about this right now.” She locked eyes with Imogen. “Who do you think is sending you those blackmail messages? You must have some idea.”
Imogen’s jaw worked furiously on a wad of wine gums. She was glad that her eyes were shielded by oversized sunglasses, so no one could see where she was looking. When she finished chewing, she snapped her response. “I thought I said I didn’t want to talk about it.”
“Yeah, but . . . you said it’s one of us,” said Celeste. “So we can’t sit here pretending like that doesn’t matter. If that’s true, then maybe that person knows what actually happened to Derrick.” In her peripheral vision, Imogen noticed Marta shifting in her chair. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I don’t feel comfortable with these kinds of secrets between us. If you really thought that one of us was blackmailing you, then, like, why would you even be here?”
There was an extended silence as Imogen tipped her head back and looked up at the thickening clouds in the sky. She felt exposed despite the dark glasses. “I’m here because two of you are my friends, and I’m not willing to give that up just because one of you is messing with me. Now, can you please give it a rest?”
But Celeste was on a tear. Maybe she felt like she had to clear her name, maybe she felt like pointing a finger, but in either case, the wine she’d been guzzling like water was fuel for confrontation. “Well, I think it’s Bernie,” said Celeste. “What do any of us know about her, really? You two have known each other since you were kids.” Celeste cheers-ed her goblet toward Imogen and Marta, slopping a few drops onto her bare legs. “And you’ve known me since our daughters were in kindergarten.Weknow each other. But Bernie’s only been your neighbour for a few years, and I don’t think you should trust her.” Looking directly at Bernie, Celeste pointed with a shaking finger. “I don’t trust her.” Imogen was speechless. Celeste sounded utterly convinced.
