BY CAROLYN HART
Peggy shivered despite her thick cashmere sweater. The temperature chilled after dark in August along the rugged Pacific Northwest coast, the tantalizing warmth of the day forgotten. Fog hid the cliff’s edge and the steep wooden stairs to the narrow rocky beach far below. Surf boomed, crashing against jutting rocks and massive boulders. She looked toward the stairs even though the wooden railing wasn’t visible.
Time didn’t help. Evelyn had died a year ago next Friday, but Peggy’s feeling of isolation—of suspicion—worsened every day. Damn the sheriff. Of course Evelyn’s fall was an accident. She remembered the sheriff’s cold gray eyes. “Sorry, Ms. Prescott, there’s no way to determine what happened to your sister.” How horrid it had been to read the story in this week’s the Beacon: Sheriff Roger Chavez announced the investigation into the death of Evelyn Marlow remains open. Sheriff Chavez said, “We are unable to determine whether Ms. Marlow died in an accidental fall, committed suicide, or was a homicide victim.”
When Peggy read the article, fury boiled inside. How dare he do this to her? “Homicide victim.” And anyone who knew Evelyn would scoff at the idea of suicide. Cheerful Evelyn. Happy Evelyn. Evelyn with scads of friends and men who loved her and lots of money from two ex-husbands. Everything fell into Evelyn’s lap without any effort. She flashed that sunny smile and gave a gurgle of bewitching husky laughter and everything came her way. A year ago Friday.
Peggy listened to the boom as tons of water slammed against the narrow strip of beach at the base of the cliff, swirling over boulders, foaming around jagged pinnacles. Peggy’s jaws ached. She concentrated on relaxing the tight muscles.
She wasn’t imagining the problem. The latest snub was the worst. She’d chaired the committee for the gala for three years. This year not a word to her. She’d received a letter about a meeting, but she wasn’t in charge. And there were the Smiths last Sunday at the club brunch, shying away from her after a sidelong glance. Some clients had left, as well.
Well, at least now she’d faced the problem: that people didn’t want to have anything to do with her, and perhaps with others who were here that night. Did the gala committee and the Smiths actually think she pushed her sister over the cliff? Or if not thinking of her as a murderess, they felt uncomfortable, constrained, wondering what happened that night on the terrace, believing there was something unexplained about Evelyn’s fall. Anyone could have an accident, including Evelyn. Evelyn fell. That’s all there was to it.
No one said anything to her face, but she knew the whispers were out there. Did Evelyn jump? Was she pushed? It was intolerable. Somehow she must dispel suspicion, stop the whispers. She was good at solving problems. That’s why she won the class action suit against the mining company that so many lawyers refused to take, took the case, and won millions and millions of dollars, enough to buy this Spanish mansion atop a cliff with a gorgeous view of the Pacific.
She would solve this problem.
Accident, suicide, murder.
People always thought the worst, of course. Evelyn was graceful. How could she possibly fall? Did something on the stairs make her stumble? I talked to her just the day before and she was so excited about the party. Peggy was tired of having her there. Do you suppose Peggy...
Peggy’s jaw ached again. It wasn’t fair. Why pick on her? Anyone at the house that night could have pushed Evelyn down the steps. Any one of them. They all had their reasons. Peggy’s eyes narrowed. Any one of them. Maybe that was the way to handle it. Get them all together. It would have to be done carefully, very carefully. But she was good at imagining, good at planning. Once they were here, when they didn’t expect it, she’d tumble out reasons for Evelyn’s murder, dark and twisty, like snakes slithering from an overturned bucket. She’d give the town something to talk about. She felt a surge of satisfaction. All right, if people whispered behind their hands, she’d help them spread malign imaginings. She’d give them suspects: Buddy, Irene, Meredith, Carlson and Jill, Walt. She’d bring everything out into the open. A reunion of those present the night Evelyn fell. What happened on the terrace wouldn’t stay on the terrace. The gossip would be too juicy to contain. When the night was done, the town would know about each and every one of them.
A sudden caw rasped against her. Only a seabird, but in it was an echo of Evelyn’s scream. So odd that no one had heard, but the surf was always loud, boom, boom, boom. The sheriff said Evelyn died at a quarter after nine. Her watch was smashed in the fall, the time caught and held forever. Peggy wondered where the watch was now. Maybe in an envelope in some kind of file at the sheriff’s office.
