CHAPTER NINE

Anna

There’s a detective here to see you,” the housekeeper, Mrs. Morrison, announces, wringing her hands together.

The whole house has been unsettled since the night of the party, the poor woman’s death rattling even the steadiest of nerves. The frequent coming and going of the police certainly hasn’t helped matters.

“Which one?” I ask.

“The lead one. Detective Pierce.”

I grimace.

“Is he waiting for me now?”

“He is. I asked him if he’d like to wait for you in the green salon, but he said he’d rather walk the property. I take it he meant for you to find him.” She says this last part with a sniff, and if it wasn’t for the dread filling me at the mere mention of Detective Pierce’s name, I’d almost be amused by her horror over his lack of good manners, although I’m not sure Mrs. Morrison holds us in much higher esteem.

Our money is new, and the staff knows it.

I have no idea where Robert found Mrs. Morrison when he hired her. He intimated that he stole her away from another large household with the promise of a hefty salary and the honor of presiding over Marbrisa. Given how skilled she is at running things, I can’t imagine what we would do without her. While she seemingly barely tolerates us, her devotion to Marbrisa is absolute. I asked her once about Mr. Morrison, and she told me her husband died fighting in France.

We never spoke of it again.

“Well, I suppose I’ll go find him, then,” I reply. “Did he say which direction he planned on taking?”

“He was headed toward the greenhouse when I last saw him.”

“And Robert?” I ask.

“He’s still out of the house.”

I’d much rather have my husband beside me when I face the detective once again, but if I’m to be on my own, at least it’s here, in my own home, rather than stuck in a cramped police station.

I take off in search of Detective Pierce, using the back entrance off the entry hall to make my way toward the greenhouse, the path reminding me of that awful night when I took the same steps out of the party. The stunning view of Biscayne Bay is entirely lost on me now. Ever since Lenora Watson drowned in the water, I haven’t been able to go near the edge, my gaze trained off in the distance, focusing on anything other than the place where she lost her life.

I find Detective Pierce near the greenhouse, watching the peacocks mill about.

“I almost hit one of these damned things driving in,” he says by way of greeting before turning to face me. “They act like they own everything around here, don’t they?”

“Are we talking about the peacocks now, Detective Pierce?”

I haven’t the energy for pretense today, to ignore the obvious fact that he doesn’t like us, and we all know it.

“I suppose we aren’t.” He smiles, little joy or humor in the gesture. “Who handled the invitations for the party?”

I blink, trying to keep up with his sudden change in topic. “My husband’s secretary. He sent her a list and she invited those people.”

“Did you put any names on the list?”

“No, I didn’t really know anyone down here. We invited Robert’s friends, business associates, that sort of thing.”

“Was it normal for you and Robert to socialize independently of each other? You say you invited your husband’s friends; did you not know them yourself?”

“Did you really come here to interrogate my social habits, Detective Pierce? I had no idea police work was so dull. Now really, this is becoming ridiculous. We’ve been more than happy to help, and we’re all very sorry for what happened to that poor woman, but you’re grasping at straws here. What does my social life have to do with Lenora Watson drowning in the bay?”

“No one invited her to the party. She wasn’t on the official list of invites that your husband’s secretary sent out.”

“I’m hardly surprised. It was one of the biggest events of the Miami social season. Many people were curious about the house. It sounds like Ms. Watson was one of them. That’s not particularly suspicious.”

“You know what I find strange?”

I take a deep breath, struggling to keep my temper at bay. For once, I’m glad Robert isn’t here; he’d be frustrated with this line of questioning, his patience over the police’s scrutiny growing with each day.

He resents us. The fact that we’re here, the house, the money, all of it. Mark my words, he’ll make a stink about this just because he can and because he wants to cause trouble, Robert warned me.

I’m beginning to think he was right.

I don’t respond to Detective Pierce’s question.

“I find it strange that Lenora argued with your husband before her death,” he continues. “After all, you just said that she wasn’t an invited guest. You didn’t know her. So, what business did she have with your husband?”

“What are you talking about? She didn’t have any business with Robert. He didn’t know her.”

The look Detective Pierce gives me is almost pitying.

“They fought. The night of the party.”

It takes everything in me to keep my expression neutral, my heart beating wildly in my chest.

“According to whom?”

“A guest who saw them. He said it looked quite heated.”

“He must be mistaken. Robert didn’t know Lenora Watson.”

“Funny, your husband told us the same thing when we interviewed him.”

“Just what are you suggesting?” I snap.

“I’m not suggesting anything, merely attempting to answer a few questions that have been nagging me since that night.”

“Well, I don’t see why you keep coming back here looking for answers. I’ve told you everything I know. I don’t have any answers left to give you.”

“Actually, you were more helpful than you might think. That necklace you mentioned—could you draw it for me?”

