It’s Sunday. I’m on hold with Glebes Bay General. I called to check on Alma Reyes’s condition. I heard on the news that she needed more surgery. I’ve been worrying about her. And feeling guilty for running that damn stop sign.
My cellphone rings. It’s Dana. I hesitate. I’ve been on hold for ages already. And they probably won’t tell me anything anyway. Patient confidentiality. I hang up on the hospital and accept Dana’s call.
“Jo?” she says. Her voice is high with distress. “I need to see you. I . . . I found another—”
I cut her off. I’m scared her phone’s tapped. “Wait! I’ll come over!”
“No,” she says. “I had to get out of the house. I’m at the club with Zoe. Come here!”
The Oaks Yacht and Country Club is private. The family joining fee runs around my annual salary. Then there are eye-watering monthly fees.
For this insane sum, members get access to a gym, a spa, an indoor-outdoor pool, a thirty-six-hole golf course, tennis and racquetball courts, a restaurant, a café, and a kids’ club, plus the chance to mingle with the crème de la crème of Glebes Bay. Why the hell would Dana want to go there?
“Ruby!” I call. “Go find your coat, hon. We’re going to meet Zoe.”
I’m helping Ruby tie her shoes when she says, “Mommy, why don’t we have a real house like Zoe?”
I lean back and study my daughter. Should I broach this later? No. She deserves an answer. “You know, there will always be people who have more than you,” I say. “A bigger house, better toys.” I tie her laces into a bow. “But many people have much less. Kids who don’t have a home at all. Some kids are even hungry. So we’re lucky, Rubes. Most of all because we have each other.” I tip forward and kiss her. “Right, love?”
She nods and looks solemn.
I hustle her out to the car. After that speech, I wish we weren’t headed to rich-people central.
It’s raining again. There’s not much traffic. The Oaks Yacht and Country Club faces Norman Gaynor Park and sits on the bay. The clubhouse overlooks the moored yachts. I’m relieved to find the club’s parking lot lies almost bare. The guest slots are way at the back.
Ruby skips beside me as I plod toward the club’s entrance.
Its portico screams glitzy hotel, while the lobby features gleaming floors and too many pillars. The centerpiece is one of Dana’s giant floral arrangements. She always does them. This week’s features pink Easter lilies. They’re vile, slutty flowers.
“Can I help you?” A woman in a teal suit appears out of nowhere. Tall and thin, of indeterminate age, her blond hair secured in an expert twist. Her teeth are scarily perfect. “I’m Sophia, our guest relations manager.” She looks me up and down and winces.
My sweatpants’ knees are baggy. I should have changed, but for fuck’s sake, I can dress how I want. It’s the weekend.
I scowl at her. Snobby bitch. It’s not like she could afford to be a member here either. I unbutton Ruby’s coat. “We’re here to meet Dana McFarlane.”
When Dana appears—dressed for yoga—she looks pale and fragile. A towel’s draped over her spindly neck. She’s clutching a Stella McCartney gym bag.
“Hello, darling!” she says to Ruby. “Zoe’s upstairs in the Kids Club.” Her fake cheer sounds painful. “Why don’t you go find her?”
“Okay, Auntie Dana!” says Ruby.
We watch her bound up the stairs.
Ruby loves playing with Zoe. She loves the Kids Club. I try not to compare the girls, but it’s hard, Zoe with the best of everything and Ruby with hand-me-downs. Not to mention Zoe’s private school education. Expensive lessons and tutors. College tuition. Job prospects. In short, their vastly different futures.
My envy feels petty now that Zoe’s lost her daddy. I sign my name in the guest ledger. Poor Zoe. Not that Trev would win Father of the Year. His efforts add up to the occasional ill-chosen gift and sporadic video calls: Trev grinning like a clown and referring to himself as “Daddy.” What an ass.
I start to unzip my raincoat, but the zipper gets stuck. I yank at it. Thinking of Trevor never helps. His debts and deception. The feel of his lips beneath my ear. Even now, the thought stirs a tingle.
I grit my teeth, angered by my old longing. Did I love Trev this fiercely when I still had him? Maybe. But only because I never really had him. That was Trev’s appeal. I don’t need a therapist to tell me when I’m repeating a childhood pattern. Unfortunately, just because your brain catches on doesn’t mean your heart ever will.
“Come on,” says Dana. She plucks invisible lint off her Lululemons. “Let’s go get coffee.”
As we walk toward the café, I tell myself to stop dwelling on Trevor. He wasn’t special. The world’s full of men too selfish to behave like adults. Men who leave their children to be raised by women.
Dana opens the café’s door. Soft rock wafts out. I follow her in.
I need to focus on the present, on me and Dana. Our big problem. If the police catch on, I could lose everything—even Ruby. Why didn’t I say no to Dana?
Seeing her beaten face, I couldn’t think clearly. It was like finding an injured stray. I had to help. She’s done so much for me. Still, how could I have been so stupid?
Dana heads for a booth. I follow. The club’s café does my head in. With all its ruffles and clashing florals, it’s like the designer swallowed decades worth of Laura Ashley and spewed it back up.