She canceled all appointments for the day. She found a box of lovely cards with a single red rose against a silver background. Though she always thought fast, moved fast, she took her time. She wanted each of them to come. The notes had to be perfect.
Peggy sat at her desk in the den and remembered that night. They’d had parties almost every Friday during the summer. Evelyn planned them, of course. Peggy was at the office. She’d missed a few working late, but they’d been fun when she attended. It was a usual evening. A fine meal. Games in the den. Wine and whiskey.
Evelyn loved setting a beautiful table, Limoges china, fine crystal for French wine. It relieved Peggy of the chore and pleased Evelyn. Peggy sat at one end as the official hostess since it was her home. Evelyn was simply there between marriages. With her most recent divorce, she agreed to the home going to her ex-husband, accepting instead a heftier settlement. She told Peggy, “Darling, I’ve had so much fun here with you, I’ll stay a while longer. I know you don’t mind.”
Evelyn was quite striking that night, ebony dark hair short in a jagged cut, oval face interesting rather than beautiful, mesmerizing gray eyes, pert nose, lips ready to curve into laughter, a perfect pearl necklace at her throat, a swirling gray silk dress.
Buddy Hayes sat next to Evelyn, often leaned close. Tall, lean Buddy with his narrow uneven face, one eyebrow higher than the other, wide mouth crooked in a teasing smile, light green eyes that reminded Peggy of a cat, intent, unreadable. Buddy had been her friend first. Until Evelyn came. She hadn’t seen him in several months. She’d called twice. It would be nice to see Buddy again.
Irene Porter, brittle, wary, full of herself. Peggy didn’t like Irene. She was witchlike, too thin, but a witch in expensive clothes, always the latest fashion, and a necklace with little ivory elephants on a heavy gold link chain. She’d taken the necklace off and passed it across to Evelyn. “My dear, just the finest ivory. Of course, it was smuggled but worth the risk. I’ll get one for you if you like.”
Peggy spoke sharply, told them about elephants and how they could think and talk and how ivory poachers were destroying them. Softhearted Jill looked at her with tears in her eyes. “Oh please, don’t tell us. That’s so awful.” But Walt immediately checked his phone, found out how much smugglers got paid for ivory tusks, said poaching sounded like a pretty good business to him and hey they were just animals.
Evelyn shook her head, her dark hair quivering. “Walt, you cried when George—” (her elderly basset) “—was hit by a car, so stop pretending to be a tough guy.”
Meredith, their young bubbly cousin, often visited. That night she was thrilled because she’d started as an assistant social media manager at a big ad agency in Seattle, which had clients—Meredith told them with huge eyes—from Addis Ababa to Qatar to Iceland. She wasn’t making much money and Seattle was so expensive. She was bunking on a houseboat and saving up to move to an apartment. She brought a new boyfriend one weekend. On her next visit Evelyn took her aside and said lightly, “Handsome is as handsome does. Watch that one, honey. He’ll be long on promises and short on performance.”
Then there was Carlson Carleton. Peggy frowned. Last summer she’d felt a spurt of pride—it showed her stature in the community—that a movie star came to her house often. Carlson and his wife, Jill, lived not far away. The actor wandered over on the cliff path some afternoons and challenged Evelyn to Ping-Pong and then professed great exhaustion and demanded a margarita for solace after he lost. Did his dark eyes hold longing when he gazed at Evelyn?
Jill sometimes bounced in and had a cocktail, too. Was she keeping an eye on her husband? Evelyn and Jill had often spent an afternoon together shopping, seeking out less frequented antiques shops, craft fairs, and flea markets.
Peggy found Carlson...odd. Almost like a papier-mâché figure. His face reflected emotions. That was it: the emotions seemed manufactured. But he was an actor. He did grave inquiry or roguish charm or affectionate rebuke beautifully. He was incredibly handsome, tawny thick hair, eyes dark as coal tar, rugged features. Jill was plain, little, and plump, with hair in golden ringlets and a sweet smile.
Peggy had entertained very little since Evelyn’s death. She’d have to change that. Once she took care of this cloud that hung over her, she’d have dinners again. Perhaps Cousin Meredith would like to help. Actually planning meals was a bore. She could always cater. But Meredith was a gourmet cook, her specialty Italian food after a junior year abroad in Florence.
