ANNASOPHIA
Damn Patrick Reid.
My first impulse is to lie about the teeth.
My second is to stall. I insist on bandaging Satish’s lobster-colored hand—now sporting two ugly blisters. I’d seen worse in the ER, but I stifle that observation.
“I have a first-aid kit in the kitchen. I’ll dress your hand. Afterwards, we’ll talk.” What we talk about is still a matter of gamesmanship. I may have nothing but the illusion of control over my life, but I intend to safeguard that illusion.
He slides to the edge of the sofa. “I’ll come with you.”
“No, you won’t.” Heart fluttering, I lay my hand on his shoulder and push him down. I’ve forgotten his muscular fitness —though I recall Michael eyeing him with cold disdain.
“FYI, I’m not leaving tonight until you answer my question.”
I lay the notebook on the sofa next to him. “This can save us a whole conversation.”
“I’ll make that call.”
Wobbly legs carry me into the kitchen. He is poring over the first page of the waste-management report. He’s the first person I’ve shown the contents. The attorney I hired to represent me in the convoluted legal web of Michael’s estate received a copy before me. Hank’s reputation falls short of “sensitive.” But sitting with me and explaining the ramifications of the found teeth, he deserved a medal.
The first-aid kit sits next to the stove. Sudden tears blur the red cross. Not all the first aid in the world could’ve saved Maverick or his family or Cassie or the six incinerated targets. One by one, my vertebrae feel as if they’re collapsing under the weight of what I know and what I suspect.
Filling a water glass kills another second. Jaw clenched, I return to the family room and speak before I set the kit and water on the table. “You must wonder how I lived at Belle Haven and never knew my husband disposed of at least six human bodies in his fuckin’ incinerator.”
“This report states it was state-of-the-art—better than those used by some crema—”
I slam scissors down hard on the glass table.
Satish jumps and both his eyebrows shoot upwards like surprised birds.
“Yes, yes, yes.” I smack the gauze, tape, and antibiotic next to the scissors. “He paid big bucks for his toy. He had it located two miles from the house. Our nearest neighbor was a mile away. He never complained about an odor.”
“The report says some neighbors have incinerators—”
“To burn the carcasses of dead animals—deer, coyote, rabbits.” I swab his hand with peroxide and drop the cotton ball in a small paper bag. “No one up there has trash pickup, so burning debris from the garden and houses makes more sense than adding to the nearest landfill.”
His mouth twists. “Conservationists.”
“Cooperative conservationists. They allowed the FBI to dig around in their incinerators without threat of a single lawsuit.” I layer gauze around his blisters and apply tape. “But. Would innocent people threaten a lawsuit?”
“Good question.” He holds his hand up, turning it back and forth a couple of times. “Good job, doc.”
“Did Patrick Reid tell you I suspected one of Michael’s victims was Stefan Lefevbre?”
Satish shakes his head.
“He was our chef for a while. He disappeared the day you came to question me about Tracy.”
“Disappeared? Without giving notice?”
“I suspect Michael never offered him that opportunity. I suspect he confronted Stefan about flirting with Alexandra—failing to discourage her crush on him. I suspect Michael killed him. Not in the house. In his laboratory.”
“Jesus.” Satish leans forward, supporting his elbows on his knees. “Where did Lefevbre live?”
“Michael provided a cottage and a car for every chef he ever hired. The only help he allowed to live in the main house was the nanny.”
“But—for chrissake—how’d he explain the chef’s absence?”
“A sick sister. In Canada. A lie. Monsieur Lefevbre told me and Magnus he was an only child. His elderly parents died several months after he went to visit his sister.”
“Why didn’t you challenge your husband’s story?”
I laugh and repack the first-aid kit. “You may remember, Ex-Detective, I once existed without a spine. At first, I never imagined he’d murdered the poor man. I figured he’d paid him a huge sum to leave, hinting if he didn’t, word would spread he’d fraternized with his employer’s teen-age daughter.”
“And what future rich employer would hire a sexual predator?”
I clap. “No wonder you’re a detective.”
“Ex-detective.” He gazes into space. “Is Lefevbre the only victim you could isolate?”
“That’s where the story gets stranger. If you read more of the report, you’ll conclude that Stefan Alain Lefevbre, born in Ontario twenty-nine years ago, a graduate of Cordon Bleu and James Beard Culinary Institute, chef to Michael Romanov, never existed.”