EVERYONE EXPECTED that Christopher Brindle would be mayor someday. He was a handsome young lawyer, with a pretty, friendly wife and a baby, and when he was elected to town council, it just seemed like a matter of time.
Then his wife, Maria, was murdered—Victim Number Two—and within six months, he was remarried to a neighbor, who just happened to be his dead wife’s best friend. None of that had gone down very well with the public. Despite the fact that cops were unable to find anything linking Brindle to the murders, it wasn’t long before the scrutiny forced him to step down from the town council.
Chris Brindle and his new wife, Celeste, moved, which unfortunately means we won’t get to check out the crime scene while we talk to them. Their new place, in a ragged strip of town houses, is a far cry from the nice Cape Cod house that was all over the news when Maria Brindle’s body was found.
“I thought this guy was rich,” says Quill, as I park on the street.
“He had to quit the town council after the murders,” I say. “I don’t know what he does now.”
Quill rings the doorbell and we stand, waiting. In the entryway of the town house next door, a curtain shifts, and I glimpse eyes peering nosily out at us. The curtain snaps shut when the door opens.
The woman in front of us is tiny—barely five feet tall—with big eyes and tightly cropped black hair. She’s wearing an apron over jeans and a black sweater, and as she stares up at us, smiling broadly, she wipes her hands on a cloth and throws it over her shoulder.
“Hello, there,” she says. “How can I help you?”
I smile and hand her a flyer. “We’re doing a donation drive for the local library,” I say.
“Come on in,” she chirps. “I’m sure I can find something in here for you.”
We follow her into the town house and stand in the foyer. The house is a bit small and kind of rough around the edges, with scuffed paint and a large stain on the carpet in the corner. Something smells bad, burnt, and there’s a bit of smoke in the air. She smiles apologetically.
“I’m not much of a cook,” she says. “I’m trying to learn. My husband’s former wife was a fabulous cook.” She blushes, and her face drops as she realizes what she’s said. “I talk too much…” she says, trailing off. “What kind of stuff are you looking for?”
“We’re not picky,” I say. “We’ll take pretty much anything that you’re willing to get rid of, as long as it’s in good shape. People have given us bags of clothes, kitchen stuff, sports equipment, books.”
“I’ve got some old pots and pans in the basement,” she says. “Do you mind hanging out here for a minute while I go down and check?”
She opens a door on the other side of the foyer and disappears down some steps. As soon as she’s gone, Quill kicks off his shoes and tiptoes quickly further into the house.
“What are you doing?” I whisper furiously behind him. He turns back and grins at me.
“Hurry up!” he whispers back.
I can hear Celeste banging around in the basement. I hesitate for a second, then I step out of my shoes and follow him.
Quill has moved into the kitchen. It’s dated, like the rest of the house, but it’s cozy, with colorful dish towels hanging on the oven door and a couple of potted plants on the windowsill. A casserole sits on the stove, its top blackened and charred.
“Look,” says Quill.
He’s staring at the fridge. In the center of the door, surrounded by a mess of coupons and photos and bills, is a beautiful black and white photograph of a young woman with curly black hair. She’s holding a baby and smiling broadly at the camera.
I recognize the woman, and the photograph, immediately. It’s Maria Brindle in the same picture that was used in news reports about her murder.
There’s a noise, and we turn to find Celeste in the doorway of the kitchen, holding a cardboard box. Her smile fades when she finds us there. I feel a tight pang of guilt, like a knife between my ribs.
“I’m really sorry,” says Quill. “I yelled down, but you must not have heard us. We’ve been at this all day, and we’re super thirsty. Is it okay if we grab a glass of water?”
Her face brightens again, as she immediately buys his explanation.
“Of course,” she says. She puts the box on the counter and moves around us, filling glasses from the tap and handing them to us.
“Thanks a million,” says Quill. “I have to ask this, I’m sorry. Is that a picture of Maria Brindle on the refrigerator?”
I turn to stare at him, my eyes wide, willing him to shut up, but he ignores me. Celeste looks flustered, turning to glance at the photo. Her mouth drops open and she begins to speak, then stops and starts again.
“Yes,” she says. “Maria was my husband’s wife, and a very good friend of mine.”
“I’m so sorry,” says Quill, and the waver in his voice catches me off guard. “I shouldn’t have asked. It’s just…I was cousins with one of the other victims. Joey Standish. I saw the photo of Maria and I…” he trails off, and Celeste’s eyes widen with sympathy. She steps toward him and puts her hand on his arm.
“I know,” she says. “That monster took so much from us.”
Quill covers his face with his hand, and I wonder if he’s about to burst into tears.
“Oh my goodness,” says Celeste. “Please, come into the living room and sit down for a minute.”
She leads the way, stepping out of the room ahead of Quill. He drops his hand from his face and turns to glance quickly at me. To my shock, he flashes a quick grin, then his face drops back into its miserable disguise, and he follows her into the living room.
Celeste gestures for us to take a seat on a couch, and she sits across from us in a wingback armchair. Quill pretends to gather himself, and I just sit quietly. If he’s going to play this kind of game, he’s on his own.
