“How will we figure it out? I mean, we’re sort of assuming it was Kayla Richardson, right? If it’s not her…”
“It could be any number of people. It could be some homeless guy.”
“She could have dug up a body and set it on fire first,” Wyatt says.
“I think the fact that I find that the most comforting hypothesis of the morning is a sign of how generally fucked up this is,” I say with a smile.
“Yeah, I prefer that theory too.”
“Well, I’m not about to head to the cemetery and check every single fresh grave,” I say. “She could have gotten a body from a morgue or a medical school. I mean, maybe if you fuck the right person, bodies are easy enough to procure.” I wonder if that’s true. Things I never would have asked myself before today. “Come to think of it, maybe she was fucking the right person. Kayla? Who works at the funeral home?” Wyatt’s eyes widen, and we both contemplate that possibility.
“Okay, so we’re left with the letter U,” he finally says. I sigh in frustration.
“Fuck, Wy. I got nothing. Do we just wait for another clue?”
He grits his teeth. “I don’t know.”
“Let’s go look for my passport. That will at least confirm my theory.”
“Before we put the cart in front of the horse.”
“Right. Maybe we’ll think of something on the way. Or Zelda will send us another hint.” I stand up to leave.
“You’re the boss,” Wyatt says agreeably, and he playfully scoops me up in his arms and spins me. I shriek like a little girl and am momentarily, incandescently happy.
—
In the truck, Nico finally texts me back: I search u at urs. No one there. Y? I tell Wyatt that Zelda isn’t at my place, or at least isn’t currently at my place. I can see her there, though, flicking through my infinitesimal closet, chuckling over some of my new Parisian clothes. She’ll have found the bottle of Cognac on the shelf over my sink and will be sipping it while she tries on my things, playing some of my music. She’ll smoke a cigarette out my window, and then she’ll scoop up my keys and wander out my door, into the city. All my neighbors will recognize her, and the bartender at my favorite café will offhandedly slide her a coupe of Champagne. I wonder if she’s bothered to learn any French.
I look at Nico’s text unhappily. I haven’t called him back, and I’ve been cagey and secretive in my texts. I haven’t even told him that Zelda is technically dead. In fact, if someone were watching me, I might look sort of suspicious. I’m behaving weirdly. If someone had a warrant for my phone, I’d have a hard time explaining my last few messages. Things I should be thinking about. I can smell Wyatt’s peculiar blend of scents on my skin and in my hair, and it makes it impossible for me to call Nico, even to formulate what to say to him. He is an abstraction. I look at the abbreviations in the text, all pretty standard messaging. But I find myself reading into things, constructing outlandish scenarios, based on the presence of a solitary U, a lonely Y. Could Nico be involved, wrapped around Zelda’s finger? Paranoid thinking. But isn’t that legitimate?
We’re at the house before I know it. Marlon’s rental is there, and I can see the whole family up on the deck. I sigh inwardly, wishing to spare both myself and Wyatt, but we have to go inside.
We climb the stairs to the second story and join my parents and grandmother on the sunny balcony. Mimosas are half empty on the table. Mom stares glassily out at the vineyard, Opal is flipping through an address book (how quaint), and Marlon is typing on his iPad.
“Morning,” I say and receive two unenthusiastic greetings. I suspect they’re not impressed by my disappearance last night. But fuck them.
“We’ve started organizing the memorial service, dear,” Opal says, her lips thin.
“How dare you plan my funeral before I’m even dead. You want to kill me!” my mother accuses, trying to stand up from the table. She’s too wobbly, though, and aborts halfway through the motion, sinking back into her Adirondack chair and swiping for her mimosa.
“Decided it would be nice to have some closure, even though we might be waiting for the…body a little longer,” Opal explains, ignoring Nadine.
“And I have to get back to Napa,” Marlon says brusquely, not looking up from the email he’s typing. “Busy season, and I’ve got a lot to do.”
“Well, we’d hate to tear you away from the important things,” I snipe. “Glad you’re carving out some time.”
He raises his eyes to glare at me with dislike, and I balk. I’m used to his abandonment and his excuses, not his anger. He seems to have hardened overnight. He no longer looks haggard and old, as he has for the last few days, as though Silenus were sapping him of his youth every second he stayed on this soil. His eyes are wide open, his skin looks tighter, and he has shaved. I find it very strange that the official death of his daughter has somehow rejuvenated him. But then, I’ve never understood my father. I glance at his drink and am surprised to see that it is mostly full. Maybe he figures that Zelda’s death puts him one step closer to finishing with this chapter of his life. With Zelda gone, it’s just me, Nadine, and Silenus, and the last two won’t be around too much longer.
“When will it be? The service?” Wyatt asks.
“Tomorrow,” Opal says. “Without any remains, it seems pointless to wait. And she’s been dead for days.”
“It’s not like people will be traveling from all over the world for Zelda’s funeral,” I point out. “I’d be surprised if people even come from Ithaca.”
“Your sister was loved and treasured,” Opal snaps. “I won’t hear you jeering at her the day after we learn of her passing.” She stands up from the table and gives it a small shove. Her upper arms wobble, the bluish rumpled skin swaying comically with the effort. She strides inside in a huff, thoroughly peeved. I roll my eyes at Wyatt as though we’re fifteen, an unvocalized “Jeee-eeez” accompanying my adolescent expression.
“What happened to Ava, sweetheart?” Nadine asks, leaning toward Marlon and squeezing his knee affectionately. He looks trapped, and I almost laugh as he pats her hand in an attempt both to dislodge it and to soothe her.
“Ava’s fine, Nadine. Don’t worry.”
“Oh. Marl. Will you hold me?” She sounds small and timid, and I wonder if she was more like this when they met, with softer edges and some vulnerability. He looks taken aback, but he leans over to give her a squeeze. I retreat from this foreign scene of tenderness. I feel as if I can remember moments like this between them, but they’re obscured behind so many years of tension and aggression.
“Do you need help with the organizing?” I ask Marlon.
“I might. I’m trying to let everyone know right now. Is it gauche, do you think, to make a Facebook event?” he asks with a curious frown.
“I’ve seen it done,” Wyatt confirms. “It’s efficient.”
“Zelda wouldn’t mind,” I say. “Surely that’s what counts.”