My mailbox has become an obnoxious obsession. Today I broke my own rule and checked it four times—every time I drove up or down our driveway. The van with the tinted windows was back out front. I thought about asking the people across the street if it was theirs, but stopped myself. It’s just a van. Normal people doing normal things wouldn’t even notice it.
When we get home, I’ll have to recheck the mailbox.
In the back seat, Zoe’s iPad pings. “Turn it down,” I snap, then regret my harsh tone. But why must kids’ games be so noisy, like they’re designed to drive parents batshit?
“I can’t hear it,” counters Zoe.
“Turn it down,” I repeat. I’m in no mood for resistance.
School just got out. I drove the Mercedes since it’s just me and Zoe. Chad’s at football and Owen has chess club. We’re meeting Jo and Ruby in Oaks Park. At this time of year, it’s bound to be deserted. The girls can run around while we catch up.
Pulling into the parking lot, I study the sky. It hangs low and dreary. We’ve got maybe two hours of daylight left, if we’re lucky. The days are rapidly shrinking.
In three weeks’ time, it’ll be Thanksgiving, then Christmas—all without Stan. I’m not sure how I’ll manage. Will we be able to hold his funeral before then? Tears threaten. I blink them away and bite the inside of my cheek. I’m sick of my self-pity.
Jo’s car is alone in the lot, looking abandoned. I pull up beside it.
“Please give me that iPad,” I tell Zoe. “And put your hat on. It’s really cold out.”
The wind hits when I exit the car. Maybe we should have met at the mall or the club. But in those places, I’d risk running into people I know. I’m in no state for casual chitchat.
I zip up Zoe’s puffy pink coat. Beneath her red pom-pommed hat, her cheeks are already rosy. I help her into mittens and pull my gloves on. Despite the gray skies, I’m wearing big black sunglasses. Even so, I feel exposed.
I caught a reporter on the rocks out back of Winderlea, snooping by the boathouse. Photos of me have popped up online, on true-crime blogs speculating about Stan’s demise. did the wife do it? one headline read. The accompanying photo was recent. I looked guilty and dazed at the end of our driveway. I started to read the comments but stopped. They were savage.
“Ruby’s already here,” I tell Zoe as she jumps from the car. I take her hand. It feels warm and solid. She hops beside me. Thank God for Zoe.
Rounding a bend, the playground comes into view. As expected, there’s no one there apart from Jo and Ruby. This playground’s nicer than the one by the Octopus, the equipment newer, the colors brighter. In the summer, this park’s packed. There are picnic tables and a kiosk serving ice cream and greasy french fries. There’s a softball diamond. The wind’s cold off the choppy bay. The pebbled beach is streaked with seaweed. I wish I’d worn a thicker jacket.
Dressed in a big dark coat and a gray scarf, Jo’s hunched on a bench near the playground. Her jeans are tucked into knee-high boots. Getting close, I see the boots are badly scuffed. Something—pity? fear?—scuttles through me. She’s bent over her cell phone.
At our approach, she looks around. Behind her unflattering glasses, her face is pinched and suspicious. Has she given up on contacts? She could look so much better if she made the least bit of effort. It’s like she’s trying to appear unattractive.
Her mouth relaxes with recognition, only to retighten.
I release Zoe’s hand. “Off you go,” I tell her brightly.
Red pom-pom bouncing, Zoe runs to join Ruby on the monkey bars. I set down my bag and sit next to Jo. The bench is cold. Jo looks thinner and sallow.
“How are you?” I ask.
She shoves her phone into her pocket. “Not good.”
Her tone scares me. “Why? What’s happened?”
“I got a threatening phone call last night.” She grits her teeth. “From Ryan Reeve, telling me I was full of shit and to keep my mouth shut.”
Fuck. I won’t tell her I accidentally let her name slip. “Wow. What makes you think it was him?”
“Who else would it be?” Her voice rises. “The way he looked at me when I caught him round back of Stanton House! It was like he wanted to kill me! He recognized me from the hit-and-run—I just know it!”
I hug myself. Is she overreacting? “He came over yesterday,” I say. “He’s been trying to contact me.”
“Why?”
“He said he missed me.”
As expected, Jo snorts. “Jesus. What did you say to that?”
“That I don’t want to see him.”
She nods, mollified, but her eyes are suspicious. “How’d he get in? What’s the use of that great big wall?”
I shrug. “Probably via the beach.” That reporter snuck in. As did Gemma. It’s not that hard if the tide’s right and you’re willing to climb along the rocks.
Jo peers out to sea. “What else did Ryan say?”
I follow her gaze toward the seaweed-strewn beach. I won’t tell her what he said about her. Waves explode against the offshore rocks. “The police spoke to him again.” I adjust my sunglasses. “He has an alibi for the night Stan died. He was out boating.”
Her head twists. “Boating?”
“Yeah,” I say miserably.
“Fuck.”
“And he mentioned coming into money soon. A trust fund.”
This elicits another snort. “Wow. Perfect timing.”