It wasn’t long after the fireworks on the terrace ended that the group had begun to disperse. It was Jill a few minutes later who’d looked around the den and asked about Evelyn. “I didn’t see her come in.” When it became obvious Evelyn wasn’t in the house, Jill jumped up and rushed out on the terrace, calling for Evelyn. And it was Jill who looked over the parapet, saw a body sprawled on the rocks below, and collapsed in hysteria.
Buddy, Irene, Meredith, Carlson and Jill, Walt...
Peggy enjoyed Walt’s bearlike masculinity, his booming voice, his waspish humor, but she didn’t trust him an inch. He was a financial adviser to Evelyn. Peggy wasn’t amused when Walt boasted about the grand he “borrowed” from Evelyn for a Vegas weekend, but then won big and paid her back with interest. Peggy didn’t find jokes about mishandling money funny. Evelyn said Walt made her laugh and in today’s world that was worth an extra grand or so. Peggy was thoughtful. She knew Evelyn slept with him sometimes. Did Buddy know?
She picked up the first card and began to write.
Buddy Hayes heard the clang of the mailbox on the porch. He clicked off the computer, picked up the spiral notebook with his notes. He carried with him a sense of the oppressiveness and hopelessness in Malinta Tunnel, the heat, the thud of Japanese bombs, the swirls of dust shaken loose from the tunnel walls. How many today remembered Corregidor and the fall of the Philippines in 1942? This was a movie he wanted to make. The script was almost finished. Just a few things to check.
He opened the door, stepped onto the wooden porch. He loved this cabin, simple and remote, peaceful, a good place to work. He could afford to take a year off from teaching because of the inheritance from Evelyn. Evelyn was always telling one or another, “I’ll remember you in my will and you have to promise to smile when you think of me.” When she sprinkled the idea of largesse in her will on him, he’d grinned, given her a two-fingered salute. “Nice to know I’ll have some extra when I’m pushing eighty.” Evelyn was in her thirties, quite well, with no reason to believe she’d die soon. He imagined she’d make and remake her will a dozen times before death ever came, and he was under no illusion he would be her last love. They suited each other at the time. He liked new experiences and Evelyn was certainly that for him, a modest history professor at a junior college. He’d been surprised on her death to learn she’d added a codicil to her will and now he was, for him, a well-to-do man, money enough to buy a cottage in the hills outside Seattle, write a script he’d always wanted to write after stories his grandmother told him of her days in the tunnel.
He pulled down the aluminum lever, grabbed the mail. Catalogs. A letter from his sister. Two credit card bills. He frowned when he saw a square envelope, heavy thick paper, his name in Peggy’s distinctive printing, her return address. A quick rip, a glance at the rose against a silver backdrop.
Dear Buddy,
I’d looked forward to hosting a wedding on the terrace for you and Evelyn. I wish I could peel back the sad day when that dream ended and when I lost a sister who was always my best friend.
Although anniversaries are hard, especially anniversaries of heartbreak, I know you will want to lift a glass of champagne in Evelyn’s memory.
Everyone who was there that evening will be coming at eight to lift a toast to Evelyn. We can focus on what was fine and good for her.
We also—and I am very sorry to mention a dark reality—may wish to share what has happened to each of us since the sheriff left open the investigation into her death. I’m afraid there are whispers of murder. I hope together we can find a way to stop that kind of gossip.
Sadly—Peggy
The back of his neck prickled. The line from Macbeth, “Something wicked this way comes,” hung in his mind. Pine needles rustled. A squirrel chittered. Buddy walked slowly inside.
Irene Porter used a part-time secretarial service, but she sorted her own mail at the gallery. She didn’t want anyone else handling letters, seeing correspondence. That was one of Irene’s rules. She neither sent nor received emails or texts related to what she thought of as special transactions. Letters came from all around the world. She dealt with sophisticated correspondents. Usually there would be a general discussion of a particular artist. Nothing overt. And then a suggested meeting, say at the Pike Place Market or a game at T-Mobile Field. From there, possibly a deal. Or not.
She flipped rapidly through the envelopes, stopped. A rip.
Dear Irene,
Evelyn admired your expertise in art and several times shared with me insights about your amazing ability to offer customers once-in-a-lifetime acquisitions.
