Page 29 of The Wives of Murder Club
With no warning, the pasta Marta had eaten earlier in the evening came boiling up out of her, tomato sauce in the back of her nose. She vomited over the side of her kayak, away from where they’d dropped Celeste. Once, twice, until there was nothing left. She scooped up a mouthful of lake water to rinse out her mouth.
“I’m fine.” She wiped her face. “Let’s go.”
They’d agreed that they should release the kayak as far from the body as possible, and so they turned back for shore. They proceeded without speaking—thewhir-whir-whirof the paddleboat foot pedals harmonizing with the slapping splashes of Marta’s increasingly sloppy strokes—until they could see the cottage clearly and the current felt notably stronger. Bernie held up an arm and said, “Here.”
Marta manoeuvred her kayak so that it was in a T-formation with the back of the paddleboat, then tossed her own paddle into the water away from the kayak. Bernie and Imogen helped her awkwardly transfer out of the kayak and onto the back of the paddleboat. Then Marta gripped the nose of the empty kayak and flipped it over.
34
IMOGEN
Imogen felt the first licks of autumn against her face as she stood on the L-dock, scanning the horizon for Rick’s boat. The trees were bursts of yellow, orange, and red, a painter’s splatter against a dark-green canvas. The sky was clear, the clouds blown away by the frequent gusts that were chopping up the water. She realized, looking out at the lake, that as wet as the conditions had been the previous night, they were lucky they hadn’t been forced to contend with this wind.
Out of the corner of her eye, Imogen saw Marta and Bernie exit the cottage. They made their way down to the dock to join her, each standing at a deliberate distance from the others. In the bright morning light, the events of the weekend felt unreal, and Imogen could almost believe they were waiting for Celeste to finish packing—she was simply running late, as always.
Imogen checked the time. “He should be here soon.”
“This is all about to get very real,” said Bernie. “So keep your shit together. If anyone cracks, we’re all finished.”
“There!” Marta pointed at a spot in the distance. “I think that’s him!”
All three women started waving their hands in the air, hollering for Rick. Yelling was cathartic, and Imogen didn’t feel like she was pretending at all. Tears sheened her vision as she scream-released the tension that had been boa-constricting her lungs. As the boat drew closer, Imogen spotted a familiar furry face: Betsy at the bow, barking frantically, the exact opposite of her lazy demeanour on the ride over.Dogs know things, Imogen thought,yet another reason not to like them.A tendril of unease unfurled from the anxious pit in her stomach and bloomed into a full-body sick feeling as she wondered what Betsy would sense if she got too close to her.
Bernie ran down to the end of the dock, followed closely by Imogen and Marta. “Finally, you’re here!” Bernie shouted over the purring engine of the boat. “You need to call the police right now. Our friend is missing. The phone here doesn’t work and none of us have been able to get a signal.”
Rick tossed a rope over a wooden post on the side of the dock and hopped out of the boat in one graceful motion. Betsy shadowed him, hugging close to his legs and whining. Rick whipped his wraparound sunglasses off, and Imogen could see his extreme alarm in the way his eyes and forehead crinkled up. “What happened? Who’s missing? How long has she been gone?”
Marta piped up, a sob caught in her throat. “It’s Celeste. She took the kayak out yesterday in the evening and she didn’t come back. We tried to stop her, but she was drunk and she wouldn’t listen.”
Rick grimaced briefly, then smoothed his features out and spoke calmly. “I’ll have to go way out that way to get reception.” He gestured east. “You all hang tight. I’ll come right back.”
After calling it in to the local authorities and speeding back to the cottage—during which time Imogen, Bernie, and Marta waited in tense silence on the dock—Rick told the women to gather their things so he could take them off the island. The search team would launch from the mainland, and the authorities wanted to speak to the women at the marina. Rick walked with them up to the cottage, but Betsy refused to accompany him; instead, she was turning in circles on the rocky area beside the dock. Seeing Betsy pacing where Celeste’s body had lain gave Imogen a chill. That dog was too creepy.
Inside, Bernie went upstairs to get her bags and Marta disappeared into the back bedroom to collect Celeste’s things. Imogen had already packed her own tote, so she placed it by the front door and went to wait for the others in the sunroom. She found Rick in there, holding the dead phone receiver to his ear. He put it down and shook his head in apology to Imogen. “This has never happened before and I . . . I can’t tell you how sorry I am. It is horrendous that you weren’t able to call for help.”
Rick checked the wall plug-in next, then traced the cord with his hands. “Aha. Here’s the problem.”
“Yeah, we saw that,” said Imogen. “You must have mice.” She stood close to Rick, watching as he thumbed the frayed bit with a distressed look on his face and muttered something under his breath about his exterminator buddy. Imogen was relieved when he put the cord down. Evidently, he hadn’t been able to make out what had been (barely) visible to her when she’d examined the cord in the sunlight earlier that morning: the faintest clean nick above the frayed bit, the spot where a knife had slipped.
35
MARTA
Marta mentally rehearsed what she needed to say, running it on a loop through her mind. There was an officer on his way to take their statements at the marina, and just thinking about it made her feel like she needed to pee. The OPP marine unit had already set out to look for Celeste, but they were searching in the opposite direction from the dump site.
The cheap coffee from the marina tuck shop scorched Marta’s throat as she chugged it down between bites of blueberry muffin. Caffeine and sugar were the only things keeping her upright. She clutched the Styrofoam cup tightly with both hands, welcoming the heat against her stinging palms. Bernie sat nearby, cross-legged on a bench and listening to a meditation, while Imogen throttled her phone in a death grip, text-ing furiously. Marta swallowed another bitter mouthful as her stomach gargled in protest.
They hadn’t gotten back to the cottage until almost four o’clock in the morning. Shivering, sore, and completely depleted, Marta was shaky on her legs when she got out of the paddleboat. The rain had stopped by then, but Marta felt as though her hair would be forever plastered to her scalp. There was a moment’s panic when Imogen wondered aloud whether any of Celeste’s blood might be visible on the tarp, prompting all three women to reflexively pat their pockets for their cellphones before remembering they’d left them in the cottage so as not to create any kind of potential GPS trail. Marta grabbed the flashlight she’d left on the dock and shone it on the tarp.
“It’s no good in the dark,” said Bernie. “Let’s bring it in. We’ll have to do a thorough check in the morning.”
Inside the cottage, Marta stood with Bernie and Imogen in the kitchen, all of them dripping wet on the tile floor. Marta’s feet were pickled and her hands had fresh blisters on the thumbs and across her palms. On the kitchen island, a gossip magazine was splayed open like an accusation, all lurid colours and screamy headlines. Marta could vividly picture Celeste sitting on a bar stool and flipping through the pages, laughing as she shared bits of celebrity gossip. She blinked her gritty eyes to clear the image.
Standing there with Bernie and Imogen, a strange sensation washed over Marta, a feeling of quiet solidarity. She’d just done a terrible, terrible thing, but at least she wasn’t alone. Her emotions like oil and vinegar, Marta wanted to hug them both and, at the same time, she never wanted to see them again.
“Let’s go over it one more time before bed,” said Bernie.
“I know the plan, I came up with most of it,” Imogen snipped.