“Why?”

“The way you described it—” He flips through his notebook. “ ‘Encrusted with jewels,’ you said. That sounds expensive. Lenora Watson was a waitress at a hotel on Miami Beach. She wasn’t buying herself jewel-encrusted necklaces. But maybe someone gave it to her. Someone she was involved with.”

He doesn’t say anything else, but then again, he doesn’t have to. His words hang ominously between us, the implication blatant.

You don’t make it through more than two decades in a society marriage without learning that people like to gossip, that because some couples have their own affairs, people will accuse you of doing the same. But I know my husband. I know him with a certainty that resides in my bones. Robert might not be a perfect man, but he is a good one—a faithful and honorable husband. I won’t let Detective Pierce besmirch that, won’t let him try to tear down what we’ve worked so hard to build.

“Robert wasn’t having an affair with Lenora Watson.” My voice shakes, anger filling me. “I know my husband. I’ve been married to him over half my life. You can make whatever accusations you’d like, but my husband is a good man. Maybe some men have women on the side, but Robert isn’t like that. My marriage isn’t like that.”

How dare he threaten the foundation I’ve built my life upon.

“Mrs. Barnes—”

“No. You’ve said enough. You came here looking to stir things up, and it isn’t going to work. You have no proof that Lenora Watson wasn’t the victim of a tragic accident. She drowned. She wasn’t the first person to drown in that bay, as I’m sure you’ve learned by now. So you can keep fishing for answers all you want, but you’re never going to convince me that Robert was involved with her. And even if he was—which he wasn’t—then I can promise you that Robert would never have hurt her. My husband isn’t capable of that.”

“Everyone is capable of murder under the right circumstances.”

“How sad it is if you really believe that. I can’t pretend to imagine the kinds of things you see in your work each day, but I can promise you that you’re barking up the wrong tree here. When will you leave us in peace?”

The question comes out angrier than I intended for it to, the tight rein I had told myself that I would keep on my emotions disappearing with each word that falls from his lips. For the first time since the night of the party, worry fills me—not that my husband is guilty, but that we might have attracted the wrong kind of attention, that in building such an ostentatious house, in being so overt in our presence here, we might have just painted a target on our backs for anyone who takes issue with Marbrisa and with us.

“I need a sketch of the necklace, Mrs. Barnes, and then I’ll be going. You seem to remember it better than anyone else. We’d like to know who gave it to her. We’re hoping that the image can help jog a jeweler’s memory.”

“And if you think that Robert was involved with her, you’re essentially asking me to help you vilify my husband.”

“And if you think he’s innocent, then your recollection could help exonerate him. After all, if he didn’t give her the necklace, we can rule him out and find the person who did.”

I don’t for a second believe that’s his intent, but I also can’t envision Robert being capable of the things Detective Pierce suggests. You get to know someone when you spend over half your life with them. You see them at their best and worst moments, and even at his worst, Robert is still a good man.

“Fine. I’ll draw it.”

He hands me the notebook wordlessly along with a pen.

I hesitate for a moment, trying to remember that night, what the necklace looked like.

“I’m not much of an artist,” I warn.

“I’m not looking for a masterpiece. Just something that can help us identify the necklace.”

I take a deep breath, setting pen to paper, trying my best to re-create the piece of jewelry that I saw. When I’m finished, I hand him the notebook.

“I hope it helps.”

He merely quirks a brow at me.

“I do. We’re not monsters, you know. Regardless of what you might think. I feel sorry for her. And I do feel some responsibility to her. After all, she died at my party, in my home. But that’s where it ends. It was an accident.”

“You keep saying it was an accident. But you weren’t there. You don’t know. Tell me this—is there a chance that the whole reason you’re pushing this accident narrative is because you don’t want to look too close to home and realize that something terrible could have happened here?”

“A woman drowning is terrible enough.”

“It is. But it isn’t murder. I bet that’ll interfere with the parties you throw in the future.” He grimaces. “Or maybe it won’t. There are folks drawn to all manner of strange things.”

“Why are you so intent to make this into something nefarious? Why are you pushing so hard and looking for skeletons where there might not be any?”

He’s silent for a moment, looking over my shoulder and staring at the house behind me. “Because this is hardly the first time people like you and your husband have moved down here. You might have the biggest mansion, but we’ve been seeing the likes of you for a while now. You treat Miami and the locals like they’re disposable, like they simply exist to fulfill your needs. They’re my people. My neighbors, my friends. This is my home. I’m responsible for them. Lenora is one of mine. I owe it to her to find out what happened to her.”

“And if Lenora Watson was nothing more than an accidental drowning?”

“Then at least I will sleep at night knowing that I have discharged my duty to her family, that I didn’t sweep all of this under the rug merely because it happened at Marbrisa.”