It’s been five days since Jo up and left. No note. Nothing. I know she’s pissed that I lied. I get it. But still. She’s never not answered my calls. She even unfriended me on Facebook.
I reach for my phone and dial her number. It goes straight to voicemail. Damn. How long will she keep this going?
Trying to shake off my irritation, I bend back to my flowers. I’m working on a bridal bouquet, an orb of tiny white roses. It’s the choice of the bride. I’d never choose roses for a wedding. They’re too conventional, even dull. Jo carried a single protea—a spiky hot-pink flower the size of a soup bowl—when she married that bum, Trevor.
The front doorbell sounds. Gloria calls from down the hall: “I’ll get it.”
Minutes later, there’s a tap on my studio’s door.
“Come in,” I say. I expect it’s Gloria, come to ask about something.
The door opens. “Mrs. McFarlane?” My stomach drops. It’s Detective Shergold. She walks in, followed by Detective Bellows. They’re both unsmiling, in similar long, dark coats. Men in black, except one’s a woman.
I’m the first to speak. “Detectives? What is it?” I sound guilty.
Detective Shergold unbuttons her coat. Detective Bellows answers: “We need to speak with you, Dana.”
I nod, incapable of speech. They’re here to arrest me. This is it. I can feel it.
I look down at the bouquet. I’m gripping the stems so hard a thorn’s jabbed me. I thought I got them all but must have missed one.
“We wanted you to be the first to know,” says Detective Bellows. “We’ve made an arrest.”
I look up, not computing. He’s not smiling, but his eyes are triumphant. “W-what?” I stammer.
A moment ago, I was sure they’d come for me. That spark of panic flares into a fireball. My insides warp and flap. Owen. Oh my God. Owen. Would they arrest a minor at school? Could they do that?
Detective Shergold coughs. Beneath her blunt bangs, she eyes my butcher-block table. “Can we sit?” she asks.
“Yes. Yes of course!” It comes out as a squeak. I motion them toward the table.
“This won’t take long,” says Detective Shergold. She sounds scarily cheerful.
I follow the detectives toward the table. While I prefer to work on my arrangements standing up, I use the table for admin. Besides my MacBook, it’s strewn with papers, books of color swatches, stacks of magazines, and towers of rolled ribbon.
Every step takes effort. I feel dazed. An arrest. What led them to Owen? Or is it Jo they’ve arrested? Is that why she’s not answering my calls? Are they trying to hammer out a plea deal?
Yes. They would take her in first and offer her immunity or a reduced sentence for testifying against me. I grip the bouquet.
A big black bag is slung over Detective Shergold’s shoulder. When she sits, she places the bag on her lap. Bellows sits beside her. He pulls a tiny recording device from his pocket and places it on the table.
I’m moving slowly. Seeing that recorder makes my heart pound harder. Everything I say will be used against me. I fold into a chair, facing Bellows. I clasp my bouquet, penitent and waiting.
Detective Shergold pulls something from her bag and sets it carefully on the table. It’s a phone, wrapped in plastic. “Do you recognize this item?”
I freeze, aghast, then shake my head. It looks like the red Nokia Stan used to text Angie Costin. But how can it be? Jo has it. Where did the police find it?
“I . . . I’m sorry. No. Stan had a black iPhone.” Jo and I tossed it into the sea, after dumping his body.
Beneath her sharp haircut, Detective Shergold smiles. “We found this phone the day before yesterday in Norman Gaynor Park, not far from where we located Stan’s jacket.”
My brain feels caught in a current. Thoughts smash like waves.
Jo must have left it there, but why didn’t she tell me? Has she turned on me? I squeeze the stems of the roses.
Detective Bellows rubs his sharp nose. “You had said that you suspected your husband was having an affair.”
I nod and clear my throat. “Yes, I thought so.”
“You were right,” says Detective Shergold, a glint of steel in her tone. “Do you know Angela Costin?”
I manage a small shaky nod. Has that bitch double-crossed me—taken the blackmail money and turned me in? How could she?
Bellows shifts in his chair, waiting.
“Yes. From high school. We’re old . . . f-friends,” I venture. This feels like a lie. Yet you can’t call someone you’ve known thirty-plus years an acquaintance. Time turns you into more, even if you have nothing in common. Because you do: you have that shared past. You’re the same generation.
And if you’re enemies? Time’s meant to wear down grievances, to rub off their rough edges. Clearly, it didn’t. All these years, Angie’s been biding her time, the wicked wolf in soccer-mom clothing. I misjudged her as horrid but manageable if kept in check, like mildew.
My throat’s dry. “Her daughter’s dating my son, Chad. They’re at the same school, Stanton House.”
Bellows nods, like I’m confirming what he already knows. His close-set eyes look somber. “We believe this woman, Angela Costin, was sexually involved with your husband.” He sounds like a newscaster reporting some tragedy. Professionally sensitive.
I blink, like I’m shocked. I am shocked, just not by this. What has Angie told them?
Detective Shergold’s eyes dip to the burner phone then veer back to mine. “Angela Costin was here the night of Stan’s death. In your guesthouse.”
She pauses. Some response is expected.
“W . . . what?” I stammer.
“She texted him,” explains Bellows. “And we traced her cell phone movements.”
I loosen my grip on the flowers.
Angie must have told them she saw me and Jo move Stan’s body. Maybe all of this is subterfuge, a decoy, so I’ll lower my guard. Do they know about the blackmail?
“We need your permission to search the guesthouse,” says Detective Shergold. Her voice is smooth. “And the grounds of your estate.”
I can’t respond. This is the real reason they’re here.
“Angie tried to blame you,” continues Detective Bellows. He sounds disappointed, like Jo discussing some underperforming pupil. “And your friend, Joanna Dykstra—Ms. Costin suggested her involvement.”
