(2013) Four Widows (9 page)

“SURPRISE!” shrieked Cece when Suzanne and Jim finally returned to my desk. “LORI SMUGGLED US INTO THE BUILDING.”

Suzanne squealed and held out her arms.

“We are SO
excited for you,” continued Cece with pride, pulling Suzanne into a hug with Heimlich-manoeuvre enthusiasm.

Jim whispered to me, “Some set of pipes.”

I gave him the
act-your-age-not-your-shoe-size
look.

Cece, oblivious she was being discussed, dragged me into the hug. “And I think YOU are what Isabella Blow is to Lee McQueen.”

I was about to crack a joke about how well that worked out when Kate coughed and whispered, “No one’s told her–not sure even she knows Gianni’s dead.”

Jim grinned, white teeth against sunburned skin, while raking a hand through bleached surfer’s hair.

Lunch was loud. Mash up of fashion and Ribbons’ rescue plan. Once Cece got wind that Jim might be useful drumming up publicity, well, dog with a bone. She drilled him for advice while scoffing from a giant box of jelly babies someone had sent into the office.

When Kate and Cece eventually left, Suzanne remained behind, unfazed by demands from Jim who wanted details on what inspired the collection (romance with a nod to Hollywood); where she had been exhibiting; who had she worked for; designers she rated; and what was next. I half listened while she cited her grandmother as her strongest influence and the label’s namesake; a dressmaker who copied designs from Vogue patterns to sell to local clientele. Her grandmother also sold knitwear from her living room to make enough money to support the family, including Suzanne, whom she raised.

There was no mention of Suzanne’s mother. There was no mention of Ted either. It was good to see Suzanne focused, for once, on something else.

When Jim was finally finished, I walked Suzanne out of the office.

“I hope he wasn’t too much. Jim is very…
enthusiastic
.”

She turned to me, grabbing my hands. “I can’t tell you how much I loved being in the office.”

“Good.”

“You know, he doesn’t stop talking about you,” she said just as the lift doors were closing.

I didn’t follow.

“Jim.”

“Oh,
him
. He doesn’t stop talking full stop.”

The doors shut. And I’m not sure whether she heard me or not.

Chapter Fourteen

Million Little Pieces

The sun blistered. Bonfires burning behind clouds created an intense molten-red heat that threatened to drip down on people on the street. It made me think hell was above not below me–that the world was not how I imagined it. Somehow skewed.

Cece was in good spirits. She’d been on a business trip to London to meet investors and “keep on top of trends.” She summoned us.

“I insist you come over to my house for dinner,” she said. “The place has been neglected.”

I loved Cece’s townhouse in the New Town and not just because of its great Georgian architecture and the fact it was built over four floors situated on a tree-lined street. You could tell that someone had loved it incessantly over the years, lavishing attention on it. I remember thinking
wow
when I walked up four flights of stone steps to the rainforest green door with its distinctive fanlight. The place had been meticulously refurbished. Six bedrooms, three reception rooms and three bathrooms–modernised thoroughly while still hugging its period features with affection.

“The house was Michael’s mistress,” Cece informed me when she first showed me around. “Poured his heart into this place for over 20 years–refittin’ and refurbishin’.”

“I can tell.”

“He was a confirmed bachelor with an interior-design addiction. Single, straight
and
house proud–I mean, a gift or what? No wonder I snapped him up.” She sighed, reaching out to pet a vase as though it were a precious Persian cat. “He even campaigned for the return of original Georgian street lamps–and was successful. Now it’s just the mistress and me.”

I laid a hand on Cece’s shoulder. “She’s competition.”

I could picture Cece rattling around this family home on her own, feeling close to Michael but never further away from him. No wonder she spent so much time at Ribbons.

I arrived to find our hostess flouncing across her kitchen in totteringly high Vivienne Westwood heels, wrapped up in a Diane Von Furstenberg dress that made her look marvellously voluptuous. Her hair was twisted and swirled high–chocolate Walnut Whip finish.

“Jo Hansford,” Cece said, patting her hair when Kate asked who did the colour–radical change from banana blonde to polished brown. “I wanted to go Liz Taylor Black but I don’t have the eyebrows, apparently.”