I know you recall her with appreciation. Though saddened by her absence, I know you will want to join us to remember her Friday night on the anniversary of her death. Please come at eight and we will toast her memory.
We also may wish to address the status of the investigation into her death. The case remains open.
Until then—Peggy
Irene didn’t need to check the calendar. Evelyn died a year ago. Just in time, actually. Who would have thought Evelyn, always so frivolous, would question the provenance of a painting—tell her with a smile that they’d likely been swindled, must contact the police?
A crinkle. Irene looked down. The card was crumpled in her hand, crumpled into a tight hard ball.
Meredith nodded approval at the mirror. Sometimes her brown hair frizzed in the sea-moist air but today her curls were neat as little lambs in a row and glossy as could be. Maybe that new conditioner was the difference. She smoothed one cheek. Yes, she looked nice. Nice and happy. Some days simply burst around her, bright as pink and green flares in the night sky. She felt a tiny twinge. Evelyn loved setting off fireworks from the stairs. She launched them herself, lighting one and then another and another. There hadn’t been any flare evenings since Evelyn died. Meredith had drawn a little heart on her wall calendar to mark the anniversary of her death.
Meredith still felt like a country mouse when she thought of Evelyn and Peggy. She’d grown up in a modest frame house, one of the tract houses put up after World War II. There was no money in the family until Evelyn became a sought-after model and from there segued into marriage with two rich husbands in a row and Peggy scored her class action triumph. Evelyn was always generous. She helped Meredith’s mom in her last illness, sent Meredith to college. Meredith felt a pang. Evelyn had been right about Nate. He was only interested in her because he thought she was rich. When Evelyn turned down Meredith’s shy request for a loan for his business plan, he’d dropped her flat.
Meredith popped up from the tufted bench, hurried to the closet for a linen jacket. She’d go down so Jeremy wouldn’t have to park. They’d have a glorious day at the zoo. She felt alive to the very tips of her toes.
In the downstairs vestibule, she unlocked her box. She loved living in an apartment house and thanks to Evelyn’s generosity she could afford a nice one-bedroom apartment in a lovely area. She pulled out several envelopes, returned all of them to the box to get later except one, a square envelope from Peggy.
Sunlight slanted through the vestibule transom, lighted the card.
Dear Meredith,
I plan a gathering here in Evelyn’s memory at 8 p.m. Friday and I’ll appreciate your help. We can share memories, offer a toast.
I know how fond you were of Evelyn and what a difference her legacy has made for you.
I hope also we can address an unfortunate result of the sheriff’s failure to issue a decree of accidental death. There are insinuations that someone present that evening is responsible for her fall.
I look forward to your coming to remember Evelyn and to confront suggestions of wrongdoing.
Until then—Peggy
Laura Frost wore her black hair in a short uneven cut. She was slender and moved with great energy and she loved her job serving as a buffer/go-to/handle-it assistant to Carlson and Jill Carleton. Who would ever have thought a girl from Walla Walla would end up working for a movie star! It just showed that all her odd jobs during college paid off, working for a catering firm, in a nursing home, in a lawyer’s office. She watched and listened and learned and was always willing to do her best. Now she arranged journeys, oversaw the household—including repairs and remodeling—directed the staff from the cook to the chauffeur, dealt with the accountant, made sure Jill’s frail mom was well taken care of. Whatever Carlson and Jill needed done, she would do. Her garage apartment, which was quite lovely with a marvelous ocean view, also contained her office, though she spent much of each day in the house.
One of her duties was to deal with mail. She almost added the square envelope to their personal stacks until she saw the return address label. She knew all about Evelyn Marlow and Peggy Prescott. When she was hired last fall, the first thing Jill said was, “Oh, you look so much like a dear friend,” and her eyes filled with tears.
Laura immediately thought her hopes of a job were dashed, but overriding that disappointment was her instinctive response. She reached out, touched Jill’s arms, gave her a kind look. “I’m sorry to make you sad.”
Jill brushed away tears. “Carlson, doesn’t that sound just like Evelyn. Oh my dear, I knew today was going to be a good day. When I got up this morning, a goldfinch lighted on the windowsill. You know that’s our state bird. Such a thrill. This afternoon here you are and every time I see you I’ll think of Evelyn and how much fun we had.” The job was Laura’s.
