I Love You More: A Novel (34 page)

There are cases you take to the grave; I had a pretty good idea that this would be one of them, but not for the usual reasons. Usually it’s a case you can’t solve, that you keep picking at over and over in your head. Something you missed that bugs you. Something you can’t find, like that key. Something that plays with your mind. Maybe there never was a key, you think. Maybe there wasn’t a safe-deposit box. Maybe there wasn’t any money. The maybes can drive you crazy if you let them, but this case hadn’t been about maybes; it was about denial. The key, the interviews, the mix-ups with the wives, the time of death, the hair, Lindsay Middleton, all of it was just details. We always had motive. We always had opportunity. We always had our eyewitness: Picasso. I saw it on her face that first day when she was sitting on the sofa holding her mother’s hand so tight her knuckles were red. I saw it on my way down the beach-house stairs when she was working on her sand castle. I saw it when I looked up to see her staring at me right after I found the note in the catchall book. I saw it as she watched me from the window when I drove away from the house that next morning. Fierce protectiveness. Just like that dog in Michigan. And knowledge.

I lied to Picasso at the Dairy Queen that day in the way that
any good interrogator does; I provided enough truthful information to make her believe that the crap I threw at her was true. As part of our routine investigation, we did run the serial number of Oliver Lane’s missing .38-caliber handgun, but we had nothing to match it against. There was no kid about Picasso’s age who found it washed up on the shore. There was no gun. I made it up so Picasso would think we had the evidence we needed to arrest her mother. The whole thing was a fucking ambush.

I’d hoped—hell, I’d wished with all my being—that the conversation would go a different way. That I’d find out the note in the catchall book had nothing to do with the wives or the murder of Oliver Lane. That somehow in some way her mother was innocent. That I’d been wrong about what I’d seen in Picasso’s face. But unfortunately it went exactly the way any good detective looking to solve a case would want it go.

Exactly the way I
did not
want it to go.

When Picasso asked me if her mother was going to jail, I could have lied, but I thought she deserved my honesty. I’d already done enough to hurt her.

“Probably,” I said.

“Can’t you stop it?” she asked between sobs.

“I wish I could, sweetie.”

She didn’t say anything for a while. She wiped the tears from her eyes, calmed herself. I watched a series of emotions cross her face. Then she said, “But what if she wasn’t the one who did it?”

“They still planned it together,” I said. “But it’s possible the judge will go easier on her if she gives up the shooter. Think she’d do that?”

“There’s a clearing in the woods near the lake.”

“What?” I asked.

“At Rainy Cove Park,” she said. “That’s where they’re meeting. I followed them sometimes. I can draw you a map. That way you can get there before them, and you can hear for yourself.”

It was as if there was an invisible magnet between us. When we were within arm’s reach, we paused, assessed one another. Yes, these were the faces we remembered. These were the eyes, the ears, the lips we imagined as we lay in our pink-petaled baths.

Together we inhaled our scent, that heady combination of Diana’s floral sweetness, Jewels’s musk, and Bert’s mountain air. Together we imagined lying naked on a cloud, basking in the nimbi only our particular triumvirate could birth. Together we released our bodies from their yearlong prison. Our shoulders dropped. Our chests collapsed. Our breath escaped. We extended our arms, entwined our fingers, raised our heads to the sky, and gave thanks for this day, this hour, this moment, this opportunity to reconnect.

This freedom.

And then we walked.

The path was the same as we remembered. There was the crunch of the twigs beneath our soles, the light openness narrowing to dense forest, the happy chirp of birds, the smell of wood and leaves, and yes there, barely visible through the trees, was the lake. We almost missed the fork. Could it be that no one had traveled our trail since? Was it possible that no soul had entered our magical piece of earth?

Diana tossed out the blanket she carried under her arm. It snapped, billowed, hovered, landed—the sameness of this small ritual was comforting. She smoothed out its corners while Jewels opened the picnic basket, extracted the plastic plates, silverware, and wineglasses.