“I’m sorry,” he says finally. His eyes are dry, but his voice is full of tears, and I can tell by the sympathetic look on her face that Celeste is convinced.
“It’s okay,” she says, soothingly.
“People just don’t understand,” he says.
She nods repeatedly, and I can see that she’s choking back tears. “I know what you mean,” she says. “It’s been really difficult for Chris, and for me too.”
“People were nice, at the beginning,” says Quill. “But I know that some people even kind of blamed Joey for her own death, like she put herself in that position.”
Celeste sits forward in her chair now, her eyes gleaming.
“People were horrible to us,” she says, her voice thick and emotional. “They said all kinds of terrible things. We had to move, just to get away from the old neighborhood.”
“Really?” asks Quill, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. “That’s awful.”
Now that Celeste’s talking, it’s like she can’t stop. “Our friends abandoned us. Even our families are acting distant. People think that Chris and I are terrible people. They assume that we were having an affair before she died.”
My stomach twists. I can’t believe that we’ve tricked her into unloading on us like this. I glance at Quill, wondering if he feels as guilty as I do, but he’s sitting forward, staring intently at Celeste as she speaks.
“Everyone had it backward,” she says. “I loved Maria. Chris loved Maria. But she was unhappy for a while before she died. She used to tell me that she wanted to leave Chris, but that he was trying to hold the marriage together. Then she died before anything was resolved, and Chris and I found comfort in one another.”
She stops suddenly and stares across at us, as if she’s only just realizing that we’re in the room.
“I’m sorry,” she says weakly. “I don’t know what came over me. I shouldn’t be telling you these things.”
Quill looks at me, his eyes widening meaningfully, as if he’s trying to send me a message, and I realize that he wants me to step in and help him out. I don’t know what to say. He’s so much better at this than I am. But the room has fallen into an uncomfortable silence.
“Do you know why?” I ask, stumbling my way toward an actual question. “I mean, why she wanted to leave him?”
She looks awkward. “I don’t know,” she says. “She wouldn’t say. She was vague. Distant.” She stands. “Really,” she says, “I’ve said too much. Please forgive me. This isn’t appropriate.”
“It’s okay,” says Quill. “I know what it’s like to have all this stuff bottled up. The murders made us all a little bit crazy.”
She smiles at him, grateful that he’s given her an excuse. “Yes, I think you’re right.”
We all turn toward the sound of a door opening.
“Celeste?” a man’s voice calls from the entryway.
“That’s my husband,” she whispers. “Please don’t say anything about this.”
A moment later, Christopher Brindle enters the room. He’s holding a briefcase and is wearing a suit. The top button of his shirt is undone, and the tie is loosened. He stops and stares at us, then toward his wife.
“Hi, honey,” she says, “These nice young guys are here to collect some donations for the library.”
“Yes,” says Quill. He stands up from the couch, and I follow his lead. “We’re throwing our first annual rummage sale. Should be quite the event.”
Celeste walks over to hug him, and Christopher’s face softens as he leans down to kiss her on the cheek.
“Supper smells great, honey,” he says, teasingly.
She blushes and giggles. “I’m trying!” she says. “I swear to God, I’ll get it right eventually!”
“I know that, Celeste,” he says. “I’m only picking on you.” He leans down and kisses her again, and I get the odd feeling that he’s doing it for our benefit.
“You’re early,” she says, pulling away. “I wasn’t expecting you for a couple more hours.”
“We should get going,” I say, shooting a glance at Quill. He nods, and we move around the couple and into the hallway.
“Don’t forget your stuff,” says Celeste. She takes the box out of the kitchen and hands it to me.
“This is great,” I say. “Thank you so much.” I grab the box, ready to get out of there, when a loud crackling wail fills the room. We all turn toward the sound, and I notice the baby monitor on the counter for the first time.
“Ashleigh’s awake,” says Celeste. “I’ll go get her.”
She disappears upstairs, and Chris Brindle’s smile disappears as he stares at us. “Do me a favor, guys,” he says. “Don’t come back here, okay?”
“Uh, yeah,” says Quill. “For sure.”
“I don’t know if you realize who we are,” he continues. “But we don’t appreciate uninvited guests coming around here. Got it?”
My mouth is dry, but I somehow manage to croak out a response. “We’re sorry. We didn’t mean to intrude.”
Chris steps out of the way and lets us pass, and we move back to the front door. Quill steps into his shoes, and then I hand him the box as I wriggle my feet back into my sneakers. The whole time, Chris stands at the entrance to the foyer, staring at us. His eyes are narrowed and suspicious, a look that seems as if it’s settled there permanently.
My hand is on the doorknob when Celeste appears, holding a young toddler in her arms. The little girl looks at us, wide-eyed, then turns toward her father and stretches out her arms. Our presence instantly forgotten, he turns to her, beaming, and grabs her from her stepmother.
“Say ‘bye-bye,’” says Celeste, and the little family turns to look at us as I open the door and step aside for Quill to move around me with the box.
“Thanks again,” I say, before I step outside. Celeste smiles at me, waving Ashleigh’s hand for her. Christopher Brindle watches us, stone-faced, as I back out the door and close it, finally, behind me.