“What do you mean?” Lanie asked, her voice sounding strangled.
My stomach flipped at the tone of her voice. She knew Melanie had been having an affair with our father, I was certain of it. She knew Melanie Cave had reason to kill our father. But why would she have said that Warren did it?
Before I could answer, a sharp knock sounded on the front door.
I opened it to find Poppy Parnell, her right fist raised, about to knock again. Her frog-like eyes were wide behind a pair of glasses with thick black rims, and they jumped eagerly from me to Lanie.
“Oh, good,” she said by way of greeting, practically salivating. “You’re both here.”
“Go away,” I said, starting to shut the door.
Poppy jammed out her arm to hold the door open. To Lanie, she said, “I came by your house this morning.”
“I know,” Lanie said, joining me in the entryway. “I didn’t open the door because I didn’t want to talk to you.”
Poppy wagged a finger at Lanie, a gesture that seemed infuriatingly familiar, and stepped into our foyer without waiting for an invitation. “When you do things like that, it makes me wonder what you’re hiding.”
“This is a private home,” I said. “You can’t just come in without an invitation.”
Ignoring me, Poppy said, “I know you’ve both declined participating in my podcast, but I wanted to make one last plea.”
“We’re not interested,” I said. I was surprised to realize I was holding Lanie’s hand, and I was unsure whether I had grabbed hers or vice versa.
“I can understand your hesitation, but I wish you would reconsider,” Poppy said earnestly, apparently oblivious to her ironic usage of the word. “Right now, the only story I can tell is the one I’m getting from people who knew your father casually. The narrative could really benefit from the perspective of those who knew him intimately.”
“Fuck your narrative,” Lanie said, tightening her grip on my fingers.
“I think there’s been a misunderstanding. I know my podcast has been cast as a campaign to free Warren Cave, but that’s not my objective. My goal is to review the case as a disinterested outsider. Your father’s murder was shocking, and it’s possible emotions interfered with accurate processing of the case. All I want is for the truth to be known, and for your father to be properly avenged.”
“Bullshit,” I said. “That’s a nice line, but I don’t believe it for a second. All you want is to make money off rumors.”
“I’m a journalist, Josie. I don’t trade in rumors. Unless they’re confirmed, that is.”
Lanie twitched beside me. “What does that mean?”
Poppy’s smile turned menacingly saccharine. “It means that I’ve heard some very interesting things about you, Lanie. For example, I heard that your husband was your sister’s high school sweetheart.”
“Leave Adam out of this,” Lanie hissed. “It doesn’t have anything to do with him.”
“Maybe not,” Poppy said, lifting her thin shoulders in an irritatingly innocent shrug. “But when the paramount piece of evidence damning a man to life behind bars is the word of one woman, that woman’s reputation had better be pretty darn impeccable, don’t you think? If, instead, she’s the kind of woman who would steal her twin sister’s boyfriend . . . well, I think that’s the kind of character flaw that could call certain other things into question.”
“That’s ridiculous. Besides, Lanie didn’t steal my boyfriend,” I said, surprised to hear how fluidly the lie rolled off my tongue. “I decided to do some traveling. Lanie and Adam got together after I left.”
“That’s not what I heard,” Poppy said, her tone revealing she didn’t believe my fib.
“So now you’re accusing us both of lying? Come on, you can do better than that.”
“I certainly can,” Poppy said, her eyes glittering behind her glasses. “You might want to tune into my podcast tomorrow. It’s a bombshell.”
The hair on my arms rose. I glanced at my sister, but her expression gave nothing away.
“More rumors?” Lanie asked coldly.
“You’ll have to listen to find out,” Poppy said, twitching a finger at us. “I don’t give previews. Unless, of course, I can record your reaction for the show.”
“Not a chance,” Lanie scoffed.
“Think about it,” Poppy prodded.
She might have said more, but that was the moment Ellen strolled through the open front door, looking exceedingly blond and swollen, and a little crabby. Putting her hands on her hips, she demanded of Poppy, “What are you doing here?”
“Telling your cousins that my podcast would benefit from interviews with people who actually knew their father.” Poppy inclined her head toward us and offered Ellen a slight smile. “I haven’t been having much luck. Perhaps you could help them see the benefit of participation—or maybe you’d be interested?”
“You’re kidding, right?” Ellen said, deadpan. “Get out of my mother’s house, you hack.”
“I’m finishing up tomorrow’s episode tonight,” Poppy said, turning back to us, unperturbed. “This is your last chance to listen to the interview before it goes live, and to tell your side of that night.”
Lanie’s palm felt slick in mine, but when I glanced at her, her face was blank.
“You need to leave,” Ellen said. “My husband is a lawyer. Don’t make me call him.”
“There’s no need to be so adversarial,” Poppy said, her thin eyebrows jumping behind her glasses as she seemed to consider whether to heed our demands or whether anything could be gained from sticking around. Finally, she nodded. “All right, I’m going. But I’m leaving my card—please, please think about speaking with me.” Her cold, impartial gaze zeroed in on me. “Together we can make sure that your father has justice.”
From Twitter, posted September 27, 2015
chapter 17
Good riddance to bad rubbish,” Ellen said, slamming the door behind Poppy. “I don’t know about anyone else, but I could use a drink.”
“Hard day?” Lanie sneered, yanking her hand out of mine. “It must be exhausting having poison injected into your forehead.”
“Lucky for you, I don’t need forehead muscles to do this,” Ellen said pleasantly as she flipped her middle finger. “Join us for a drink or don’t.”
“I don’t drink,” Lanie said stonily.
“Oh, right,” Ellen said, snapping her fingers in mock remembrance. “You’re a dry drunk.”
Lanie’s eyes flashed, and she opened her mouth to say something, but glanced at me and shut it. “I was just leaving anyway.”
“You should stay,” I said, surprising all three of us. “I’m sure there’s some iced tea in the fridge or something.”
I trailed off. Lanie and I might have been making some steps to repair our relationship, but there had been nearly ten long years of hurt and resentment between us. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and our relationship wouldn’t be healed in a couple of afternoons—especially not when Poppy Parnell was raising questions about our father’s death.