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THE MYSTERIOUS DEATHS, later associated with Mitzi Matthews, followed by her untimely demise at the hands of Heather Green, Delta County’s golden child, were the biggest events to happen in this area for decades. Since the news of Susan Grant’s body being found by that same golden child, the media is losing their collective minds. Every news outlet in a three-state radius wants a quote from me, the “Queen of Northern Michigan True Crime.”
I stare at the 59 unread emails in my inbox and strongly consider clicking two buttons: “select all” and “delete.”
My heart breaks for Heather. She had nothing to do with Susan’s death, but the media is going to jump at any chance to connect the two. It’s only a matter of time before the public finds out about Susan’s threats and visit to Heather’s house last week.
I close out my browser – I’ll deal with this later. In fact, I’ll have Jessie handle it for me. She is technically my publicist, after all. A questionably murderous publicist who is dating my only brother, but a publicist, nonetheless.
Before our little day of “fun” begins, I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor of my master bathroom. I’ve read a lot about the benefits of meditation but can never seem to find the patience to do it myself. Today, I’m giving it the old college try because I need to be level-headed for this discussion with Jessie.
I try to put myself in her shoes. What if I did something horrible when I was sixteen years old and kept the secret for decades? That’s a horrible thing to bury deep inside all these years, and I’m sure it’s done irreparable mental damage. The truth is, if these events did happen just as Jessie described in the fictitious confession letter, I understand her actions. I probably would have done the same thing. Cassie Huntington was a horrible human being; I knew firsthand. People seem to forget in situations like this because you’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead and it’s just a little easier on everyone involved to say kind things about a person once they’re gone. But I was there. She was a nightmare of a person.
I think of what Jessie must have gone through that night, and the idea of her not being able to tell me, her best friend, brings tears to my eyes. I am also somehow grateful that she didn’t burden me with that information because who knows what my sixteen-year-old brain would have decided to do about it. I feel like I’ve lived a lifetime since then and am much better equipped to handle the situation now. I just need her to be honest with me.
I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth. Or is it supposed to be in through my mouth? I know I’m supposed to be doing one or the other. I’m sitting up straight. I need to do this more often; my posture is horrendous from spending so much time on my laptop. Am I supposed to have my eyes open or closed? Dear Lord, I need to clean the jets in my bathtub. Didn’t I read something about using baking soda?
Okay, maybe meditation isn’t for me.
I hear the chime signaling the front door is open and check my watch; it must be Jessie. I hear her pad up the stairs and kick my door open without warning.
“Yes, hi, I have a date with bestselling author Quinn Harstead,” she deadpans, still wearing her dark sunglasses and holding a coffee in each hand.
I roll my eyes and can’t help but grin.
“Oh, shut up. Is that coffee for me?”
She reaches forward to hand me the cup and I see by the scribbled writing on the side that it’s a pumpkin spice latte. I scrunch my nose; it’s still nearly eighty degrees outside.
“What? It’s September!” she laughs.
“I’ll allow it. Thanks, Jess.”
“Remember when Christy wouldn’t let you have coffee for like a decade because it made you act like a lunatic?” she says in her signature taunting tone.
“Oh, I’m still a lunatic, I just learned how to hide it from Christy so I can have the good stuff,” I say with a wink.
She nods in agreement and sets her coffee on my nightstand before gently leaping in the air and falling on her back in the middle of my king-sized bed. She closes her eyes and exhales before hastily climbing back out.
“Ew, I miss when this was just your bed. I just realized that Aiden is probably naked in here now.”
“Yeah, his bare ass is usually right where your head just was,” I respond.
I take a sip of my latte and she’s right; it tastes like September. This is the last warm week in the forecast and I’m actually looking forward to the colder temps. I had a book signing in Chicago last week and treated myself to a shopping trip on the Magnificent Mile where I bought an embarrassing number of sweaters, but it’s been too warm to wear them.
My social anxiety is somehow better in bigger cities because I rarely get recognized. Thousands of people read my books, but I don’t let Jessie post many pictures of me on my social media accounts, so most readers have no idea what I look like. The only time I really get attention is in Michigan. I don’t mind getting approached in public, it’s the ones who don’t approach me but whisper loudly and take not-so-discreet cell phone videos of me in line at the deli counter that make me uncomfortable. If they just came up to me, I’d be happy to talk and pose for pictures with them instead of just a blurry shot of the side of my face they took without thought.
“So, what’s on the agenda for girl’s day?” Jessie asks. I requested complete control over today’s plans.
“Well, first I have two wonderful ladies coming to the house to give us massages and pedicures. I had Aiden pick up a bottle of champagne before he left so we can make mimosas.”
“I love it already,” she interjects, excitedly clapping her hands together.