“Champagne first?” Bert asked. It was the first words we’d exchanged in a long while.

“You bet,” said Jewels.

The cork popped, flew in the air.

“Here’s to getting away with murder,” Jewels said. That high-pitched clink. We sipped.

Diana unwrapped the saran from the sandwiches, balled it, tossed it on the blanket. “Egg salad,” she said. “Hope that’s okay.”

“Perfect,” Bert said.

“Just like that first time,” Jewels said.

“Yes,” Diana said. “I thought it was fitting.”

The air was still, the dense woods silent as we ate.

We felt a soft breeze. Tree branches moved. Leaves rustled. We shivered.

“My mother used to say that when it gets cold, there are ghosts nearby,” Bert said.

“Shit,” Jewels said. “That’s all we need. Oliver’s ghost.”

An owl hooted in the distance, then again. A haunting ethereal song chimed in on the third hoot.

“What is that?” Jewels asked.

“A whip-poor-will,” Bert said. “Legend has it they can sense when a soul is departing.”

“You’re messing with us,” Jewels said.

“No,” Bert said. “It’s true.”

“Do you think it’s Oliver’s soul, that it’s been here all along?” Diana asked.

“It was a breeze, not a visitation,” Jewels said. “And a silly whip-poor-will
doesn’t mean a thing. Oliver is dead, and his body is in the ground in a cemetery in Hollyville.”

After we ate, we placed everything but the champagne and glasses back in the basket, closed it, and as if on cue began removing our clothes. Shoes first, then skirts and blouses, and finally panties and bras.

We stood facing the lake, shook out our long straight locks, warmed our faces with the sun. Three blond goddesses of unique size and shape. We skipped into the warm summer water, splashed one another, dove below its surface, disappeared just long enough to cause any onlookers, or ghosts, concern, and then, in unison, popped our heads to the surface, smiling, giddy with joy, laughing with such abandon we might have been patients from a lunatic asylum. We swam: three sets of arms slicing through water, three sets of legs kicking up foam. After some time, we emerged, wet hair sticking to our heads and skin, strands falling over our naked breasts, winding through our bare armpits, the sun washing over us, fading us. Three heavenly messengers gliding through the air.

Back on the blanket, we retrieved the pink towels from Bert’s woven bag, dabbed our skin, dropped our backs to the blanket and fell asleep.

In an hour’s time, we woke. Renewed. Released. Reborn. We dressed, and only then, after all the preamble, did we begin to talk about what happened that day.

In keeping with the order of the wives, Diana went first. She began with where we’d left off the previous year, with the events that followed the murder. She detailed the arrival of the neighbors, and then the police. She summarized the questions she’d been asked, and her answers.

“I stuck to the story,” she said, proudly. “Just like you said, Jewels.”

“Well, that’s good,” Jewels said, smugly. “Since obviously Bert didn’t get my message, or decided to ignore it.”

“What do you mean?” Bert asked. “Was there another message? I just got the one message about the meeting being canceled.”

“And you chose to ignore it,” Jewels said. “What a surprise.”

“I didn’t ignore it,” Bert said.

“Wait,” Diana said. “So you did get my message, Jewels?”

“Yes,” Jewels said. “And I passed it on to Bert.”

Two sets of eyes focused on Bert.

“Why are you looking at me? I didn’t do it.”

“Are you certain?” Jewels asked.

“Yes, Jewels, I’m certain. I think I’d remember killing someone. Come on, Diana. Obviously it was you. You got angry when he told you.”

“Told me what?” Diana asked.

Two sets of eyes looked at Diana.

“Seriously, Diana?” Bert said. “Why play dumb now? It’s just us.”

“I swear to God I didn’t kill him,” Diana said. “I wanted to, but I changed my mind.”

Three long pregnant pauses.

“Well, one of you is lying,” Jewels said.

“Maybe you’re the one lying,” Bert said.

“Me?” Jewels said. “How could I kill him? I was at a design charrette.”