She held the square envelope in her hand. Not long after she started to work, Carlson—that handsome god of the screen—found a moment alone with Laura. “Thank you for being kind. That’s what I want for Jill. People think because she smiles and is cheerful that she’s a happy person. She is...fragile. We lost a baby and she’s never been the same. I want you to protect her. Ever since Evelyn died, Jill’s been afraid to go to the edge of the terrace, look over the wall at the rocks. Your most important job is to shield her from sadness. She can’t bear sadness.”
Laura enjoyed carte blanche. She determined what mail Carlson or Jill received. She picked up the silver letter opener, sliced.
Dear Carlson and Jill,
Our dear Evelyn died a year ago Friday. I know both of you have fond memories of her. Please come Friday at 8 p.m. We will raise a glass of champagne in her memory and share special moments.
There is also the matter of the investigation into her death. I have heard some unsettling rumors and feel that we should discuss how such attacks can be handled.
Warmest wishes—Peggy
Sometimes Walt opened the mail after breakfast. Sometimes a mound grew—especially if there were some big bills coming—and he rushed through a batch on a Friday night with a gin and tonic. This was a gin-and-tonic mail night. Suzanne was in Paris, spending every sou he’d earned this month. She always spent the first two weeks of August in Paris. He came to the elegant envelope, gave a whistle. A card from Peggy? He blinked and the gin fog cleared a little. Yeah, last year. He’d been glad to have some place to go with Suzanne out of town. But it wasn’t a fun night. Splat for Evelyn. So what could Peggy want? But he was bored, bored, bored. Maybe this would pop a genie from a lamp. Or maybe a Jeannie.
Dear Walt,
I know how close you were to Evelyn so you will be glad to help us all remember her. Just a small gathering as it was the night she died. Friday night at 8 p.m. Champagne in her honor.
Of us all, you perhaps have the best reason to remember her and will be especially concerned about the ugly rumors that her fall was not an accident.
I know I can count on you being here.
Best regards—Peggy
Walt stared at the note in her forceful writing. I know how close you were to Evelyn...
Damn.
Deputy Sheriff Cass Dulaney wished he was at the table. He was feeling lucky tonight. But playing cards on Friday nights stamped his ticket for this damp, ridiculous trek. Buddy Hayes was his poker buddy. Funny to think of Buddy as coming over all sensitive about the invitation to a requiem. Cass thought you never knew what a woman was going to do and this was just a sister coming up on a hard day. The first anniversary of her sister’s death. Tough. He looked over the report on the investigation. Yeah, the case was open. Roger said it could have been accident, could have been suicide—unlikely—could have been murder. Roger was a stickler for facts. The dead woman wasn’t drunk, clumsy, or stupid. So why would she fall? She was rich. She had a reputation for liking a variety of men. Did somebody push her? Could be. That’s why the case stayed open. If gossip was swirling around town as Peggy Prescott claimed, the sheriff’s office wasn’t in the loop. Was it possible? Sure. Could a rehash a year after the event lead anywhere? In Cass’s judgment, the likelihood this clambake would fry any fish was slim to none. But you do what you have to do for a friend and he liked Buddy Hayes. He eased his way in the shadows on the far side of the house, and fetched up in darkness at the edge of the terrace. About half an hour before the festivities would begin. He was grateful for his down jacket and long johns beneath his jeans. Damn cold. Always cold up here right off the ocean.
He felt the quiver of his silenced phone, hauled it from his pocket.
“You have that night camera?” Buddy sounded tense.
“Got everything. Camera. Lights. Action.” There was no appreciative chuckle. Probably tough for Buddy, coming back here, exactly one year later.
Buddy dimmed the headlights as he pulled into the circular drive. No other cars yet. He’d wait until someone else arrived. He had no wish for intimate conversation with Peggy. It would be painful. The sisters were both dark-haired, slender faced, attractive, but Peggy was Evelyn without a heart. Over time, any sense of resemblance faded. He’d come to a few of Peggy’s Friday soirees, skipped several when he thought she was a little too interested, then become a regular after Evelyn arrived. Evelyn was a mess—flirtatious, pretty, glorying in having and spending money—but something about her fascinated him. An openness to adventure. A disregard for convention. An essential kindness.
