After Nick finishes writing notes from his interview with Abby, he pulls on a pair of latex gloves and enters the cottage where Merritt Monaco was staying. He has gotten in ahead of forensics, which is how he prefers it.
“Tell me a story,” he whispers. “What happened?”
The cottage has been decorated with a feminine sensibility, in pastels and florals. It’s probably meant to evoke an English garden, though to Nick it feels cloying and overwrought; it’s like walking into a Crabtree and Evelyn.
The living area appears untouched; Nick doesn’t see a thing out of place. He moves into the bedroom, where the air-conditioning has been turned up so high, the room is like a meat locker. Nick has to admit, it feels good, nearly delicious after the oppressive heat outside. The bed is made, and Merritt’s suitcase is open on the luggage rack with her shoes underneath. Her bridesmaid dress—ivory silk with black embroidery—hangs alone in the closet. Nick enters the bathroom. Merritt’s cosmetics are lined up on the lower glass shelf—she is clearly a fan of Bobbi Brown—and her hairbrush and flat iron are on the upper glass shelf. Toothbrush in the cup.
She was nice and neat, Nick thinks.
A quick check of Merritt’s cosmetic bag reveals eyeliners, mascaras, lipsticks, and powder, but nothing more.
Hmmpf, Nick thinks. He’s looking for something, but what? He’ll know it when he sees it.
On the dresser, Nick finds an open clutch purse that contains a driver’s license, a gold American Express card, seventy-seven dollars in cash, and an iPhone X. He studies the license: Merritt Alison Monaco, 116 Perry Street, New York, New York. She’s a beautiful woman, and young; she just turned twenty-nine. It’s such a shame.
“I’m going to do right by you,” Nick says. “Let’s figure this out.”
He picks up the iPhone X and swipes across. To his enormous surprise, the phone opens. Whaaaaa… He didn’t think there was a Millennial alive who left her phone unsecured. He feels almost cheated. Does this woman have nothing to hide?
He scrolls through her texts first. There is nothing new today, and yesterday there’s one text from someone named Robbie wishing her a belated “Happy Day of American Independence”; he hopes she’s well. The day before that, Merritt sent a text to someone named Jada V., thanking her for the party. Attached is a photo of fireworks over the Statue of Liberty.
The call log is ancient as well—by ancient, Nick means nothing within the past twenty-four hours. Friday morning there was a call placed to a 212 number but when Nick calls that number from his own phone, he gets the switchboard for the Wildlife Conservation Society. Merritt had probably been checking in at work.
The scant offerings on Merritt’s phone lead Nick back to Abby’s comment that Merritt might have set her sights on someone who was already at the wedding. She wouldn’t have to call or text anyone if she could talk to him in person.
Nick puts the clutch purse down where he found it and pokes around a little longer. A journal left lying around is too much to hope for, Nick knows, but what about a joint, a condom, a doodle on a scrap of paper with the name of the person she was involved with? She’s too attractive for there not to have been someone.
He finds nothing.
The mother of the bride is still in her bedroom, and the bride herself still at the hospital. Nick finds Greer Garrison, mother of the groom, on her phone in the kitchen. She has obviously just told someone the awful news and is now accepting condolences.
“Celeste is devastated,” she says. “I can’t imagine her agony.” She pauses. “Well, let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves… we’re all still in shock and”—here, Greer raises her eyes to Nick—“the police are trying to figure out what happened. I believe I’m the next to be interrogated, and so I really must hang up, I’m afraid. Love to Thebaud.” Greer punches off her phone. “Can I help you?” she asks Nick.
She looks fairly put-together, considering the circumstances, Nick thinks. She’s dressed in white pants and a beige tank; there is a gold cross on a thin gold chain around her neck. Her hair is sleek; she’s wearing lipstick. Her expression is guarded. She knows her task is about to be interrupted and she resents it.
Nick says, “Ms. Garrison, I’m Detective Nick Diamantopoulos with the Massachusetts State Police. I’ll need you to put away your phone.”
“You’re Greek?” she says, tilting her head. She’s probably trying to reconcile the name with his black skin.
He smiles. “My mother is Cape Verdean and my father is Greek. My paternal grandparents are from Thessaloníki.”
“I’m trying to write a novel set in Greece,” she says. “Problem is, I haven’t been there in so long, I seem to have lost the flavor of the place.”
As much as Nick would love to talk about the Aegean Sea, ouzo, and grilled octopus, he has work to do. “I need to ask you some questions, ma’am.”
“I don’t think you understand my predicament here, Detective,” she says. “This is my wedding.”
“Your wedding?”
“I planned it. I have people to call. All of the guests! People need to know what’s happened.”
“I understand,” Nick says. “But to find out exactly what did happen, I require your cooperation. And that means your undivided attention.”
“You do realize I have a houseful of people?” Greer says. “You do realize that Celeste’s mother has terminal breast cancer? And that Celeste has been taken to the hospital? I’m waiting to hear from Benji about how she’s doing.”
