Page 7 of The Wives of Murder Club
“I did it. I went in and filed the report.” Marta added a tablespoon of salt to the pasta water, wondering if this was what it was going to be like from now on. Dinner for one.There are worse things in life.
“Right. I mean good, that’s good.” Imogen was quiet for a moment, then asked, “Did they say what the next steps will be? Are they going to look for him?”
“Not yet, apparently. It’s not like when a child goes missing. They took all the information, but I could tell they thought that I was overreacting, especially when I told them about the other times he’s pulled something like this. But it feels different this time—how could I forgive myself if something’s actually wrong and I didn’t take it seriously?” Marta had caught the look that passed between the officers when she described the situation, that slight dismissive flick of their eyes. And when she told them, in response to a question about anything else happening that was out of the ordinary, that Derrick had recently made a substantial withdrawal from their joint bank account, one of the officers actually put down his pen. In real time, she could see their interest wane, and she could tell what they were thinking: that she was naive, that he’d taken off of his own free will, that she was wasting their time. On her way out, the younger officer condescended to her with an insulting anecdote about his parents’ divorce. Did he think she was his parents’ age? He looked like he was only ten years younger than her, if that.
“I know, babe, I know,” said Imogen. “You did the right thing. Listen, anything you need, I’m here for you, okay? We’ll get through this.”
The pasta was now finished cooking—al dente, the way she liked it. If Derrick were with her, she’d have cooked it to a near mush to accommodate his childlike preferences. She prepared herself a large bowl drowned in homemade tomato sauce and piled high with Parmesan cheese, then added some fresh basil from a pot in her window, the aromatics of the fresh herbs lingering on her fingertips. She even opened the vintage bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape that she and Derrick had set aside for a special occasion. There was no point in saving it now.
The next morning, Marta had a crashing hangover from drinking the entire bottle of wine. Unfortunately, there was no way she’d be able to sleep it off; she woke with anxiety gerbils running circuits through her chest and brain. She decided to put her nervous energy to good use by deep cleaning the house. On her hands and knees in the kitchen, Marta wiped down the baseboards (which were somehow dusty and sticky at the same time), then Magic Erased the scuffs from the walls, then scrubbed and disinfected all the surfaces. She took outsized pleasure in scraping bits of char from the stovetop burners with her fingernails. Finally, sweaty, dirty, and exhausted, she poured herself a glass of orange juice and went to sit in the backyard.
Marta had wanted a bursting garden since the moment she and Derrick moved in, but he kept putting her off because he liked using the space—which was covered with broken flagstones shot through with weeds—as a drinking spot with his buddies. Last time she hosted book club, Marta had tried to make the place more inviting by stringing coloured lanterns, but Celeste ruined it by making a snarky comment about how Marta’s yard brought back fond memories of being twenty-two and attending BYOB house parties. Which meant, of course, that she thought it was tacky and immature. And as soon as Celeste said it, that was all Marta could see, and she hated her for being right.
As she drank her orange juice, Marta allowed herself to sulk about how much she wished that Celeste had never come into Imogen’s life. She felt guilty for thinking it, but it was true. When Marta and Derrick had moved back to town, she was so excited to reconnect with her childhood best friend. She was awed by the professional success Imogen had achieved with the Inherit the Future Fund, and grateful that Imogen still wanted her around. She knew she shouldn’t begrudge the fact that Imogen had made new friends, but it was hard to find her footing with them. Celeste, in particular, was difficult company. Everything with Celeste was alwaysfabulousandah-mazingandperfection, a glossy sheen shellacked over everything she said. Even after over three years of book club together, Marta felt as if she didn’t know who Celeste really was. And she certainly wasn’t expecting Celeste to appear in her backyard that afternoon.
The sky was that perfect fall blue, crisp with possibility. Marta turned her face up to the sun as she slipped her headphones on to listen to an old episode ofFilthy Funds. She was so zoned-out that she didn’t see the back gate open; it wasn’t until Celeste was in the middle of the yard that she caught the movement out of the corner of her eye. Marta’s heart skittered in fright and she ripped the headphones from her ears. The first thing she noticed was a giant bouquet of dahlias wrapped in brown paper and twine. But the fact that Celeste would go out of her way to bring her flowers did not make her feel loved or supported. Rather, it seemed to Marta as though Celeste was trying to prove something to herself, like she was the kind of person who was agood friend. Marta was also bothered that Celeste had shown up without any notice, as if they were the kind of friends who popped by unannounced for a chat and a cup of tea. That had literally never happened in the entire history of their relationship. Marta didn’t think they’d ever even seen each other outside Imogen’s company.