“But you weren’t there the entire time, were you, Jewels?” Diana asked.

“What do you mean?” Jewels asked.

“Don’t act dumb, Jewels. The police told me about the airline ticket and rental car. I know you used my name so no one would know it was you. Or maybe you were trying to set me up.”

“Back up,” Bert said. “What did she do?”

“Jewels rented a car the morning of the murder, and then flew back to Philadelphia in time to catch her flight back to Raleigh.”

Bert looked at Jewels with surprise. “Is that true?”

Jewels didn’t respond.

“She obviously didn’t like that I called it off, so she took matters into her own hands,” Diana said. “Clever, taking my driver’s license, Jewels. When exactly did you do that? That last time we met? While we were napping?”

“Actually, I didn’t take it. I found it. It must’ve fallen out of your bag when you got out that damn notebook. It was loose, right? I was going to say something, but then, yes, I figured it was a safety net. You know, like Oliver always said, a just in case. But I didn’t kill the bastard. When I got there, the place was already swarming with cops and medics. I figured Bert had been there and gone already. So I left.”

“You expect us to believe that?” Bert said.

“I don’t care whether you believe it or not, Bert,” Jewels said. “You tell me, Diana. Was or was not Oliver already dead at a little after eight? I would’ve gotten there earlier if it hadn’t been for the ferry. I waited forever for the damn thing to show.”

“The neighbors said they heard the gunshot at seven fifteen,” Diana said.

“There you have it,” Jewels said.

We ran the events of that day back through our minds. In that moment, we no longer knew who or what to believe. In that moment, we no longer trusted one another.

“What did you mean you wanted to kill him, Diana?” Jewels asked.

“What?”

“You said
you
wanted to kill him, as if you weren’t going to wait for Bert. Why?”

“Because of Bert’s message.”

“What message?” Jewels asked.

“The one she left on Oliver’s phone. When I heard it, I thought he’d played me. I was so mad at you, Bert.”

“You were mad at me?” Bert said. “I was furious with you. I figured you killed him because he told you he was choosing me.”

“If you were so pissed, why didn’t you say so when we got out of our cars?” Diana asked. “Why wait until now, after we toasted, had lunch, swam?”

“I don’t know,” Bert said. “It was just so good to see you both. Here, listen, I … I saved the message. I was in the shower so didn’t pick up.” She fished inside her purse.

“Hey, babe. It’s me. Listen, there’s something I want to tell you. I had hoped I could say this in person, but I’ll make up for it when I get back from this stupid board meeting. I promise. Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that I’ve been a shit. Fuck, I’ve been more than a shit. I want you to know that you and Isabelle are all that matter to me. All that ever mattered. Do you understand? I love you so much, more than anything and anyone in the world. And I’m going to change. I promise. From now on it’s just the three of us. No one else will ever come between us.” Pause. “I love you, babe. I’ll see you in a few days. Kiss Izzie for me.”

Just then, as if in warning, the whip-poor-will cried. Even Jewels looked startled and fearful, but in true form she collected herself.

“What I don’t understand, Diana,” she said, “is why after you heard that message, after you admitted you wanted to kill him,
why
you called it off.”

“I … I don’t know,” Diana said. “I just thought—”

“Thought what?” Jewels asked.

“That I overreacted. Oliver had been so loving.”

“Oh—my—God,” Jewels said. “Seriously, Diana? Well I’ve got news for both of you. Oliver told me the exact same thing. That he was going to leave the two of you. He said it that previous Monday, the last time we had sex. Fucking amazing sex. Only I wasn’t naïve enough to believe him. Oliver was a lying, cheating, controlling bastard who had to win. He was a sociopath, remember?”

“You had sex with him?” Diana asked.

“It was just sex, Diana,” Jewels said. “Get over it.”

Diana started wringing her hands. “But if none of us killed him, who did?”

Jewels twirled a lock of her hair. “Good question.”

Bert smoothed her skirt. “Could it have been a burglar? Was anything missing?”