Page 35 of The Wives of Murder Club
“You actually came,” said Imogen. “I can’t believe you’re here.” She took her sunglasses off and tucked a dark lock of hair behind her ear. Imogen’s makeup-free face looked extra pale framed by her new dye job, and Marta had forgotten that her friend’s eyelashes were almost translucent when not slicked with mascara. “You’re an absolute treasure, babe.” Imogen clasped her hands overtop of Marta’s for an uncomfortably long moment. Marta’s palms started to sweat and she broke eye contact quickly, slid her gaze out over the ocean, and tried to casually extract herself from Imogen’s grip.
Imogen gestured to the waiter to bring her a daiquiri as well, then prattled on about the island’s beauty—turquoise waters this, stunning sunsets that—until she had her drink in front of her. Marta stayed silent and let her talk. Imogen’s capacity to pretend that everything was fine shouldn’t have come as a surprise anymore, but it was still disturbing to see her enact “happy friends meeting up on vacation” when, in reality, she was a fugitive from justice. And the last time she’d seen Imogen in person, they were fresh off a body disposal.
Scooching her chair closer to Marta’s, Imogen lifted her glass in a toast. “To true friends.” Marta took too big a sip and felt the icy stab of brain freeze. Leaning in and lowering her voice, even though no one was sitting nearby, Imogen asked, “So you got into the safety deposit box all right? You got the briefcase?” Imogen eyeballed the large wicker beach bag perched on the stool beside Marta. “Did you bring it with you?”
“No, it’s at my hotel. I didn’t want to bring it out in public,” said Marta. Not entirely the truth, but close enough.
Imogen’s jaw tightened and she blinked twice, then smiled. “Oh, okay. No worries, I totally get that. Thanks for being so careful with it.” She took a sip of her daiquiri. “Let’s finish these up and get over there. I’m assuming everything went well at the bank?”
Marta nodded. “It was fine.” She took another sip of her drink. The strawberry slush cooled her throat as a trickle of sweat melted down her back. She did not want to talk about the briefcase or its contents. She wanted to hear what Imogen had to say for herself.
“Great, that’s great. Okay, I’m all done here—do they do a good cocktail or what? We’ll have to come back later for another—shall we head to your hotel now? The Royal White Sands, right?” Imogen was already standing, sliding her sunglasses back on, and looking at Marta expectantly.
But Marta didn’t get up. “Can we just talk for a second? I flew all this way for you. Please, just sit with me.” Imogen looked slightly chastised as she resettled herself. “What I did . . . I could get in a lot of trouble if anyone found out . . . but I did it for you, because you asked. I want to know what you’re going to do about my money—you know I need my investment back. Youpromised. So how are we going to do this? Do you have the cash?”
“Oh babe, no, not cash. You thought I had that kind of cash? I wish! OfcourseI’m going to get you your money back—doubled! Like I promised—but I need a little bit of time, that’s all. The briefcase has all the paperwork for my accounts on the island—it will make thingssomuch easier now, you have no idea—and my crypto wallet—honestly, it’s a total game changer. With those documents in hand I’ll be able to clear this whole thing uptout de suite!”
“So you don’t have the cash for me?” Marta knew she was beating a dead horse, but she wanted Imogen to admit it.
Imogen leaned back, looking affronted. “I want to make you whole as soon as possible, but believe me when I say that cash is simply not possible.”
“How much time?” asked Marta. “You said you need a little bit of time. Like, are we talking tomorrow? Should I wait here with you? Go home? You know, I’m out of pocket for the flights and hotel—are you going to reimburse me for that as well?”
“Babe! Of course I am. What’s with the sudden intensity? You know I’m good for it.” Imogen folded her arms across her chest.
Marta wished Imogen hadn’t put her sunglasses back on—she would have liked to be able to look into her eyes instead of staring at her own reflection in Imogen’s bug-eyed lenses. It didn’t really matter, though; she knew Imogen was lying. Not just about the money, but about everything.
43
IMOGEN
The daiquiri was too sweet. The fake strawberry slurry disguised the drink’s stealthy strength, and Imogen could feel the rum flushing her cheeks. She scanned briefly for the waiter, then changed her mind and decided to wait until they were at Marta’s hotel to get another drink. She knew she’d feel so much better when she got her hands on that briefcase, her golden ticket to a new life in a non-extradition country.
The last couple of weeks had been a cocktail of acidic stress mixed with an unexpected shot of boredom. Who knew that fleeing the country could be so dull? Imogen needed to keep a low profile, of course, so she couldn’t go out or socialize, and she never left her accommodations without her oversized sunglasses and sun hat. She hadn’t even been to the beach once. Instead, she spent her days holed up in her cheap hotel room, ducking out only to buy food and wine from the nearby grocery store.
