Page 37 of The Wives of Murder Club
As she waited for Bernie to answer, Marta recalled the last time she’d been at her house, five months earlier, at their spring book club meeting. Bernie had shown everyone up by having the evening professionally catered—no thrown-together munchies for her. Marta remembered being shocked at how clean Bernie’s home was, no trace whatsoever of her twin boys in evidence. The glass sheets that acted as impractical staircase railings did not reveal a single fingerprint, and the creamy white cloud sofa was immaculate. That night, Marta devoured a stack of mini-quiches and the better part of a shrimp ring, downed many glasses of delicious champagne, and went home tipsy and content.
Currently, she was hungry and crampy. She should have taken an extra Advil before she left the house (a quick rummage in her leather cross-body bag revealed that she had forgotten to restock her travel-sized period supply) and she was already looking forward to climbing into bed with a hot water bottle pressed to her abdomen. For a moment, she considered turning around and going home, but then Bernie opened the door and invited her in. Marta followed Bernie into the kitchen, which gleamed with surgical sterility.
“Here, let me take your things,” said Bernie.
Marta thanked her, handing over her purse, jacket, and scarf. Bernie swooped Marta’s items away, and as she hung them in the closet, Marta admired the cream, caramel, and charcoal coats hanging in a neat row. Her own bright-green trench was an alien shock to the carefully curated palette.
Bernie turned to her and raised an eyebrow. “Cellphone?”
“Oh yeah, thanks, it was in my jacket pocket,” said Marta, expecting Bernie to fish it out and hand it to her. Instead, Bernie checked the pocket for her phone, placed it back inside, then entombed it in the coat closet.
“It’s better this way,” said Bernie. “I’d like us to be able to speak freely.”
Marta’s stomach clenched. So theyweregoing to talk about it. She’d spent every night since the lake trip trying not to think about it. On a good day, she could wake up believing, for half a second, that Celeste had actually gone missing in a boating accident and that Derrick was going to come home to her. “Where’s yourphone?” she asked, trying to sound calmer than she felt.
Bernie quirked the corner of her mouth into an expression resembling a smile. “It’s right over there.” She pointed to the kitchen windowsill. “Let’s go get comfortable.” Bernie led Marta into the living room, where there was a steaming pot of English Breakfast tea and a platter of assorted cookies waiting for them. Bernie poured them each a mug, then settled herself in an easy chair. Marta sank into the couch, wishing it offered more lumbar support. Her lower back and midsection ached, and she longed to hug a pillow to her stomach, but of course Bernie’s furniture wasn’t casually strewn with cozy throws; instead, there were two structural fabric blobs anchoring either end of the sofa that Marta was scared to even lean against.
Marta took a big bite of shortbread and immediately wished she hadn’t. With her mouth full, she wasn’t able to talk, and she didn’t think she could bear to sit in silence with Bernie (although Bernie seemed perfectly at ease), so she gulped a scalding mouthful of tea to chase the crumbly cookie down. As she swallowed, gasping slightly as the hot liquid scorched the top of her mouth, Marta coughed out, “So, how have you been?” at the same time that Bernie asked, “Do you think we need to be worried about Imogen?”
Bernie shooed away Marta’s query with a causal flick. “We don’t really need to do the small talk at this point,” she said, giving Marta a surprisingly gentle look. “But I’m fine, thank you for asking. Steven picked up the boys this morning, so I’ll have a quiet week ahead. I’m sorry the house is a bit of a mess, Rose isn’t coming until tomorrow.”
Marta looked around the roombut couldn’t see a single thing out of place.
Bernie crossed her legs, placed her mug on the coffee table, and laced her hands around her knee. “Let’s cut to the chase. They’ve got Imogen for all that financial stuff. Largely thanks to you, it would seem, so I guess I should say congratulations—I understand you had a personal stake in it. The arrest must have felt good. But now my concern is that Imogen is in a desperate position . . . she’ll probably be looking to make a deal. You know her better than I do. Do you think she’s likely to stick to our story about Celeste and the lake?”
“Oh, um, yeah, I don’t see why not.” Marta blew on her tea, casting her eyes downward. “I think she would have said something already if she was going to, don’t you?”