Kate snorted, nostrils flapping. “Yeah, that’s their
polite
way of putting it.”

“Looks great,” I said.

“Champagne?” asked Kate, raising an eyebrow when she saw Cece wave a bottle of Veuve Clicquot about like an orange and glass wand. “Did you miss us that much?”

“More than you know, baby cakes,” beamed Cece, banging cupboard doors as she attempted to hunt down four flutes.

Suzanne dropped to her knees, drooling over the Furstenberg dress, examining the seam lines and stitching in the way only a designer would.

“What party are we planning?” asked Kate, joining in the hunt for the Champagne glasses.

“Ribbons is reproducing,” announced Cece breezily. “I want
everyone
to know.”

We stopped what we were doing. Suzanne, still scrabbling on her hands and knees, looked up confused. Kate and I turned to stare.

“You’re opening up
another
restaurant?” I asked, wondering if I had picked up her right.

Cece nodded, beaming like someone on the receiving end of a prestigious award.

“Does Broadbent know?” asked Kate, raising a questioning eyebrow. “He never mentioned it.” Broadbent was Cece’s accountant and Kate’s boss.

“He will do soon, hon, promise, promise, promise…”

Kate carefully opened another kitchen unit door and spied the glasses. “What has brought all this on?”

“I need to make
changes
. It’s time to break the curse hangin’ over my business. I’m a good restaurateur and my food is
good
.”

“Is it a wise idea to open up another restaurant when Ribbons isn’t doing too, er, well?” asked Suzanne, standing up carefully, nervous.

“I think it’s a courageous idea,” I said, hoping to sound optimistic.

“It’s a completely
ridiculous
one,” choked Kate, as though she’d inhaled tub of talcum powder.

Cece looked at me, pointedly ignoring Kate. “Really? You don’t think I’m crazier than a June bug in May?”

“It has its, um, challenges. But you need to move on.”

“I DEFINITELY DO,” said Cece loudly, glancing at Kate to gauge her response.

“What are you going to do about the original Ribbons?” sighed Kate, unimpressed. “Run away from the problem?”

“No. I don’t
run
,” came the tart reply. “I wanna plan a party and invite
everyone–
generate an
avalanche
of publicity. Think Judy Garland comeback at Carnegie Hall. Lori, can you help with the press list? Maybe get Jim involved?” She let out a squeal of excitement. “I think it’s time I became a
chain
.”

“Where do you plan to set up this new restaurant?” asked Kate, determined to get down to business.

“Yes?” questioned Suzanne. “
Where
?”

There was a pause while Cece stood and looked at us, as if holding the moment before we buried her under questions. “London,” she said finally, letting the Champagne cork rocket with impeccable timing.

Someone gasped, or maybe we all did, while Cece briskly turned to her rangemaster the size of a motorhome to rescue sole meuniere.

As expected, there was a deluge of talk as we interrogated Cece on her business bombshell. She took it in her stride, quaffing Champagne and thrusting food under our noses as if turmeric spice would deflect a line of questioning.

Soon she feigned fatigue. “Ladies, enough. Buttered crumpet, can we talk about somethin’ else for a single second, please? Ain’t someone got other news to share? I
have
been outta town for one whole week.”

“My husband was murdered,” I said without missing a beat, shocked to hear how the words sounded out loud for the first time.

Suzanne dropped her drink and the glass flute shattered spectacularly over Cece’s Fired Earth floor.

I looked down and thought the moment particularly prophetic; my life in a million little pieces.

Chapter Fifteen

Violations Contributing to Accident

My husband was murdered. These words have the power to break glass and create havoc once let loose, and I had made no effort to soften the blow.

“MURDERED?” Cece squawked–a distressed crow.

I was astonished that one word could take up so much space in a kitchen; it hovered blimp-like above our heads. I could also almost hear the echo of smashing glass ringing in the air; dinging over the city. It heralded bad news: murder, danger, daggers falling.

“You are telling us it
wasn’t
a car accident?” Kate looked stunned.

Suzanne put down the brush and sat heavily on the floor, bewildered. “
Murdered
?”

I cleared my throat. “It was a car crash. It wasn’t an accident.”