Irene Porter cupped her favorite bracelet in one hand, looked at the glow of the rubies in light from the Tiffany lamp. Hers. All hers. She lifted her gaze to a Caravaggio. Color everywhere. Her dress was multihued ripples of silk. She’d built a world beyond the imagining of most. She lived for color, for richness, for possession. Had Evelyn told someone about the painting, her suspicions? Irene looked at her diamond-encrusted watch.
Jeremy turned off the headlights. “Are you sure you want to go in?”
Meredith was already out of the car, looking up at the starry sky. “I have to find out.” Her voice quivered. “Peggy sounds like she thinks I pushed Evelyn. I didn’t. I loved her.” A swallow. “Look. There’s a car already here. We’d better go in.” How could Peggy think Meredith would hurt Evelyn? Meredith felt dizzy and sick, as if the world were tumbling and she couldn’t hold on.
Walt’s head ached by the time he turned into the circular drive, his fingers clamped to the steering wheel. Damn scary drive after dark. He’d kept the windows down. Lots of air. Still hard to see.
A rending sound.
Stupid dog statue. He’d knocked it over. Why did anybody have a stone Irish setter on a driveway? If you wanted a dog, get a dog. He wished to hell he were someplace with some swift handsome dog. Dogs liked people. He didn’t feel right now like anybody liked him. His head hurt.
Laura drove slowly. She didn’t know if people were fashionably late to this kind of... She didn’t know quite how to think of the evening. A moment of remembrance. A call to arms. Perhaps she’d be the last to arrive. She would murmur excuses for Carlson and Jill. Another engagement, so sorry, sent Laura to tell everyone how often they thought of Evelyn. And of course if there were anything upsetting in the way of accusations, she would tell Carlson. But not Jill. Never Jill.
She swerved her VW behind a Suburban that was parked on a slant. Uh-oh. Looked like the right front was smashed against a granite block.
Golden lights gleamed in tall post lanterns around the perimeter of the terrace although their glow was scarcely noticeable with the brightness of late summer evening. Peggy wondered if anyone recalled that she was wearing the emerald blouse and silver trousers and teetering heels she’d worn the night Evelyn died.
That night, Evelyn had fluttered bright as a monarch from person to person, and there was the cheerful hum of conversation and laughter. Tonight there was silence, the guests stiff and quiet.
Buddy stood with hands jammed in his pockets. He declined a drink. She almost pushed him, champagne for Evelyn, decided this was not the moment. The moment would come.
Irene held a champagne flute, her face masklike. Peggy thought it might be well to begin her attack with Irene, ask how were things in the art world, that is, the art theft world. That would be entertaining.
Meredith’s date stood with an arm around her shoulders. Peggy felt a flicker of irritation. Yes, she resented Evelyn leaving that much money to a cousin. After all, she had a sister. Even if Peggy didn’t need money, family should be preferred.
Peggy fought to control anger. Carlson and Jill weren’t here. It was almost a quarter after eight. She would have to begin soon. They were all waiting to say something nice about Evelyn and pepper her with questions about the gossip she’d heard. Well, not yet. Did Carlson and Jill think they were too important to come when invited by Peggy?
Walt was the only one seated. Sprawled, actually, on a wicker chaise. He’d declined champagne, held a tumbler of gin and tonic.
It was time... Suddenly she had a wisp of memory from out of nowhere. Evelyn home from college, rushing out the door on a date, turning to smile at Peggy, “Your day will come, sweetie. Remember if you smile a lot, everyone will love you.” But they hadn’t. She’d smiled. And smiled. But somehow always people moved past her, held out their arms to Evelyn. Even her parents. She blinked. Another memory. Evelyn rushing toward her with a pony-size plush reindeer. A big red nose blinked and blinked. “For you, sweetie.” Peggy felt the tears on her cheeks. She’d slept with her stuffed reindeer for years. Now he sat in the corner of her room, minus one ear, his nose no longer red.
Walt pushed up to his feet, lumbered toward her. “Hey, get a drink, Peggy. You need one.” He lifted the tumbler, slugged down a big swallow. “Look, you mean well. Trying to do the right thing for big sis. Hell, she’s probably quaffing some kind of nectar right now. I’m fuzzy on drinks up there.” He gestured with the tumbler toward the red-streaked sky, vivid with the sun splaying below the horizon. “Anyway, let’s all get drunk and you can warble out the crap somebody’s been sending your way. Who says one of us pushed Evelyn?”