Celeste was standing in the yard like she owned it, holding not only the bundle of flowers but an assortment of other farmers’ market items in a wicker basket. “Marta! Sorry, did I scare you?” She didn’t wait for a reply. “Oh my god, what a worker-chic look, totally fab. I love the battered overalls, they’re so you.” Marta looked down at her cleaning outfit; she knew she looked like shit. “I wanted to drop off a few things to say that I’m thinking about you. I’m sure Derrick will be home soon and everything will be fine, but until then, you could use some treats. Here, all of this is for you . . .” Celeste placed the flowers and the basket onto the wonky picnic table and made ata-daflourish with her hands. Marta wondered what had possessed Celeste to think she needed Triple X ghost-pepper hot sauce, lavender basil gluten-free crackers, and pickled quail’s eggs.Why didn’t she just make a casserole like a normal person?Marta tried to feel grateful but fell far short.
Celeste extended a slender hand and lightly clasped Marta’s upper arm. “I’m sorry this is happening to you. I genuinely hope that . . . everything will be okay.” For a moment, Marta was touched, but then Celeste ruined it by continuing, “I remember when I was having a hard time—you know, when Harry died—my kitchen was overflowing with things people brought me, and it was so comforting. I know you don’t have that many friends, so I figured that this kind of thing would go a long way.”
Marta twitched her arm away from Celeste’s touch. “Yes, these treats will go a long way to filling the friendless void in my life.”
Her sarcasm was lost on Celeste, who nodded earnestly. “I hope you like them. I’m pretty sure you will. I’ve seen the way you get after a charcuterie board—my god, I wish I had your appetite. I wasn’t too worried about you being a picky eater.”
In that moment, Marta decided she would rather go hungry than consume a single thing that Celeste had gifted her. “Thankssomuch for stopping by and bringing all this stuff. I’d invite you in, but”—she waved her hand vaguely—“it’s not a good time.”
“No worries! Oh my god, not at all. I should get going.” But Celeste didn’t make any moves to leave.
Marta knew what would be coming next: a request to use her washroom. Celeste had the smallest bladder of the group and notoriously never left a location withoutone for the road. Well, not today.“Sorry, Cee. I’ve got to run inside.” Marta started walking backwards. “I left my cell charging and I’m worried the police might have called with an update. Talktoyousoonbye.” She rattled off the last bit as she stepped into the kitchen and slid the glass door shut behind her, clicking the latch to lock it. She retreated to the study, collapsed into Derrick’s favourite chair, and listened toFilthy Fundsuntil her hands stopped shaking.
7
BERNIE
Four days after the Murder Mamas’ soiree, Bernie steered her Audi into the staff parking lot at Sunnyvale, powered up for the day on the combination of a pre-dawn kick-boxing class and a chia-banana smoothie. But her good mood took an uppercut to the jaw when she spotted the other vehicle ahead of her. She gripped the steering wheel so hard, the ring on her right hand cut into the underside of her middle finger. One of the residents—Reeve? Rivers?—had snaked in and stolen Bernie’s favourite parking spot, the one closest to the exit.Who does she think she is? Those spots are unofficially officially reserved.Bernie backed her car into an inferior spot and was just about to put it in park when the resident, whatever her name was, popped out from behind a post and was suddenly standing in front of the passenger side of the car, waving dumbly at Bernie through the windshield.
Bernie’s right hand twitched. She batted the intrusive thought away as quickly as it had flitted across her mind and tingled down her arm. Slowly, deliberately, she changed gears to P and turned off her car. The brainless idiot was still waving at her. Well, maybe brainless was unfair. This particular idiot actually showed great promise as a cardiac surgeon and was talented at the continuous suture technique. Nowhere near Bernie’s skill level, of course, but still. The resident knew she was good, and that she was getting a reputation as “one to watch,” but she didn’t seem to know that being watched by Bernie was not necessarily a good thing. At Bernie’s last hospital, there had been a surgical resident who flew a little too close to Bernie’s professional sun; within the year, that young doctor had switched residency programs and cities.