Cece wanted clarification. “He
might
have been murdered.”

Facts were moving tidal fast. I needed to cling to the possibility that this was a bad dream and I’d wake up, which is marvellous optimism from someone who never sleeps.

Having trumped Cece’s news about expanding the business, it was my turn in the spotlight. No escape.

“He might have been murdered. Says who?” questioned Kate.

“I had a visit from the police. A detective turned up out of the blue.”

Cece, Suzanne and Kate listened, entranced. Cece looked the most mystified. “Lemme get this straight. The police honestly think someone
murdered
your husband?”

The words ricocheted off the granite kitchen worktops, mischievous, still making no sense to me. I was as stunned as the others standing in the kitchen on broken glass.

I sat down on the nearest chair and gripped my knees. “I don’t know. I’m not sure.”

Digging deep into my bag, I retrieved and unfolded the email, shakily handing it over to Cece. It was passed around in silence.
Harrison Warner is dead because he deserved it
. The words were glued on my brain.

Stunned silence sucked oxygen out of the room, and I almost dropped to the floor to get air. My throat constricted as my heart hammered blood through my veins at a piston-powerful rate, a waterfall roar in my ears.

“I suppose it must be, I dunno, credible if the police turned up at your doorstep,” said Cece, deeply suspicious. “Does detective whoever have the time and resources for an investigation based on an
email
? Isn’t it all about hard evidence?”

“I could be a suspect,” I blurted out.

Suzanne gasped.

“Did he
say
that?” questioned Cece.

“No. But I could be.”

I could tell from the girls’ expression that they also remembered Suzanne’s fact: one in two people are murdered by someone they know.

Cece cleared her throat. “Okay, so they have to cover every angle. Hold in there.”

“So what happens now?” asked Kate, calm and serious.

“Detective McCarthy wants me to make a list. I have to think of names of people who might want Harrison dead.”

“Do you have
anything
to give to the detective?” asked Cece, bringing me back to the moment.

“There is no list.” I exhaled, shakily. “Because there is only one person this can be about.”

“Who?” whispered Suzanne.

“Vivienne Roberts.”

“Who is Vivienne Roberts? Kate’s voice pitched slightly.

Cece looked alarmed. “More to the point, why in Nashville’s name would she want to kill your husband?”

“She wouldn’t,” I said. “Vivienne Roberts is dead.”

As you can imagine, this revelation killed any further questions and we sat heavily in our chairs, smothered in stunned silence.

No one brushes up the broken glass. We are still absorbing the fact that Harrison could have been murdered. Drop-dead shock. The girls cluster round me, aware how I troubled I am.

“This Vivienne’s dead?” repeated Cece, turning down the volume on Kate’s insistence.

“I don’t understand,” said Suzanne, weakly, colour drained from her face.

“What happened?” asked Kate, composure regained.

The room blew still. I could almost hear gloss paint cracking on the windowsill in the heat. There was a roughness in my throat, so rough the words came out serrated. I told them what I didn’t tell McCarthy earlier. “Harrison was accused of… he was accused of killing a patient.”

Kate rested her hand on my arm; cool fingers through the sleeve of my silk dress. No one said a word. Stunned silence seemed to overheat the atmosphere in the room and I could feel a vein pulse on the side of my head, too much humidity. Even Cece resisted the temptation to whip out her hand-held fan. We sat braced, waiting to be buried up to our necks in sand. Immoveable shock.

I swallowed hard. “Vivienne Roberts died from… it was painkillers; a massive morphine overdose.”

This confession came with sound effects. On cue, a fox screamed in the street, a horrible asthmatic scream that sent a dozen dogs barking.

Morphine, an opioid analgesic, delivers a knockout punch to pain. It pitches you in neither one place nor the other and can be a curse or a blessing, whichever way you look at it.

From where I sat, I saw the words harpoon themselves into furniture determined never to be buried again. Such a forceful release, an enormous confession, collection of words:
we’re free. Secret’s out. We can’t be buried.

It was the first time I’d ever seen Cece look truly flabbergasted. Kate smoothly took over, voice level and concerned. “Harrison was
blamed
. Surely he was trying to save her?”