Through my gray lenses, I watch the girls on the monkey bars. Ruby’s in front, swinging from bar to bar, orangutan-style. My daughter’s more cautious. She has less momentum and keeps missing the next bar. While it knots my stomach, she’s in no danger. There’s spongy cladding below her.
I look away. “So you think Ryan is the blackmailer?” I ask Jo.
“He’s not a bad bet,” she says. “But who knows? I just know he’s dangerous.”
The girls jump off the monkey bars and sprint for the slide. Ruby climbs to the top and stands up. Jo’s on her feet in a shot. “Ruby! Sit down!”
When Ruby does, Jo sits too. “Any word from the art dealer?”
I pull up my hood. “Not yet. It takes time.”
This mention of money reminds me. I lick my lips. “There’s something else. Ralph Isles stopped by.”
Jo’s eyebrow lifts. “Ralph Isles? What did he want?”
I consider telling her that I think Owen may be gay but don’t. I’m not sure. And there are more pressing matters.
Despite my gloves, my hands are cold. I wiggle my fingers to warm them. “He said Stan was in financial trouble.” My voice has thickened. “Major trouble. As in bankrupt.”
Jo’s lip curls. “What? That can’t be right. You’re too rich.” She waves a mittened hand. “Even when rich people do go bankrupt, they come out okay. It’s the little guys who end up with nothing.”
I hope she’s right. The thought of financial ruin should have me in shreds. There’s no way I’ll be sending three kids to Stanton House on the profits of Fairytale Flowers. Goodbye, mansion. Goodbye, yacht and country club.
Strangely, I hardly care. Perhaps I’ve reached my fear limit. This worry’s too far down the line, behind the blackmailer and the police investigation.
Jo’s voice is low: “Shit, Dana. What will you do?”
“I don’t know.” It’s beyond my control. Like this weather. What can I do? Winter’s coming.
She squints toward the slide. Ruby’s standing at the top again, showing off to Zoe. This time, Jo doesn’t notice. She’s got that look she gets when her mind starts to spin. Eyes bright, synapses knitting connections.
“Stan wasn’t stupid,” Jo says. “He’d have offshore accounts to avoid paying taxes.” She yanks off one mitten and tugs at her hair. “Where did he keep his important info? Like passwords and bank account numbers?”
My head feels heavy. “I don’t know.”
Her eyebrows jump, incredulous. “Seriously? It never occurred to you he could suddenly die, like have a heart attack? Or get in a car crash?” She frowns. “Don’t tell me he didn’t have a will.”
I blink, feeling sick and irresponsible. I’m unforgivably ignorant. Given that Stan wanted a divorce, he’d have squirreled away cash, stashing it someplace so he wouldn’t be forced to share.
Jo tuts. “If Stan had secret bank accounts, where would he hide that info?”
“In a file on his laptop?” I suggest. “Something password protected.”
“No way,” she scoffs. “That’s not secure. Stan would know that.”
I rub my forehead. Despite his techy ways, Stan was old school. He’d write important stuff down on paper and hide it away. Jo’s right: that paper exists somewhere, maybe stuffed in an old book, some first edition he never read. Or tucked into a pocket of an old letterman jacket.
“In the safe?” suggests Jo.
I shake my head. I looked in there, finding only papers from our local bank. Nothing from the Caymans or Panama or anywhere remotely sketchy. They must exist though.
“Think, Dana!” Her voice is gruff, like I’m not trying.
I shut my eyes. “I am!” She’s not helping.
My thoughts slip toward Ryan in my garden yesterday morning, what he said about Jo sneaking around when I was out, about seeing her near my mailbox. I want to ask but can’t. She’s risked everything to help me. Her loyalty’s beyond question.
Still, it’s hard not to see her reaction through a prism of doubt. If she were the blackmailer, she’d have selfish reasons to hope I’ll recoup Stan’s riches. I shake off these thoughts like a wet dog spraying water. Who am I going to trust: the young deadbeat who sold my kid drugs and might have mowed down some poor lady or my best childhood friend?
Jo’s right to be worried. I should be frantic.
I stand up. “I’m cold. Can we walk a bit?”
“Yeah, okay.”
We trail around the playground’s perimeter like we’re on patrol. I’d prefer to head down to the beach, to walk into the wind. It might blow some good ideas into my sore head. Yet we can’t leave Zoe and Ruby alone. They’re too little.
We trudge around the square playground, hands thrust into pockets. My shoulders are up by my ears. I almost step in dog shit.
“Have you talked to the lawyers about Ralph’s claims?” asks Jo. “Maybe he’s just trying to scare you.”
I shrug. I don’t trust Ralph Isles, that’s for sure. “I’m seeing the lawyers tomorrow morning. But I spoke to Garvin Holloway today.” I recall this conversation, dismay and hesitation coming down the line like static. “He sounded pretty cagey.”
Jo bends to collect a discarded beer can. She hates litter. “He must know where Stan kept his money!”
“Maybe. But I bet Stan had many lawyers.”
“At least you have the paintings,” says Jo. “If you think stuff will get repossessed, you’d better hide something, Dana.”