“I’ll make this as fast as possible,” Nick says. He tries to ignore the phone, although he would like to take it from her. “Would you please come with me to the living room?”
Greer stares at him with reproach. “How dare you order me around in my own house.”
“I’m very sorry about that, ma’am. Now, please.” He walks down the hall and hopes she follows him. He hears her rustling behind him so he stops at the entrance of the living room and lets her walk in first. He closes the door tightly behind them.
Greer perches on the edge of the sofa, leaning forward as though she might spring to her feet and escape at any moment. Her phone is in her lap, buzzing away.
“Can you please tell me what you remember after the rehearsal dinner ended?” Nick says. “Who went where?”
“The young people went out,” Greer says. “The old people stayed home. The exception was Abigail, my daughter-in-law. She’s pregnant. She stayed home.”
“But both the bride and groom went out? Who else?” Nick pulls out his notepad. “Merritt? Did she go out?”
“Do you know what I do for a living, Detective?” Greer asks. “I write murder mysteries. As such, I am intimately familiar with procedure, so I appreciate that you have to ask these questions. But I can tell you exactly what happened to Merritt.”
“Can you?” Nick says. “Exactly?”
“Well, not exactly,” Greer says. “But the gist is fairly obvious, is it not? The girl drank too much or she took pills and then she decided to go for a swim in her dress and she drowned.”
“You’ll agree,” Nick says, “that as viable as that explanation might be, it leaves some unanswered questions.”
“Such as?”
“I’ve interviewed one witness who says she’s fairly certain that Merritt didn’t go out. So if she stayed home, where and what was she drinking? Did anyone see her? Did anyone talk to her? I just walked through the cottage where Ms. Monaco was staying. There was no alcohol in the cottage—no bottles, no empties, nothing. And no pills, no prescription bottles. As a fiction writer, you must know that it’s difficult, when one is drinking and popping pills, to get rid of all incriminating evidence. Also, Ms. Monaco had quite a nasty cut on her foot. How did that happen? When did that happen?”
“Don’t look for drama where there is none,” Greer says. “There’s a term for that in literature. It’s called a red herring. The term was coined in the early 1800s by hunters who would throw a kipper down behind their trail to divert the wolves.”
Nick almost smiles. He wants to dislike her but there’s something about her he admires. He has never met a published author before, and it’s true—if she is a seasoned mystery writer, she might be able to help them. “That’s good to know,” he says. “Thank you.”
“I came across Merritt at the end of the rehearsal dinner,” Greer says. “She was hiding in the laundry room. She was crying.”
“Crying?” Nick says. He remembers that Abby also said Merritt had been crying, out in the rose garden. “Did she tell you what was wrong?”
“She did not,” Greer says. “And I didn’t press; it wasn’t my place. But I think it was clear she was feeling left out. Her best friend was getting married. Celeste was the center of attention and Merritt was at the wedding alone. Maybe she was depressed. I have no idea. But I can say that she was very upset, which only solidifies the argument that she drank too much, maybe took some pills, and went for a swim. Maybe she drowned accidentally or maybe it was intentional.”
“Suicide?” Nick says.
“Is that impossible?” Greer asks. “It’s not something one likes to think about, of course. But…”
“Let’s get back to you,” Nick says. “What did you do when the party ended? You and Mr. Winbury stayed home, is that right?”
“I don’t see why what Tag and I did is relevant,” Greer says.
“You’re a mystery writer,” Nick says. “So you’re familiar with the term alibi?”
Greer raises an eyebrow at him. “Touché,” she says. “Yes. My husband and Mr. Otis, the bride’s father, had a drink in Tag’s study and then they must have gone outside to smoke a cigar because when Tag came to bed, he smelled like smoke.”
“We found a cigar stubbed out on a table under the tent. One cigar. Would you guess that cigar belonged to your husband?”
“I would guess,” Greer says, “but I couldn’t be sure.”
“What kind of cigars does your husband smoke, Ms. Garrison?”
“He smokes Cuban cigars,” Greer says, “but more than one kind. Cohiba. Romeo y Julieta. Montecristo. I hardly see how the cigar is relevant to what happened to Ms. Monaco.”
“We aren’t sure it is relevant,” Nick says. “Right now, we’re just trying to figure out who was where after the party broke up. It appears a handful of people were out under the tent smoking and drinking, and we’re trying to identify who exactly was there. Did Mr. Winbury say where he’d been when he came to bed?”
“I didn’t ask where he’d been because I knew where he’d been. Here, on the grounds.”
“What time did Mr. Winbury come to bed?”
“I have no earthly idea. I was asleep.”
“You were asleep but you noticed that Mr. Winbury smelled like cigar smoke?”
“That’s correct,” Greer says. “I woke up just enough to know Tag was coming to bed and that he smelled like cigar smoke but not enough to bother checking the time.”
“And you didn’t wake up again until the morning?”
“That’s correct. I woke up on my own at half past five.”
“And, Ms. Garrison, what time did you retire? Did you go to bed right after the party was over?”
“No, I did not.”
“What did you do after the party? While Mr. Winbury and Mr. Otis were in the study?”