“We’ll relax around here for a while before our appointments at three to get our hair washed and styled in Gladstone. I figured we’d catch the new Jennifer Garner movie at five and then we have reservations at The Stonehouse at seven. My brother is going to give us a ride home so we can enjoy some drinks with dinner. Sound good?” I wait to see her reaction to me casually throwing my brother into the plans.
“Matt? He’s giving us a ride home?”
“Well, he’s giving me a ride home. He can take you wherever you’d like.”
“Wow, Q. Thank you for being so understanding. You had me a little worried yesterday; I barely slept last night.”
Although I’m not exactly thrilled with her behavior lately, this gives me a lump in my throat. I love Jessie and I can’t stand the thought of my actions keeping anyone awake at night, let alone my best friend. As I lay awake myself last night, I realized I probably was overreacting about Matt. It’s just that I don’t see the relationship lasting, and a breakup will change everything. I guess we’ll burn that bridge when we get there.
Our day goes exactly as I’d hoped. The massage and champagne get her guard down enough to have some honest conversations about how the relationship with Matt began. Apparently, he stopped by one night while Jessie was working late, and Aiden and I were gone to Mackinac Island for the week. His divorce was finalized after months of back-and-forth with their lawyers (would you believe that woman thought she was somehow entitled to some of my money? I’m his sister!), and he was feeling a mix of relief and sadness. Jessie tells me that they stayed up half the night talking, and by the time he left, he told her that she helped him feel optimistic about his future for the first time since the split. This makes me quite thankful for Jess. We were all concerned after his wife left him; he barely got out of bed for weeks.
By the time we load into my car to head to our hair appointments, I’m miraculously bordering on acceptance of the relationship. Her eyes light up when she talks about him, and even though he’s my disgusting older brother, it’s the excitement everyone hopes to see from their best friend. I promise, I’m going to try my best to be kind about the situation. They just better not dream of kissing in front of me. I have to draw the line somewhere.
A few hours later, with blow-outs that make us feel like a million bucks (and they nearly cost that; I swear those women charge me more because I have money) and sides that hurt from laughing for two hours at our new favorite romantic comedy, we head to The Stonehouse.
Although it’s the nicest restaurant in Escanaba, I don’t come here nearly as often as I’d like because it’s a bittersweet place for me. Growing up, my father was best friends with Rocky, the owner of The Stonehouse. I called him Uncle Rocky, and he always gave me a fifty-dollar bill for Christmas, which made me feel like a millionaire. My dad spent so much time sitting at the end of the bar “shooting the shit” with him, my mom would call the restaurant phone to tell him it was time for dinner. The old, faded yellow rotary phone would clang and all the regulars would call out, “Time for dinner, Jim!” and belly laugh.
I can’t help but look at that barstool as I pass by on our way to the hostess stand. It’s now occupied by a man with an expensive suit and a briefcase at his feet. He’s ignoring the whiskey glass in front of him while angrily tapping away on his iPhone. Rocky passed away from a heart attack a few years after Mom died and Dad hasn’t been back since. This place may have the best food in town, but it will never feel the same again.
“Ahh, Mrs. Brooks. It is such a pleasure to see you, and we are so happy you chose to dine with us tonight! Are we celebrating anything special?” asks the middle-aged woman, who I believe introduced herself as the Front of House Manager last time Aiden and I were in.
I glance at Jessie and smile. “Friendship,” I reply. She reaches down and gives my hand a quick squeeze.
The woman, who looks strikingly similar to a young Diane Keaton, leads us to the private room I requested when I made the reservation. It’s normally reserved for parties of 8-10, but I offered to pay whatever I needed to for some privacy.
As we are seated, a server shows up to open the expensive bottle of red I requested over the phone. Unscrewing the cork, he pours a sample into Jessie’s glass after I motion to defer the first taste.
“Oh, excuse me, I didn’t know we were going all out for girl’s night!” Jessie laughs, putting her pinkie in the air as she sips the wine.
She nods her approval to the server, and he leaves the room after introducing himself and telling us about the special, which we both ordered without looking at anything else on the menu. The smile on his face tells me he has heard about how I tip and knows he’s in for an easy hundred dollars. Those of us who grew up without money and now have an abundance of it seem to be the ones who have no issue sharing it.
Jess and I make small talk while devouring our steaks and are on the last few sips of wine when I cash out with the server and ask what time his next reservation in this room is.
“You’re the last for the night, Mrs. Brooks.”
“Great,” I smile, before slapping two extra twenty-dollar bills in the check presenter and asking him for about thirty minutes of total privacy.
He enthusiastically agrees and Jessie looks perplexed. The server leaves, sliding the large banquet room door behind him. She nervously laughs and looks at me, cocking her head.
“Jess, we need to talk,” I say, leaning down to grab my purse under the table.
I reach in, retrieve what I’m looking for, and gently place it on the table in front of her. She immediately pales and sits in stunned silence before opening her mouth to speak.