Imogen knew she was probably being paranoid—who wouldn’t be in her position?—but she felt as though she was being watched. When she’d gone out to pick up yogurt and bananas a few days ago, she left the store without buying anything because there was a man lingering in the produce aisle who looked up at her twice. Maybe he was checking her out, or maybe it was something else. Yesterday, she finally let her nerves win a round against vanity and purchased a box dye to cover up her blond hair. It made her crazy to think she was ruining her salon colour with a cheap muddy brown, but she told herself that soon she’d be able to afford the best colourists and stylists to fix her slapdash job.
Funds wouldn’t be a problem once she had her crypto cold wallet (a flash drive she kept in her safety deposit box) and the papers she needed to access her offshore accounts in Saint Kitts. The safety deposit box also contained fifty thousand dollars in cash, which would come in very handy in the short term. A pesky gnat of guilt flitted through Imogen at her decision not to give Marta some of the money, but she mentally flicked it away. Imogen couldn’t wait to not be poor again; she was sick of rationing her prepaid Visa cards (which she’d largely exhausted on flights and accommodations). She told herself that everything was going to work out. Marta had come through for her, as she always knew she would.
“Why won’t you admit it?” Marta looked pained. “Why won’t you tell me that you don’t have my money and that you never did? I know you’re lying to me, Imogen. If you ever cared about me as a friend, tell me now. You’re sitting there pretending like everything is fine, but—Everything. Is. Not. Fine.”
She’d pushed Marta too far, Imogen realized, kicking herself for not seeing it sooner.Focus.Imogen drew a deep breath and exhaled as she hung her head in a contrite pose, placing her hands on the table, palms up. “You’re right. You’re right. Everything is not fine. It’s been a total mess, and I’ve been so ashamed and embarrassed that I haven’t been able to be vulnerable with you. I’ve been worried I’ll lose your friendship on top of everything else and . . . Marty, you need to know that it’s one of the only things that keeps me going.” Imogen thought that this declaration (not her most eloquent charm offensive, but Marta’s bar was pretty low) would have gotten her a satisfied smile, or at the very least a little nod, but Marta’s face was surprisingly stony, giving her nothing.
Imogen needed to convince her that she was going to get her money back, needed her to believe the lie for as long as it took to get her hands on that briefcase and get the hell off this island. “There is no world where I don’t make you whole. And I’ll pay back every cent of the expenses for your travel. But this whole thing is more complex than you can imagine and it’ll take time to sort everything out. You’ll have the money in your account by the end of day tomorrow. I swear on Ari’s life.” Her daughter’s name was heavy on her tongue, but she told herself it didn’t matter what she said—it was all in the service of salvaging her future, and wouldn’t Ari ultimately benefitfrom that? Imogen fingered the beaded bracelet Ari had gifted her last Christmas.
Marta’s expression shifted and her features were now arranged in a confusing contrast: Her mouth was hanging open like she was about to laugh, but her eyes were sad and her brows squinched together in a way that deepened her frown lines. Imogen reflexively touched her own forehead and was relieved at the Botoxed smoothness; thankfully, she’d gotten touched up right before the cottage trip.
“Okay, Imm. I get it. Let’s head back to my hotel.”
The afternoon sun glistened off the water as they made their way to the Royal White Sands, but Imogen barely noticed the beauty of her surroundings anymore. She was itching to make a fresh start elsewhere, possibly in her new country of citizenship. Acquiring an extra passport had been one of her brighter ideas when the ITFF really started picking up. It had been shockingly straightforward: a cash investment for citizenship in Vanuatu. The same night she was released from police custody, Imogen had retrieved her secret salvation from the picture frame in her bedroom, and left the house with little more than the clothes on her back and the prepaid credit cards she’d kept clipped inside the green-and-gold passport. At the airport, she’d purchased a direct flight to Trinidad and, from there, the next available flight to Saint Kitts.
The lobby of the Royal White Sands was all shiny white-and-pink marble, accented by bursting arrangements of sunset-coloured local flowers. Imogen’s flip-flopsslap-slap-slappedas she walked—it was soquietin here, no phones ringing or guests loitering by the check-in desk—and she was suddenly self-conscious of the sound and her casual beach dress. Even inside, she didn’t remove her sunglasses. Before they got to the elevators, Marta stopped and looked at Imogen with wide eyes, then pulled her into an almost violent hug and whispered in her ear, “If you tell them about the missing cash, I’ll make sure they know you killed Celeste.” Marta released her shoulders, spun around, and walked away.
Then the lobby exploded into action.
44
FILTHY FUNDSS6E05: PAINT THE TOWN RED (NOTICE)