Dana slumps onto a chintz banquette. She’s white-faced—apart from her bruises, now faded to mustard and rust. They’re ghastly, of course, yet they somehow accentuate her bone china beauty. Typical Dana. She pats her face with her towel.
I settle across from her. “What’s going on?”
She looks around in case someone’s listening. But the café’s nearly empty: just two older ladies in the far corner, drinking Bloody Marys. They’re both wearing floral dresses, as if trying to blend into the decor. The one facing us eyes Dana and says something to her companion. A moment later, that woman twists and pretends to stare out the back window.
Dana doesn’t notice. “I found this in my mailbox.” Her voice is ragged. She pulls a piece of paper from her gym bag and hands it over.
I flip it open.
three million dollars and this goes away.
get it ready.
“Huh.” I swallow. “So it is about money.”
Dana nods. Even her lips lack color. “I don’t have it. I mean, I don’t know if I can get it. Not without the cops noticing.” I set the note face down on the table, between us. She takes a deep, shuddering breath. “If I could,” she whispers, “do you think this would end?”
My mouth’s gone dry. “I doubt it.”
A crooked smile flits across her lips. “That’s not how it works, right? At least not on TV. Blackmailers keep wanting more.”
I shrug. My thoughts swirl.
A waitress appears. She looks about sixteen, with bad acne. Not a Stanton House student. She’s got a sweet smile and demeanor. We both order chai lattes. “Put it on my account,” says Dana.
When the girl retreats, Dana leans closer. “What if they go to the cops?”
“They won’t,” I say. “At least not yet. If they do, they lose all hope of getting money.”
She nods mechanically. “Right. What should I do?”
“Wait?”
Dana blinks at the note, a tiny white square, like some evil portal. “But . . . I’m going crazy.”
“Three million dollars,” I say. It’s hard to imagine that much money. “If you were sure.” I swallow. “Like totally sure this would end.” I study the tablecloth: a creepy print of red roses against a black background. “Could you get it?”
Dana tugs at her towel. “Maybe? Like if I sold some art, maybe?”
“Art.” My eyes find the wall, covered in striped floral wallpaper. I look through it. I try to remember the artwork at Stan and Dana’s.
A few years back, Stan realized investing in art could pay off. Maybe we all have a special talent, if we can find it; Stan’s was making money.
Their whole giant house is full of ugly paintings—mostly abstracts, splotches and lines in primary colors. They’re not Dana’s style. Stan chose them because the artists were famous.
“There’s a Van Dortmund in Stan’s study,” says Dana glumly. “It’s worth about two million.”
“What?” I blurt. Holy shit. “Dollars?”
I try to picture Stan’s study. I haven’t spent much time in there. From what I remember, it’s like a cheesy men’s club from the eighties. Stan modeled himself as a self-made man’s man. He smoked cigars and drank overpriced whiskey. He had a vintage Harley he rode maybe twice a year. He liked to mention his “poor” childhood.
I met his parents at the wedding. They were both civil servants, far from rich, but Stan didn’t grow up in a ghetto.
“The Van Dortmund,” I say, “what does it look like?”
“It’s of some gumballs. Kind of pop arty.”
Seeing my expression, she snorts. “I know, it’s ridiculous.” She sighs. “No, it’s obscene. Two million dollars. And I hate it.” The anger in her voice takes me aback. “I hate pop art,” she says. “It’s tacky.”
I nod. On that, we agree. If Stan had to collect million-dollar paintings, couldn’t he have bought some impressionists, dreamy landscapes that one could get lost in? A painting of gumballs seems especially wrong in Winderlea. Dark scenes of massacres, maybe, but not fucking gumballs. I imagine the house was offended.
“There’s also a Gustav Cleggs,” continues Dana. “It must be expensive. Some dealer wanted to buy it last year, but Stan wouldn’t sell. He said Cleggs was still gaining.” She frowns. “I should find the dealer’s contacts.”
I nod numbly. The waitress reappears with our drinks. She sets them down. “I’ll sign for those,” says Dana.
After she’s gone, Dana bites her lip. “Or could I sell some jewelry, maybe?”
My eyes flash to her ring. “The resale value on diamonds is lousy.”
Her eyebrow lifts. “How do you know?”
I speak through an ironic smile: “Oh well, you know, with all the diamonds Trev showered on me.” I shrug. “I read it somewhere.” I point to her ring. “How big is it?”
“The center stone’s nine carats.”
I don’t react. For fuck’s sake. That’s bigger than Meghan Markle’s.
“It came with a certificate.” She glares at her ring. “It must be worth something.”
“Okay,” I say. “At least there are options.” I feel compelled to add: “Thank God you didn’t toss it.” I take a sip of my chai latte. It’s sickly sweet.
“It was a stupid impulse,” she concedes. “I sort of lost it.” There’s a bit more color in her cheeks. Being able to discuss things has calmed her.
Yet soon her face clouds over. “When I found the note in the mailbox, I saw a van parked out front. It had tinted windows.” She chews on her lip. “I couldn’t see inside. I wondered if it was the cops. You know, a sting op?”