Bernie frowned. “I don’t know. That’s what I’m asking you.”
Marta scooted her butt backwards, trying and failing to find a comfortable position. “I don’t think she’d suddenly say something to contradict herself. It would look bad for her.” Bernie nodded, her face inscrutable. Marta didn’t like the way Bernie was looking at her. Her gaze was unwavering and she barely seemed to blink—a reptile tracking a small mammal, deciding whether it was small enough to swallow in one bite. “Why do you ask? Did something happen?”
“No,” Bernie said. “Nothing happened. But the best defence is always a good offence. I mean, what are the odds that she’ll try to finagle some kind of deal by making up lies about Celeste’s death and pointing the finger at one of us? Or both of us? Bottom line, I’m wondering if we need to present a united front and pre-empt her in going to the police. If we do need to do this, then we’ll have to work it out so that our stories are consistent. What do you think?”
“What doIthink?” Marta’s voice squeaked on theI.She bought herself some time by biting into another cookie and taking another sip of tea. Bernie watched her placidly; it was clear that she knew exactly what Marta was doing but was prepared to humour her. Marta swallowed. “I haven’t thought about it the same way you have, but I don’t think we need to do anything. I really don’t think she’ll try to turn this around on us when it would only make more trouble and she’s already a proven liar. I think it’s in her best interests if Celeste’s death remains an accident, and she’s smart enough to know that.”
“Mhmm.” Bernie murmured her agreement.
“Yeah.” Marta gained confidence as she continued speaking. “I don’t think we have anything to worry about. And I don’t think we should do anything.” She realized this was the first time in their relationship that Bernie had seriously asked for her thoughts on something. She was disgusted with the part of herself that was pleased.
Bernie smiled, a flash of professionally whitened teeth contrasting against her burgundy lipstick. “I was hoping that was the case,” she said, picking up her mug to take a sip of tea, not breaking eye contact.
“Totally,” said Marta. Her armpits were sweating and she felt an uncomfortable blub between her legs that indicated she needed to change her tampon ASAP. Really, she should have done it earlier in the afternoon, and she definitely should have changed it before sitting down on Bernie’s astronomically expensive sofa.Please, God, do not let me stain it.
“Good, that’s good,” said Bernie. “Can we state the obvious now?”
Marta felt there had never been anything less obvious. “Obvious?”
“Imogen.” Bernie sighed. “She killed Celeste. I’d bet anything that Celeste knew something—maybe the location of Imogen’s offshore bank, a secret passport, inside information about the money trail or whatever—and Imogen eliminated her as a threat. Ha!” Bernie laughed, a single punch of air. “Or not, as it turns out. Guess she probably should have killed you instead.”
Marta nodded, but that wasn’t enough. “Imogen’s a bad person,” she said in a strong voice, verbally severing the last gossamer thread of loyalty to the woman who had been her best friend for decades. “She had us all fooled.” The seed of a headache bloomed at the front of Marta’s skull, and she knew it would soon spread its tendrils all the way down to the base of her neck. “Um, may I use your washroom?”
“Of course. But the toilet in the powder room is clogged and the plumber isn’t coming until tomorrow.” Bernie rolled her eyes. “One of the boys flushed a ball of playdough last night as a parting gift. I told him he’s only allowed to do that at his dad’s house. You’ll have to use the guest washroom in the basement.”
“And, I’m sorry, but do you have any tampons?” Marta hated having to ask. “I just realized I didn’t bring an extra.”
Bernie’s eyebrows twitched a quick frown then smoothed out into good hostess in the space of one blink.I’ll bet she’s never had a menstrual emergency in her life. She probably wears pristine white underwear on her period.“In that case, go upstairs and use my ensuite—it’s accessible through the door at the end of the hall. Tampons are under the sink.”
Marta stood, praying silently that she hadn’t left it too late and ruined Bernie’s couch. Relief rushed through her when she peeked over her shoulder and saw no dark stains on the creamy fabric. She made her way upstairs quickly, not daring to touch the glass banister lest she smudge it with a greasy palm.How on earth do small children exist in this space?