He pauses, as if to let me refute this. I stay quiet.
“Ms. Dykstra was staying here, correct?” adds Detective Bellows.
I want to cry. I don’t know how to answer.
Detective Shergold tilts her head. “Are you alright, Dana?”
I nod, breathless. “Yes. Jo stayed here for a few days, helping me. I . . . uh, I’ve had trouble sleeping.”
Detective Shergold’s voice is smooth: “That’s normal, given the circumstances. Your sense of safety has been shattered. Have you considered counseling?”
“I . . . Not yet,” I say. “But, um, Jo helped a lot.” As I say it, I realize it’s true. I feel bereft. Why did she unfriend me?
“That’s good,” continues Detective Shergold. “Having an old friend.” Is she trying to win me over? She frowns. “This must add to your shock, to learn of your husband’s infidelity. Especially with another old school friend. It’s a double betrayal.”
My head throbs. Talk about rubbing it in! Are they waiting for an answer? I’ve lost track of their questions. I should probably ask for a lawyer.
Detectives Bellows and Shergold exchange concerned glances. “Do you need a glass of water?” asks Bellows.
I shake my head. “No. I’m fine. Really.”
Shergold nods. Her tone’s all back to business. “We suspect but can’t yet prove that Mrs. Costin’s daughter was an accomplice.”
I bleat out, “What? Gemma?” They’ve got this all crazily wrong.
Detective Shergold looks back at my workstation. “About your missing knife.” She lets these words settle. Her smile is chilling. She pulls something else from her handbag and sets it on the table.
My chest locks. It’s my missing silver knife.
“Is this item familiar?” asks Detective Shergold.
I recall the moment I last saw it. It was in Stan’s neck, the handle glinting in the light of the coolers. Owen got angry when I asked where it went. Did the police divers find it?
“Mrs. McFarlane?” Detective Shergold’s voice drags me back to the present, to the white blooms in my hands and the trickle of blood in my palm. The thorn I missed. How careless. It could have injured the bride.
She sounds stern. “Please state if you recognize this item.”
Finally, I squeak out a reply: “Yes.” Where the hell did they find it?
“Please acknowledge that it’s yours, for the tape.”
I have no choice but to admit it. My voice is feeble. “Yes, that’s my missing work knife.”
Bellows sounds smug. “We found it in Angela Costin’s walk-in closet.”
I stare at the squashed white roses. So pretty but dead. Cut flowers are dead. How strange that we display and admire them. “I don’t understand.”
“We also found sheets matching the ones used to wrap up your husband’s remains,” says Bellows. “We’ve arrested Angela Costin for the murder of your husband.”
None of this sinks in. The words bead off me like raindrops off flowers. I stare at him blankly.
Bellows doesn’t seem to notice. “Mrs. Costin arranged to meet your husband in your guest cottage, where we suspect they argued.”
I rub my eyes, trying to imagine it. Could this possibly be true? Could Angie—and not Owen—have killed Stan? Imagine if Jo and I inadvertently cleaned up Angie’s mess! I’m on the brink of hysterical laughter.
“The daughter’s not talking,” says Detective Shergold. “But might she have said something to your son?”
The urge to giggle dies. I shut this down, fast: “If Chad suspected Gemma was involved in any way, he’d have said so. He loved his dad.”
Bellows shifts, bringing us back to the key topic. “Your knife,” he says. He nods to the knife on the table. “Do you have any new memories as to where you last saw it?” His head turns an inch toward the side door. Both detectives look expectant.
I blink and drop the bouquet onto the table. The blood on my palm has dried. I rub my hand on my dark trousers.
A flood of warmth spreads through me as the truth slides into focus: Jo did this. She made sure that burner phone would be found. And she set up Angie to take the fall for Stan’s murder. Jo somehow planted the knife at Angie’s place—just like in high school with the shrooms in her cheerleading jacket.
I picture Angie back then, despondent, slouched before the principal’s office before being led away by her angry, abrasive parents.
“Mrs. McFarlane? Dana?” Detective Bellows’s voice sounds far away. “Are you sure you’re alright, Dana?”
I grab the diamonds on my ring finger and squeeze. I press the stones into my flesh. I need to wake up now.
Jo did this to save me. To save me and Owen. To save us all. Even though she now hates me. Is she still my friend, after all? I feel weak with gratitude and admiration. Good old brilliant Jo. I can’t fuck it up.
“I . . . I sometimes take a knife outside,” I say, thinking fast. “To cut flowers or foliage. There’s a holly tree by the side of the studio. And ferns by the guest cottage. Plus ivy. The day Stan went missing, I was out there, cutting holly and ivy. I must have left the knife out there. I haven’t seen it since.”
Detective Shergold tilts back. Her eyebrows relax. They’re the same steely gray as her hair. “Right,” she says. She scoops up the plastic-wrapped items and sticks them back into her bag.
Bellows clicks off the tape recorder and smiles. “Thank you, Dana. We’ll be in touch. We’ll need you to come to the station for a fuller formal interview.” They both scrape back their chairs and stand.
I follow more slowly.
Detective Shergold smooths down her dark trousers. “All the tox results came back on your husband. The medical examiner should release his remains shortly. And we’ll return most of his personal effects within the week.” She looks almost kind. “Then you can bury him. And settle his estate.” She slings her black bag over her shoulder.
“Thank you,” I manage.
My knees are weak as I walk with them out the side door. I see Detective Shergold turn to look for the holly tree. She smiles when she sees it. Lush ferns grow nearby. There’s no shortage of ivy.
I lean against the doorjamb and watch them walk to their unmarked car. Detective Shergold grasps her bag tightly, like it holds her life savings.
Except it’s my life that stuff is saving. And I owe it all to Jo.