As she got out of the car, Bernie had already firmed her face into a professional mask (a cool competency modelled off Dr. Addison Montgomery fromGrey’s Anatomy). She’d practised the expression in the mirror until she was confident she could call it up on cue. The resident pounced the moment Bernie’s feet hit the pavement, like a puppy who needed a good swat on the nose.
“Dr. Parvis! Good morning. I’m so glad to get a moment with you, I know you’re very busy. I was wondering if you’d already selected your team for that midcab surgery—and, if not, I wanted to humbly express my interest.”
Bernie locked her car door and turned to face the nuisance, who was thankfully wearing her ID badge over her scrubs. Although Bernie didn’t give two shits about getting to know the residents, it was good for her image if they thought she did. “Good morning, Dr. Rivera. Now, why didn’t I see you at my robotic-assisted surgery seminar last week?”
“Your seminar? I didn’t . . . I wasn’t . . . I’m sorry, what seminar, Dr. Parvis?” Confusion and worry crinkled Dr. Rivera’s smooth forehead beneath her shiny bangs.
“Ah. I see. I thought you would have been invited. But if your supervising physician didn’t think you were ready . . . Never mind, there’s always next time. It’s been good chatting with you, but I have to run—I’ve got a myectomy on the docket. Take care.”
Bernie allowed herself a small smile as she strode off, certain that this imaginary seminar would torment Dr. Rivera, or at the very least ding her self-confidence. She shook off her frustration about the parking spot, knowing she needed to be laser focused on the multi-hour surgery she was about to begin. Plus, once she landed the medical director position—and her chances were excellent, especially with Celeste on the board—she’d have a reserved parking spot that no one would ever dare steal.
On her way into the hospital, Bernie mentally mapped out the operation she was about to perform. Her photographic memory afforded her perfect recall of cardiac imaging results, and was one of the many reasons why surgery was the perfect discipline for her. She remembered being shocked in med school when she learned that not everyone had the ability to visualize a crystal-clear diagram of cardiac veins and arteries; most people actually had to spend hours memorizing stuff that, for her, was as easy to access as hitting Ctrl F on a keyboard. Bernie imagined herself holding a scalpel above her patient’s naked torso, making the initial cut along the midline, splitting open the thoracic cavity, carving out the thickened muscle, wiring the breastbone back together, and closing the incision. Bernie felt most herself in the OR, crackling with the powerful knowledge that she was the reason the person would live or die. But to be clear, her patients almost always lived—it was a point of professional pride.
Satisfied with her mental prep, Bernie checked the time and calculated that she could squeeze in a detour to the cafeteria. As she walked, she undid her watchband, which was irritating the itchy bump on her wrist that she’d acquired during a spontaneous outing a couple of nights ago. Bernie’s interest in Imogen’s home life extended far beyond the limited voyeurism afforded to her by the window in her walk-in closet. When she’d installed her front-door security cameras, she’d set them up to capture wide angles, including Imogen’s walkway and entrance. The cameras were motion activated and recorded both video and audio. Whenever Bernie was feeling curious, she scrolled through the door-cam app to see what Imogen had been up to (although most of the clips were boring snippets of Amazon deliveries).
Last Friday, Bernie had opened up the app for a casual browse. When she saw the footage of the confrontation between Imogen and Derrick, her curiosity was piqued. The audio wasn’t the clearest, but Bernie was able to pick out enough to know where to go. She had the night off and nothing more interesting to do than make her way to High Park in search of trouble. Once she spotted Derrick (drinking straight from a bottle on a bench by the path), she tucked herself behind a tree to keep watch. The results were more than worth the mosquito bites she suffered in hiding.
While Bernie waited to pay for her green juice in the cafeteria, two cardiac nurses joined the line behind her. They were in a rush, running short on time on their break, so Bernie let them cut in front of her. They thanked her profusely; she smiled and waved it off. Bernie was not in the habit of kind gestures—this was purely a strategic move, an easy trade for some precious goodwill. As a rule, Bernie did not tangle with the nurses. They were an extremely competent group, good at their jobs, and did a huge amount of the actual work. Moreover, they had eyes everywhere and they considered a slight against one a slight against them all. They were like crows that way, and they could really hold a grudge. If the nurses didn’t like you, things got much harder, and why on earth would Bernie make things hard for herself?