Laura slipped into the shadow of an evergreen and gazed at the people on the terrace. She’d read the stories about Evelyn Marlow’s fall, seen the photos in the paper. The sister was upset. She faced the guests with the edge of the cliff a few feet behind her. Laura shivered when she looked at the weathered wooden railing on the steps. That was where the fall happened. Did Evelyn stumble going down the steps or was she standing on the platform, looking out at the sea? Maybe there was moonlight streaking the water. Did she somehow get too close to the edge and lose her balance? Suddenly Laura wished she hadn’t come. That heavy guy was drunk. Maybe he was trying to help, but she didn’t like the way his words slurred or what he said. A tall, thin woman reminded her of a bird of prey, watchful, dangerous. An older man looked grim. A nice-looking guy had his arm around the shoulders of a pretty girl, but her face was streaked with tears. Maybe this wasn’t the moment to say anything.
Peggy rubbed her face roughly. Nothing was going as she’d planned. She wanted heartfelt tributes. “The time Evelyn and I went to Vashon.”
“Remember when Evelyn had a divorce party?”
“Did you ever hear Evelyn sing ‘I Dreamed a Dream’?”
She could feel the boom of the surf as if the waves crashed over her. None of them would do as she wanted. All right, if that’s the way they wanted it, she would attack. Now. “The sheriff thinks one of us pushed her.” She heard her own voice, high, thin, harsh.
It was as if statues faced her.
Peggy felt so alone, so hated. She cried out, “We all know the truth. Evelyn was a tramp. A rich, beautiful tramp.” She pointed at Buddy. “Did you know she was sleeping with Walt? If you don’t believe me, ask him. But maybe you knew.”
Walt took a step toward Peggy. “Shut up.”
Buddy never moved, but his angular face jutted.
Peggy took a step backward. “Meredith wanted money. She tried to get money from Evelyn—and now she has money from Evelyn.”
Meredith gave a cry. “You’re awful. Evelyn was kind and good. Not like you.”
Peggy wanted to slap her, pull her hair. All of them were against her. All of them. But Carlson and Jill didn’t even come. Anger bubbled. “Who’s not here? Carlson and Jill. I know why they didn’t come. Carlson was always looking at Evelyn. It must have been Jill who was out on the terrace, who ran at Evelyn as she stood looking at the ocean, ran with her arms straight out and her palms slammed Evelyn’s back and Evelyn was pushed over the edge of the platform—”
“No.” A slight figure burst out of the shadow of the evergreen, ran toward Peggy. “She never ever did. She never—”
Peggy drew in a sharp ragged breath and began to move back, one step at a time. “Evelyn?” The name hung in the night air, as everyone stared between her and the young stranger with the short black hair and gray dress. “Evelyn!” She screamed.
Laura held up her hands. “No, I’m not—Stop!”
Peggy backed away faster now, her face white, her mouth working. “Evelyn, I didn’t mean to push you. But you took Buddy away.” She looked toward Buddy. The expression on his face, the loathing. “I couldn’t bear it, the two of you. It was an accident.” She clutched at her throat. “Evelyn was looking down at the water and I don’t know how it happened, but I was running—”
“Don’t,” Laura shouted. “Stop! You’re too close—”
Peggy sobbed, “—and she was there, and I pushed and she was gone. I didn’t mean—”
“Please.” Laura held out both hands.
Peggy was at the edge of the cliff. Suddenly she began to topple backward. Her face twisted in panic. Her scream rose in a crescendo.
Laura rushed to the edge. “Oh God—she’s on the rocks—the water’s slamming her—oh, someone help!”
Buddy made no move. His eyes held devastation but no surprise.
Irene folded her arms across her front. Perhaps there was a slight easing of her taut thin face.
Meredith clung to Jeremy and sobbed. He held her hard and tight.
Walt moved unsteadily toward a chair, sank down. “Jesus.”
Heavy footsteps thudded on the terrace. Sheriff Dulaney, a camera in one hand, looked over the edge of the cliff. “She must be dead.” His voice was calm, authoritative.
There was silence except for the boom of the surf.