Page 13 of The Wives of Murder Club
“Yes,” said Bernie, her tone measured as always. “I want to know. What’s going on, Imm? You can trust us.”
No, I can’t.One of her friends was sitting there, smiling encouragingly, trying to ruin her life. Imogen regretted her earlier outburst. It had been stupid to ask about blackmail during the game. If she hadn’t done those shots, she would have been able to control herself, but it was all too much—she’d already transferred one of these bitches a tidy sum, and she didn’t know if she’d be able to meet the next demand. Because it was clear there would be one.
Who’s the rat?Celeste had access to her schedule, Imogen realized, and could have seen the cryptic notation with the location and time on the night she’d met Derrick. Perhaps Celeste was growing resentful of working for her and had decided to get paid in a different way? Imogen wondered if she was underestimating Celeste, but couldn’t help doubting that she was smart enough to pull something like this off.
Bernie was certainly smart enough; she was a surgeon, after all (as she loved to remind them). Imogen wished other people would be as impressed with her own work—they didn’t seem to appreciate what a brilliant entrepreneur she was. And she was richer than all of them! But Bernie’s response to her blackmail comments had seemed like one of genuine concern.
And Marta . . . Imogen hadn’t considered her seriously until now. What was Marta doing here anyways? If Imogen was being honest, she still thought it was strange that Marta had decided to come away with them, despite her explanation for taking the trip. Could she have followed Derrick from home that evening? But Marta was notoriously bad at technology—she often sent the group two-second voice notes of dead air—and Imogen thought that coordinating the photographs, the digital frame, and the emails from the anonymous address would have been beyond her capabilities.
And so Imogen found herself right back where she started—unable to let go of her suspicions about any one of her friends.
“Fine.” Imogen sucked on a gummy worm as she tried to figure out what to say. “I got some weird emails a couple of weeks ago. Kind of threatening, but in a campy I-know-what-you-did-last-summer kind of way. I probably overreacted to a prank.”
“What did they accuse you of?” asked Celeste. “Was it something to do with work?”
Imogen frowned, irritated with the implication. “No, it wasn’t anything to do with my business. Why would you say that? The ITFF has nothing to do with it.” Imogen expected loyalty from her only employee, especially when she’d taken a chance by employing her.
Celeste seemed unfazed by Imogen’s sharp tone. “It’s a pretty normal blackmail topic, don’t take it personally. Although blackmail’s, like, pretty personal, I guess. Ohmygod, was it about Mark?” Celeste was so far gone she was incapable of subtlety. She put a hand to her mouth and stage-whispered, “Was it about him doing something inappropriate . . . like what we talked about?”
This was such typical Celeste—drink too much, spill secrets, and then later she’d swear she was blacked out and hadn’t done it on purpose. Imogen wanted to slap her. “No! Jesus, it was nothing to do with Mark. Enough with the Twenty Questions, you’re just being rude.”
“Was it something to do with Derrick?” asked Marta softly.
The room went quiet and Imogen couldn’t help it, she winced.Fuck it.Better get it out in the open.
“Yes. Actually, it was. Someone’s been messaging me and implying that I know what happened to him. But I don’t. There are, uh, photographs of me meeting with him on the day he disappeared. He wanted to talk about your ITFF account, and I told him that there was nothing I could do for him without you, Marty.”
“Have you told the police about this?” asked Celeste. “About the emails? Or about meeting him? That could be important information to help find him! Why are you just bringing this up now? It’s been weeks, why didn’t you—”
“Shh,” Bernie hissed softly at Celeste. “Let’s let her explain, why don’t we.”
Imogen felt a cold sensation in her forehead as Bernie met her gaze, and she broke eye contact first. “No, I haven’t told the police, because there’s nothing to tell.” Imogen focused on Marta, who was now staring vacantly at the candles on the coffee table. “Marta. Marty, listen to me, okay? Two things. First, I didn’t tell the police because I don’t want to waste their time with irrelevant bullshit. They wouldn’t even listen to you when you told them he was missing . . . they’re barely doing their jobs as it is. It doesn’t make any sense to confuse them with meaningless noise.”
“I don’t know, shouldn’t you let the police be the judge of what’s meaningless?” asked Celeste. “I think you should tell them, for sure. It’s the right thing to do.”
Imogen had no time for Celeste’s slurry self-righteousness. She couldn’t wait for the day when Ari finally outgrew Millicent, at which point Imogen would be able to gracefully downgrade her relationship with Celeste. “Let me finish, babe,” said Imogen, an edge in her voice. “The second thing is that the person who sent me those messages is someone in this room.” Imogen realized that this revelation might piss off her blackmailer, but she was too drunk to play it safe, too angry to care.
“What do you mean?” Marta whispered.
“I mean the person sending me those emails sent the photographs to my digital photo frame. You three are the only ones who have access to it, outside of my family. One of youhas been sending me sick messages, implying that I had something to do with Derrick’s disappearance, when that’s totally not true. So really, I mean that I don’t trust a goddamn one of you.”
14
MARTA
In the wake of the blackmail bomb detonation, the party broke up pretty quickly. Imogen claimed she had a headache and that she needed to go to bed. Celeste excused herself to do her skin care routine, and Bernie went upstairs to take a bath. Marta tidied up on automatic after the others left, blew out the candles, then plunked herself back down on a couch, nursing a finger of Baileys in the dark. She gazed out into the night at the dark outlines of the pines and the faint ripple of moonlight on the lake. The slight sway of the wind in the trees made Marta feel like her head was spinning, so she had to look away.
The ice cubes clinked against her glass as she sipped. She was determined to stay calm and not freak out, and right now the Baileys was the only thing that was helping.Photos? Blackmail?No matter how hard she tried, Marta couldn’t hold on to the various strands that Imogen had tried to braid into a cohesive narrative. Marta lifted her glass again andtink, an ice cube bumped against her front teeth, a jolt of cold. The Baileys was done and so was she. Marta wobbled to the room she’d been forced to share with Celeste, collapsed into bed, and passed out.
An urgent need to pee woke Marta early the next morning. After relieving herself, she made her way to the kitchen to brew a batch of strong coffee. She poured herself a large mug with cream and sugar, then took it outside to sit by the lake, which was reflecting the pink-and-orange sky. Marta let her eyes rest on the water as she thought about the last time she’d seen Derrick, and tried to make sense of what Imogen had said the night before. Now that she was sober, it was clear that the whole blackmail story, and Imogen’s explanation for not mentioning it sooner, didn’t make any sense.
A twig cracked behind Marta, causing her to slosh coffee onto her lap.
“Good morning, early bird.”
Speak of the devil.“Hey, Imm.” Marta patted the Muskoka chair beside her. “You get some coffee yet? I made a big pot.”
“Nope. Still too hungover for battery acid. All I’ve been able to down is a handful of Advil, Pepto, and a glass of water.” Imogen sighed as she sat down, stretching her arms above her head.
