She gave me a small smile. “Of course not.”
Her casualness about this concerned me. I didn’t blame her for not caring, but she needed to grieve publicly. We hadn’t factored in problems with Viktor’s family and how it would look if they seemed more upset than she did. “You should pick some special hymns or something like that,” I whispered. “Claim they were particular favorites of Viktor’s or something. Make sure everyone sees the great loss you’ve experienced.”
“How about ‘These Boots Are Made for Walking’?” she said.
Surprised, I laughed out loud only to promptly clamp a hand over my mouth, swiveling on the kitchen stool to see if Cruella and her sister were listening. Thankfully, the hall was empty. “Maybe ‘Gone, Baby, Gone,’” I said, and this time Heather snorted.
“‘Forget You,’” she said.
“‘Goodbye Earl,’ I mean Viktor.”
“‘I Will Survive.’”
We were overcome by fits of giggles and didn’t hear the doorbell. Heather’s aunt-in-law suddenly appeared in the kitchen doorway with Sarah in tow. Quick as you can, Heather and I pretended to be crying, swiping at eyes teary from laughter, as I said loudly, “I’m so, so sorry.” Olga gave us a sour look, her suspicious gaze magnified by the enormous glasses.
“Another friend of yours is here,” she announced, her tone suggesting that we were throwing a party.
“Thank you, Aunt Olga,” Heather said, and the older woman made a noncommittal sniffing sound and didn’t move from the doorway.
Sarah placed the wicker basket she was carrying on the marble island and hugged Heather. “This is just so awful,” she said. “I didn’t know what else to do, so I brought you some food.” She unpacked the basket, all of us aware that Viktor’s aunt was still standing in the doorway, watching. “Here’s some chicken soup and a loaf of bread to go with it.” Of course Sarah had made them both; I hoped she wouldn’t ask about the nanny’s casserole.
“Thank you,” Heather said. “That’s very kind of you.”
“I’m so sorry about Viktor—so sorry for you and Daniel.”
Their conversation sounded stilted and I tried not to glance at the doorway to see what the Ukrainian woman was making of it. We chatted like this for several minutes, a conversation so mundane that eventually it must have bored even Olga, who extracted a cell phone from some pocket and began texting as she clomped away.
“I’m surprised the police aren’t here,” Sarah whispered. “I was afraid of running into them.”
“They’ve been and gone,” Heather said, turning away to pour a cup of coffee for Sarah.
“When was that?” I asked as Sarah said, “Do they think it was a carjacking?”
“A few hours ago, and I don’t know. I think so.” Heather handed a mug to Sarah, who took it without looking and just as automatically set it down. “They didn’t say much about it; they were asking a lot of questions.”
“What? What did they ask?” Sarah’s voice rose and she sounded incredibly nervous.
“Calm down,” I hissed, glancing around. “We don’t want to attract attention.”
Heather didn’t answer and looked down at her watch. “Do you think they’ll have finished the autopsy by now? What if they can tell that the body was moved?”
“What did they want to know?” Sarah persisted.
“Don’t ask too many questions in case the in-laws can hear us,” I whispered. “It will look suspicious.”
This time we all heard the doorbell and Heather moved toward it. She came back in the kitchen a few minutes later with one of the other mothers from school. Terry Holloway was carrying a large aluminum pan. “Oh, hello,” she said when she saw me and Sarah, her small, probably fixed, ferrety nose sniffing the air while she darted beady-eyed looks about the room. I doubted she’d ever been in Heather’s house before—she was an acquaintance rather than a friend, one of those women who believed that personal power came from the collection, and distribution, of gossip.
“This is for you and Daniel—it’s lasagna,” she said to Heather, holding her pan aloft. “You can freeze it, which you probably should given everything here.” She headed for the large stainless-steel refrigerator without waiting for Heather’s reply, taking it upon herself to shuffle the food in the freezer to make room for her dish.
After that she circled the island, examining the other food with a proprietary air, shifting dishes and lifting lids to get a better look. “What on earth are you going to do with all these cookies and cakes?” she said to Heather. “You can’t eat all this sugar and stay so skinny.” A short laugh followed that sounded like a squawk. It seemed to echo off the tile.
A scraping sound punctuated the awkward silence as Terry stepped on something. We all looked toward the floor, but she bent down first. “Where did this come from?” she said, holding up a silver disk. I recognized it immediately—it belonged to Viktor.
The shocked look that flashed across Sarah’s face told me that she’d recognized it, too, and Heather seemed downright panicky for a moment.
“Oh, what is it?” I asked, leaning forward to look, hoping Terry would focus on me and not the others, forcing my interest to sound casual.
“It’s a saint’s medal,” Heather said, and her voice was smooth. She picked it up and slipped it into her pocket. “Viktor gave it to me.”
We avoided each other’s eyes. Viktor always wore that medal. It must have come off that night when he and Heather struggled. What if it could be seen around his neck in footage from the hospital? Would anyone notice that he’d been wearing the medal earlier that night, but wasn’t wearing it when he was found?
Was it my imagination, or was Terry giving Heather a knowing look? “Aren’t you missing someone?” she said after a minute, looking from Sarah, to me, then Heather. “Alison Riordan,” she said when none of us said anything. “You four do everything together.” Another squawk of laughter. What was that gleam in her eyes about? Even her smile seemed menacing.
“I’d better get going,” I said, desperate to get out from under her gaze. I gave Heather another quick hug. “I’m so sorry about Viktor. Call me if you need anything—anything at all.”
But it was Sarah who called later. “I can’t believe Heather didn’t find that when she cleaned up,” she said. “And of all the people to find it, of course it had to be Terry Holloway.”
“It could be worse,” I said. “It could have been Viktor’s mom who found it.”
“Or the police.”
“What if Terry tells them?”
“I don’t think she recognized it,” Sarah said. “But that busybody would love to have something to share with the police.”
Sarah had also encouraged Heather to get involved in the funeral planning. “I know it’s hard to act as if he was this incredible, loving husband, but I hope she can fake it or the in-laws—and all the other people like Terry—are going to start asking questions.”
chapter eighteen
HEATHER
No one must know. This is what I tell myself over and over again, afraid that I’ll blurt it out, that I’ll scream it in the funeral home, that I’ll tell the director or all of his helpers, with their dark suits and bland faces. I feel as if I’ll babble it to anyone who comes to express his or her sympathies. It was me, I’ll say. I did it. I shot him.