I need a drink to quell my panic. I open the fridge. Thanks to Gloria, it’s sparkling, with Tupperware stacked like building blocks, all neatly labeled: Carrot sticks, Pastrami . . . There’s a half-full bottle of Chablis in the door well. I extract it.
“None for me,” says Jo, her tone implying I shouldn’t.
She’s right, but I don’t care. Wine’s nowhere near strong enough, but now’s not the time for oblivion. As it is, I’m not thinking straight.
I pull a can of San Pellegrino from the fridge and set it on the counter. Jo ignores it. She turns to glare at the picture windows. It’s too dark to see the gardens or the sea.
When I pour myself a glass of wine, I can barely keep the bottle steady. One sip, then another. It’s good wine, bought by Stan. The thought of him shuts my gorge. I splutter and squeeze my eyes shut.
Stan, my husband of sixteen years, some of them happy, is dead. I recall him lifting me over the threshold when we were newlyweds. How big he felt. How solid. He pretended I was too heavy and collapsed on the bed. Even when my dress was off and his pants down, we couldn’t stop laughing.
Fresh tears fill my eyes. That was so long ago. We’ll never laugh that way again. Not that we laughed much in recent years. I’m sick to even want him back. Stan got what he deserved.
Tears squeeze through my lids. They say it takes hours for the soul to leave the body. Where is he now? I picture him in my studio, hovering near the ceiling and watching us—spread out like board game markers from Clue: Ruby in the den; Zoe and the twins upstairs in bed; me and Jo freaking out in the kitchen.
Jo’s voice snaps me back: “The longer you wait, the worse it looks. You need to call the police now.”
In the light off the stove, she looks old, eyes cupped in shadows, glasses slightly askew. She used to have that sexy librarian look. Now it’s plain old librarian: hair in a sensible crop, clothes dull and practical. The divorce from Trevor took its toll.
Jo’s always been her own worst enemy, one of those supersmart women who makes inexplicably dumb choices—like Trevor Gregory, his smile a lasso. Champion bull rider and bullshitter. Who marries a cowboy?
I recall Stanley and shake myself. Jesus. Talk about stones and glass houses. “I can’t go to the police,” I say. “They won’t believe me. You know that. My only chance is to hide his body.”
Hide. This word shames me. You hide things you plan to find, as in hide and seek. Even now, I can’t be honest with myself. Dump. Dispose of. Bury. I must get rid of Stan.
Jo glares at me. One hand’s in her short hair. She tugs at it, something she’s done her whole life when she’s stressed or frustrated. “How?” she asks.
I have no answer. Every thought’s a deer trail, leading off into dark woods and petering out. I keep getting turned around, panic-stricken. I was hoping she’d know what to do. What if I’ve misjudged and she won’t help me? But she must. Jo owes me. My voice quakes. “Bury him? In the woods. I could be out of town in thirty minutes. Find an old logging road . . .”
Jo snorts. From the shine in her eyes, I know her mind’s reengaged. Jo loves nothing more than a problem to solve. A chance to show how smart she is. “Do you know how hard it is to dig a grave in the woods?” she says. “All those rocks and roots. Just last week two hunters found human remains near Gladwell Falls. It was this girl who went missing three months back. She was coming home from ballet when—”
I cut her off, my voice shrill. “What should I do, Jo?”
Jo’s scowling so hard there’s a crack between her brows. She chews her bottom lip. “I told you. Call the police. Get a great lawyer.”
“I can’t!” It’s a desperate shriek. “I kept bashing him! It was beyond self-defense!”
Jo inhales. I hold my breath. We’re both quiet. I feel ill. I shouldn’t have called her.
Jo’s gaze veers back to the windows. “You have a boat, right?” she asks.
I nod and stare into the dark, hardly daring to hope. Does this mean she’ll help me? “The yacht’s at the Yacht Club, but there’s a small motorboat down at the jetty.”
“It’s risky. Bodies float. You know, like those detached human feet?”
I don’t have time for Jo’s stories but can’t not ask: “What feet?” She’s full of facts, mostly useless but occasionally vital.
“In the past decade, at least a dozen human feet have washed up around the Pacific Northwest. They float because they’re in sneakers.”
I grit my teeth. “Stan’s not wearing sneakers.”
Jo looks at me, derailed from her train of thought. “We’d have to go out to where it’s deeper. And weigh him down.”