“I sat down at my computer. I was writing. I have a deadline looming.”
“I see. And where did you do this writing?”
“On my laptop,” Greer says. “In my sitting room.”
“And does that desk face a window?”
“Yes, it does.”
“Did you notice any activity out the window?”
“I did not.”
Nick pauses. Is it likely she didn’t see anything out the window? No lights? No shadows?
“And what time did you finish writing?” he asks.
“I finished at eleven fifteen,” she says.
“You’re sure about that?”
“Yes,” Greer says. “I made myself stop because I didn’t want to be tired today.”
“So after you finished writing, you went to bed. Say, eleven thirty?”
“Around then, yes.”
Something about Greer Garrison’s answers bothers him. They’re too neat, too crisp. It’s as though she has thought them through in advance. Nick takes a gamble.
“Would you bring me to the computer, please, Ms. Garrison?” he asks.
“I don’t see why that’s necessary.”
“I would like to see it.”
“Well, then, I shall go fetch it for you.”
“No, you misunderstood me,” Nick says. “I would like you to bring me to the computer.”
“That’s an unreasonable request,” Greer says.
I’ve got her, he thinks.
“It’s an unreasonable request for you to bring me to the computer but not for you to bring the computer to me? Because there’s something you want to delete or hide on the computer?”
“Not at all,” Greer says.
“Fine, then bring me to the computer. Please, Ms. Garrison.”
She stares at him for a beat, then she rises.
Nick follows Greer down the hall. They step through an arched doorway into an anteroom—there’s a niche built into the wall that holds an enormous bouquet of hydrangeas and lilies—and Greer opens a door. There’s a sitting room with a sofa, a love seat, antique tables, and a desk that faces out a window. The view out the window is of the side yard—of a fence and the top of the pool house. Through a connecting door, Nick sees the master bedroom. There’s a king bed made up with white sheets and a comforter and an assortment of pillows, all of them neatly arranged. A cashmere blanket embroidered with the word Summerland is draped on the diagonal across the corner of the bed. Nick blinks. Greer found the time to make her bed so artfully after she found out Merritt was dead—or before? But at that moment, a woman pops out of the master bath holding a bucket and a roll of paper towels. The housekeeper.
“You’ll excuse us, please, Elida?” Greer says.
Elida nods and scurries away.
“Does Elida live here?” Nick asks.
“She does not,” Greer says. “She works seven to five. Today she came a bit earlier because of the wedding.”
Nick follows Greer over to a simple mahogany desk, gleaming as though just polished. On the desk are a laptop, a legal pad, three pens, a dictionary, and a thesaurus. There’s a Windsor chair at the desk and Nick takes a seat and turns his attention to the computer. “So this here, A Slayer in Santorini, is the piece you were working on last night?”
“Yes,” Greer says.
“It says you closed it at twelve twenty-two a.m. But you told me eleven fifteen.”
“I stopped writing at eleven fifteen. I closed the document at twelve twenty-two, apparently.”
“But you said you went right to bed. You said you went to bed around eleven thirty.”
“I did go to bed,” Greer says. “But I had difficulty falling asleep, so I had a drink.”
“Of water?”
“No, a drink drink. I had a glass of champagne.”
“So sometime between eleven fifteen and twelve twenty-two a.m. you went to the kitchen for a glass of champagne?”
“Yes.”
“And did you notice any activity then?”
Greer pauses. “I did not.”
“You didn’t see anyone?” Nick says.
“Well, on my way back to my room I saw my daughter-in-law, Abby. She was going to the kitchen for water.”
“She was?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t she get water from the bathroom?”
“She wanted ice, is my guess. She’s pregnant. And it was a warm night.”
“Did you and Abby have a conversation?”
“A brief one.”
“She said she was waiting for Thomas to get home. He had gone out with Benji and the others.”
Ah, yes. Nick recalls that Abby was annoyed that Thomas had decided to go out. “Anything else?”
“Not really, no.”
“Did you see anyone else?”
“No.”
“And after you got your champagne, you returned to your bedroom to sleep?” Nick asks.
“That’s right.”
Nick pauses to scribble down notes. She lied to him ten minutes ago; there’s no reason to believe another word she says.
“Let me switch gears here. We found a two-person kayak overturned on your beach. Do you own such a kayak?”
“It belongs to my husband,” Greer says. She cocks her head. “It was left overturned on the beach, you say?”
“Yes. Does that seem odd to you?”
She nods slowly. “A bit.”
“And why is that?”
“Tag is fanatical about his kayaks,” Greer says. “He doesn’t leave them just lying about.”
“Is it possible that someone else used the kayak?”
“No, he keeps them locked up. If the two-person kayak was left out then he must have taken someone out on the water. If he were going out alone, he would have taken his one-person kayak.”
“Any idea who he might have taken out?”
Greer shakes her head. She looks far less confident than she did a moment ago, and Nick feels her losing her grip on the explanation she had so neatly written in her mind.
“I suppose you’ll have to ask my husband that,” she says.