I turn to get a better view of the girls. Zoe is seated in what looks like a spinning eggcup. Ruby’s pushing her in fast circles. Just watching them makes me dizzy.
I look away. “Assets can’t just vanish. There are sales records and insurance papers.”
Jo spins my way. Her voice brightens. “Insurance. A couple paintings could get stolen.”
I shove my hands deeper into my pockets. It’s too bad I let the cops into Stan’s study. Two million dollars for that ugly gumball painting. It’d be enough for a new house, not in the Oaks but someplace decent, plus the kids’ education and some security for retirement.
It still would not be enough to pay my blackmailer.
Jo’s pace quickens. “Could you say some pieces went missing the night Stan vanished and you only just noticed.”
A bunch of Stan’s art could have gone missing that night without my having noticed. I hate most of it and try not to see it. But Gloria’s another story.
“Our housekeeper might know. She has to dust it.”
Jo walks closer to a bin and tosses the beer can. “You think? Your house is full of paintings that all look alike.” She has a point, at least with the abstracts.
I shut my eyes, trying to remember. “There are three small abstracts in the upstairs hall. I think they’re worth a few hundred-thou each.” I shrug. “And there’s a Gustav Cleggs in the dining room, which we never use, unless we have guests. Which we haven’t since . . . You know. There’s a big one in the guesthouse. Just a bunch of green scribbles. It’s by some French guy who died in a plane crash.” I frown, struggling to remember. “Something Mueller?”
Some hair has escaped my hood. The wind throws it into my eyes. I shove it out and turn to see the girls. They’ve traded places, Zoe pushing Ruby in the eggcup. Ruby’s shrieking with terrified glee.
Jo stops to rewrap her scarf. Her eyes are shining. I know exactly what she’s thinking.
“Forget it,” I say. “Insurers aren’t stupid. Wife learns she’s broke, and ta-da, her dead husband’s pricey art goes missing. Not one bit suspicious.”
She ignores me. “What were the artists’ names again? Cleggs? And who else? Mueller? I’ll check them out.” Her tone hardens. “Don’t you google them, whatever you do. The cops will check your browser history.”
“They might check yours too,” I point out, “if they suspect we’re in cahoots.” Cahoots. It makes us sound sassy and rebellious, members of an all-girls Victorian pickpocketing gang, hiding the loot under our hoop skirts. We’d have nicknames. Cutthroat Jo. Diamond Dana.
Jo nods, her face serious. “You’re right. I’ll do it at the library. They have public computers. I promised to take Ruby later.”
I study our laughing daughters. Another kid has joined them, a younger boy in a green coat and yellow boots. He’s watching the girls, who ignore him. He’s too young to interest them.
I look around for his parent, see a red-haired woman with a poodle. The dog’s pulling toward the beach. The woman keeps tugging it back. “Five minutes!” she calls to the boy. “It’s too cold out.”
I look back at Jo, who’s waiting. I shake my head. “Look Jo. I just can’t. Insurance fraud . . . I’d be worried sick about getting caught. It’d be too stressful.”
A corner of Jo’s mouth tics up. “News flash. Being poor is stressful too.” She sounds grim, despite that quick smile.
Guilt tugs at me. If Jo needed help, I mean desperately, she’d have asked, right?
“God forbid it happens,” continues Jo, “but if you were arrested for Stan’s murder, you’d need a lawyer.” I can’t meet her gaze. “Good criminal lawyers don’t come cheap.” She gives a dry laugh. “What’s a little insurance fraud compared to the other charges you might be facing?”
My breath catches. She’s right. Yet it’s not just that but the realization I’m trapped. I don’t for one second think Jo’s the blackmailer. Even so, how can I ever say no to her again? I’m forever in her debt. Is real friendship possible when your power’s so unequal?
Jo squints back at the girls. Her lips thin. “My grandma’s things are in a storage unit. You could hide some art in there.”
I stop walking. Jo’s grandma’s been in a care home for years, ever since Jo’s mom died. Would Stan’s art—my art—be safe there?
The wind blows a plastic bag across the playground. It snags on a bush. Beyond the playground, the sea’s an ugly gunmetal gray. Waves batter the rocks. From here, I can just see the islands where we dumped Stan.
I recall Ryan’s warning that Jo can’t be trusted. Maybe she saw Stan’s death as a chance to improve her lot. If she took the paintings, sold them, and refused to pay me, what could I do? I couldn’t report her. I never did ask why she got fired from her last school. Didn’t want to upset her. Maybe I should have.
Jo’s stopped walking too. She spins to face me. “What’s wrong, Dana?”
“I . . .” I cough. I can’t breathe. Is this a panic attack? I’ve never had one.
“Dana?” She grasps my shoulder.
I think of Ryan and my reaction when he touched me: that curdle of revulsion and fear. This is more complex. I freeze, unsure whether to fold into Jo’s arms or jerk away.
Her eyes narrow, a hand still on my shoulder: “Dana, what’s wrong?”
I keep wheezing. It’s too late not to trust Jo. I’m just paranoid after yesterday’s encounter with Ryan.
“We’d better go,” says Jo. “It’s getting too cold.”