Last week, this term would have been laughable on her lips; a sting op, like we’re in an episode of UC: Undercover. Now, I can’t help but worry.
“What if they planted the note?” whispers Dana.
“The cops?” I drink a bit more of my chai latte. Good God, what a thought. “It can’t be them,” I say. “Surely that’s entrapment!” I squint. All these hideous patterns. And the music! A headache has flared out of nowhere.
“What if they suspect me and are leaving the notes to flush me out?” says Dana. “If I had nothing to hide, I’d show the police.”
Yes, she would. Who wouldn’t?
“Should I show the cops?” She sounds freshly tearful.
“If it’s not the police, you’d just raise their suspicions,” I say. “And what if they actually find the blackmailer and this person took pictures with his phone or something? He’d quickly confess to blackmail if he got accused of kidnapping or murder.”
Dana picks at her French manicure. I can’t remember the last time I saw her with chipped nails, despite all her flower arranging. Her hands look thinner and veinier. “What should I do?” she asks.
I take a deep breath. “We need to figure out who’s sending these notes. To make sure they have no real proof we’re involved.”
“Okay.” She still hasn’t touched her drink. “And then what?”
I shake my head. “We need a list of suspects. Everyone who could have seen us, even if we don’t suspect them.” I nod at her gym bag. “Any chance you’ve got a pen?”
“No. Try the waitress.”
I rise and borrow paper and a pen, then return to our table. The two older women drinking Bloody Marys eye my saggy track pants with a mixture of delight and horror. At least I’m giving them something to talk about. They can spend the next ten minutes speculating about why I’m here with glamorous and tragic Dana. What could we possibly have in common?
“So.” I regain my seat and put pen to paper. “Did you check the security camera?” I know there’s one by the gate since I turned off the system shortly after Dana showed me Stan’s dead body.
“The CCTV’s been off since—you know, that night,” says Dana. “I forgot to turn it back on.”
“Crap,” I say. “Make sure you fix that. They might use the mailbox again.”
“Will do,” says Dana.
I think back to the two of us disposing of Stan’s body. “Okay. That night. Who might have seen something?”
Dana twists her diamond ring. “Stan’s partner, Ralph Isles,” she says. “He said he came over that evening. I think there are business issues. Maybe a problem between him and Stan. Ralph could have come later. After . . .” She gulps. “You know.”
I nod. After Stan was dead.
I imagine Ralph Isles watching me and Dana wheel a long bulky object through the dark garden. After Stan went missing, it wouldn’t take a genius to put two and two together. I write ralph isles.
“Who else?” I ask.
“Ryan Reeve?” Her cheeks have colored.
I write his name without comment.
“Gemma Costin,” she adds.
I look up. My eyes narrow.
“She’s been sneaking over to be with Chad. I found her in his bedroom last night. I guess she could have come round that night too.” Her voice shakes into nothing.
“Shit,” I say quietly. Dana should have told me sooner. If we all have a special talent, Gemma Costin’s is leveraging off weakness.
I tap the pen against my teeth and picture Gemma in the dark, spying on me and Dana. She’d film us on her cell phone. That’s what kids do. Every moment is documented with selfies and video clips. Any second now, it could go viral.
The pain behind my eyes has splintered. I reach up to rub my temples.
My hand shakes as I write Gemma’s name.
Dana’s voice has thinned. “Do you think she’d tell her mom?”
I consider. Gemma is sixteen years old. Kids that age don’t tell their parents much unless it suits them. What might Gemma want? Power? Prestige? To make trouble? She’s a vampire who feeds off frailty.
The pen’s slippery in my hand. “I don’t know.” I add a question of my own: “Would she tell Chad?” My fingers hurt from gripping the pen so hard.
Dana doesn’t respond. Her eyes look glassy.
I write Chad’s name. And Owen’s.
While Dana’s lips tighten, she stays quiet. She swipes the note off the table and zips it into a pocket of her gym bag.
“I’m just listing everyone who could have seen or heard something,” I say. “Everyone who could have sent those notes. I don’t think it’s the twins. Or Ruby or Zoe, obviously. Although I guess they could have seen something and mentioned it to someone else. A teacher at school? Or how about Gloria?”
Dana shrugs. I add her housekeeper’s name to the list. Just in case, I add Zoe’s and my daughter’s names too.
Dana nods. For a second, she looks mollified, then her eyes narrow. “And you.”
I look up, startled.
“Since we’re just listing coulds,” she says softly.
A sour taste fills my mouth. She won’t meet my eye. I take a deep breath and add my name to the list. “Right.” Does she really suspect me?
“I know it’s not you,” she adds. “Obviously.” Her voice has that same conciliatory tone as mine when I’d assured her I didn’t suspect the twins, not really.
The pen slips from my fingers and rolls off the table. I don’t bother to retrieve it from the floral carpet. Surprise and hurt have tightened my throat. She’s my best friend. I risked everything to help her, yet some part of her mistrusts me.