More neighbors now stood around, watching. One woman at the end of my block sipped iced coffee while craning her neck, like my life being dismantled was a spectator sport. It occurred to me then that the police would interview everyone on my street, if they hadn’t already. And ask the same questions they asked the Vale neighbors the morning Richard was found dead. Did they ever hear any yelling from my house? Or see any physical altercations between me and Jason? Or notice any men other than Jason coming in and out at odd hours? Or women? Perhaps Detective Jackson would even show them all a picture of Marco, hoping to jog their memories.
As I looked around at my once-friendly neighbors who only weeks before were dropping off bagels and condolence cards, I now saw enemies who were excited to think I might be a husband killer. I then caught a glimpse of a lady who looked very familiar. I could see a flash of a turquoise earring. She sat in a parked car, watching my house and all the commotion. But she wasn’t a neighbor. And in an instant it became clear. The reason I was being investigated at all. The reason Detective Jackson commented on my mother-in-law not being invited to my wedding, or to her own son’s funeral.
I turned to Roman, to revise my previous answer to his question about me having any enemies.
“Roman,” I said.
“Yes, Ruby,” he said.
“I do have an enemy. A big one. And she is right over there, sitting in that beige car. Her name is Gertrude Hollander. She’s Jason’s mother.”
CHAPTER 38
GOSSIP
I had always been good at compartmentalizing, but now the dividers were being chewed away and I was losing control of the information flow about my personal life. As big and bustling as it might seem, Miami was a small town in some ways. And with the neighbors knowing my house had been raided by the police, I had no choice but to tell my family what was going on. I at least wanted them to hear it from me first. But I dreaded it.
I sat in the den of my childhood home, with my parents and with Roman. There was so much to tell them, and so much to keep from them. The walls had been repainted, and my mother had recently reupholstered the chairs. But the rest was exactly as it had been since I was a small child hearing the wounded cry of Mr. Bird.
I began at the beginning. With Detective Jackson’s odd unannounced visit to my house. I was so ashamed to admit to my parents that anyone would suspect me of murdering Jason. My parents were stunned. They sat speechless, hoping for some sort of punch line that never came. As they realized what I was telling them was not a bizarre tasteless prank but reality, their shocked silence morphed into an indignant bluster. They knew, like all parents presume to know, that their child was innocent.
I explained to them that I was now certain my own mother-in-law hated me so much that she went to the police and accused me of killing the man I loved. I suspected Gertrude didn’t actually believe that I had done it, but this was her way of getting revenge, because she did blame me for taking Jason from her. So she set the creaky wheels of justice in motion. Reached out to the police to request an inquiry. Roman used his many contacts and confirmed the deceased’s mother had been in touch with and interviewed by Miami Beach police detectives the day after Jason’s death. And now, on top of that, people from my past were coming out of the woodwork to speak ill of me, some with glee. Like my ex-boyfriend Seth.
Detective Jackson left no stone unturned and found him living in Tampa. Seth was happy to tell the tale of how he proposed to me on our one-year anniversary. And how I said I loved him, but felt way too young to even consider getting married. Way too young to say yes to forever. And as fate would have it, Max from Yale was going to be in Miami for one night before getting on a mind-numbing mandatory family cruise to the Caribbean. Max had his own room in a cheap chain motel near the loading docks. We meant to just go for a drink, but instead we ripped each other’s clothes off before I could even register the hideous late-seventies chartreuse curtains.
And when we were done, I felt bad that I had cheated on Seth, but I also felt relieved. This was my way of proving to myself that I was not ready to get married. And that I needed to break up with Seth entirely. It was sad to end it, but a happy thought did creep in between the tears. Sleeping with an ex is not an additional number.
I was sure my version of the story and the version Seth told the detective were very different. To Seth, I was a no-good, cheating, lying, manipulative vixen capable of any misdeed. He would make an excellent character witness for Detective Jackson, whose number one goal was to assassinate my character and put me away for murder.
My mother, desperate to help, asked, “Can we sue that Gertrude woman? For telling the police lies that Ruby killed Jason? It is slander!” Roman answered, “No. Because we can’t prove she doesn’t actually believe Ruby killed her son, so slander is a nonstarter. And suing a grieving mother is not a good look. Even if it comes from a grieving widow. That course of action will definitely make Ruby seem like the villain.” My mother snapped back, “But she’s not a villain! How can we even be having this conversation!? It’s outrageous and . . .” She trailed off and sank into a newly upholstered chair, her defeated eyes looked tragically pretty in front of the light green paisley fabric. I knew how she felt. I too was at a loss.
When I had seen Gertrude parked on my street, I asked Roman if I should go on the offensive. Tell the press that she abandoned her son, then manipulated him once he was all grown up, when it was convenient for her. And how she didn’t even know what kind of cake he liked! Roman said it would be best if someone else could expose Gertrude’s nature. But Jason’s father was dead, and his friends never knew the extent of his complicated relationship with her. No one else had witnessed her true essence.
I sat on the arm of the chair and leaned into my mother, just a little. My father, not ready to join the paisley pity party, had a different idea. “Maybe I can ask some old reporter friends to find dirt on this detective. Shut this whole mess down.” Roman stopped him there, and assured him, “I already have a private investigator on the case. The top guy in the country. I promise you, Ruby is in good hands, is being taken care of, and it’s best for you all to do nothing. So please, just be here to support her, but don’t make any calls about it. To anyone. We don’t want to fan the flames.” My father took this in and patted him on the arm, hard, in that appreciative manly way. “It’s good to have you back, Roman.”
The flames were being fanned plenty without my parents. My nosy neighbors called their other neighbors, who then called their friends, who then called old friends they hadn’t spoken to in years. It was like a pyramid scheme of “Did you hear about Ruby Simon? Yes, her husband, found dead in bed. But clearly the police think she did it! Well, no arrest yet, but they searched her house!”
The blaze crackled and spread in all sorts of directions, including toward Hannah. She called me that week. “Hey, Ruby, can we talk?” Roman had advised me not to talk on the phone about anything at all that could possibly involve Jason or the other three bodies, in case the police were listening. But I didn’t want to seem suspicious, in case the police were listening.
“Hey, Hans, I’m actually heading out. Where are you? Maybe I can come by.”
“At the shop.”
“Oh, perfect. I’ll be in the area. I’ll stop by.”
I walked into her store and was taken with the expansion. I hadn’t been there for a while and had no idea Hannah had rented out the spaces on each side of her original area. She’d knocked down some walls and now had an entire room devoted to her own line, Vampire in the Sun. I was so sincerely happy for her, I momentarily forgot my precarious situation.
I exclaimed, “It looks amazing in here!”