I nod, feeling shaky. She said we. That means she’s in. Oh, thank God.
Jo reaches for the San Pellegrino. I’m startled by the pop of the tab. She’s glaring at me, obviously waiting for some reaction.
“The ocean,” I say. “You’re right. The ocean’s better.” It’s right out back. Stan is—was—a water sports fanatic. He loves—loved—the ocean. It’s a better resting place than some shallow grave in the woods. More respectful.
I sag against the fridge. Is there no end to my bullshit?
“Dana, do you have a tarp?” asks Jo. Now she’s decided, she’s all action. Her voice is grim. “Moving him will be messy.”
My stomach lurches. Messy. “I . . . yeah. In the shed. And a wheelbarrow.”
“Right then.” She eyes the clock on the stove. “First things first. Where’s his phone?”
I blink. “What?”
“If he left, he’d take his cell.”
“Oh, right,” I say. “It’s charging upstairs. Beside our bed.”
“Go and get it and turn it off,” says Jo.
I nod. We must get rid of it.
“Are there security cameras?” she says.
“Outside,” I say, shocked I’d forgotten this too. “Front and back.”
“Go disarm them.”
I hesitate. “Won’t that seem suspicious?”
Jo snorts. “Not as suspicious as footage of us dumping Stan!” When I don’t move, she clucks. “Come on, Dana. It’s time to get moving.”
She sounds matter-of-fact, like we’re discussing a school fundraiser, not the disposal of my husband’s bloody corpse. But then I see her eyes, wide and bloodshot behind her unflattering glasses.
Fuck. This is bad. Jo’s as freaked out as I am.
* * *
Thank God my studio’s got a service entrance. It’d be hard to fit Stan out a regular door. And forget stairs.
The wheelbarrow lurches over the cobbles. In the drizzle, the stones are slippery. It’s hard to see where we’re going with all the outdoor lights off.
Jo’s pushing and I’m walking sideways, near the front, trying to hold Stan steady. It takes ages to reach the back of the house. The wheelbarrow rattles and tilts. I grab the tarp. It slips in my gloved hands.
While Jo fetched the wheelbarrow, I wrapped Stan in layers: towels, sheets, and this tarp, now tied with rope. He’s six foot one and 190 pounds. An enormous blue mummy. There’s no way I could manage this without help.
To our right lie a row of pines and the dark roof of the guesthouse. “Left,” I whisper.
Jo’s panting behind me. Her job’s harder. I look back. Her arms are wobbly. “Jo?” I say. “Want to trade places?”
She shakes her head and steers left, her neck cabled. We cross the stone terrace just below the front patio.
Below this lies a huge lawn, then a lower Japanese garden with a lotus pond. At the far end of the house, a sloping path cuts down to the boathouse on the rocks. Last of all come the dark pebbled beach and the jetty.
The steeper the slope, the jumpier the wheelbarrow. It’s getting harder to hold Stan steady.
“Stop,” says Jo. She sets the wheelbarrow down and straightens, swivels her wrists. “Shit. Look at that boat ramp.”
I twist to follow her gaze, eyeing the steep angle. If we lose control, he’ll shoot off the end of the dock. Imagine that: Stan found right out back in shallow water, gift-wrapped.
“What if I walk in front?” I say. “I could slow the wheelbarrow.” Or would Stan mow me down? He’d surely want to.
Jo doesn’t answer. She’s probably trying to work out the physics. Her hair sticks up where she’s been tugging at it. That, and her round, worried eyes, make her look younger, almost childlike. She grinds her teeth, thinking.
“Jo?” I say, to bring her back. We’re exposed out here on the rocks. What if that old busybody Harold Attwater’s awake, two doors down? There’s not much Stan could be besides a corpse. A rolled carpet? A pile of two-by-fours in a tarp? Harold Attwater reports jaywalkers. I fear he’s on the phone to Crime Stoppers this very minute.
Jo’s eyes snap to mine. “Let’s get him to the top of the ramp and tip him, then drag him down.”
“Okay.” Thank God for Jo. I’d be even more screwed without her.
She positions the wheelbarrow at the top of the ramp. “Come on this side and help me.”
There’s a dreadful thud when we drop him.
Long after we’ve dragged him down to the jetty, I can still feel that thump in the pit of my belly.