I crave the comfort of the daybed on the porch, but I know I won’t feel safe there now—there’s only a hook-and-eye latch on the screen door to the yard. I stagger to the den and collapse onto the sofa. I try to make my mind go blank, but soon enough, an image begins to bleed in from the edges. It’s Eve standing in her office looking smug and self-satisfied, and then an ax splicing into her face with a horrible thwack.
Am I responsible? Did I set the whole horrible thing in motion by raising a stink about the money and matches? I imagine how it might have played out. Eve summoning both waiters to her office—probably separately so there’d be no safety in numbers. She might have rested her butt on the desk like she had with me, her body close enough to each guy to be intimidating.
And she wouldn’t have been coy. She would have demanded the truth point-blank. A confession might have been offered by one of them, followed quickly by his being fired. Even if the thief failed to come clean, he might have worried that Eve could see through his lie, and that it was only a matter of time before he was out of a job. Maybe he hadn’t killed her then, but instead came back later with the ax. Or found the ax on the premises.
I wish I could reach out to the woman who called this morning. It’s seeming to me now that she must have been at another location. She didn’t sound fully in the loop, but she might know something that could prove useful. Regardless, I decide it doesn’t seem smart to call. I’d surely sustain a tongue-lashing from Corcoran if she found out.
Of course, the murder might have no connection to either of the waiters who worked at our house. It could just have easily been committed by someone else, a boyfriend perhaps. A gruesome crime of passion.
I take deep breaths, the way Dr. G suggested, and count back slowly from ten. Eventually my heart quiets, and from pure exhaustion I feel myself drifting asleep.
When I wake with a start, I find Guy’s hand on my shoulder and realize that he’s been gently jostling it. I struggle up to a sitting position, my now damp T-shirt sucking at my skin. It takes only a split second for the horror of the morning to come rushing back. I moan at the memory.
“Sorry to wake you,” Guy says, lowering himself onto the sofa, “but I wanted to be sure you were okay.”
“Thanks, honey. Is there any news?”
I sense there’s another question around the edges of my mind, an insistent one, but it ducks from my grasp.
He sighs. “Not a thing. They mentioned the murder on the radio, but no word about any suspects.”
“Do you think the cops up here have the resources to track down a murderer?
“Let’s hope so . . . Can I get you anything? An iced tea maybe?”
“That would be nice.” The caffeine may help me out of my stupor.
As Guy rises from the sofa, the elusive question strays within reach.
“Did Eve do another party for you?” I ask. “Before the dinner Thursday night?”
“Well, more than one. As I told you, she catered a bunch of events for the opera company.”
“I mean here in the house, before I moved to Saratoga. Miranda said there was a cocktail party.”
He squints his eyes, as if the answer requires a mental search and rescue, and finally nods.
“Yes, that’s right. She catered a very small cocktail party a couple of weeks before you arrived. I decided on the spur of the moment to toast the new director in residence.”
The disquiet I felt in the car creeps back.
“But why not tell me about that?”
“Didn’t I? I guess it just never came up on the phone.”
“But the other night, when I told you that Eve didn’t want me to show her around, you said she was probably good at finding her way around unfamiliar kitchens.”
“Well, she’d never cooked an actual meal here. At the party they served hors d’oeuvres, which I’m sure were prepared in advance.”
“But after the money was taken? You didn’t think it was worth pointing out that she and her team had been here previously?”
“It honestly slipped my mind, sweetheart. Come to think of it, she had a different crew with her that night anyway. Two women.”
Maybe I’m being silly. There’s so much more to worry about right now, and I need to move this to the inconsequential list.
“Okay.” I shove aside the chenille throw that I’d pulled over me. “By the way, how did the meeting with Brent go?”
“It was fine. He just wanted to show me the new ads we’re going to be running, get a second opinion. The problem is you never know with him. One day he’s all smiles and compliments, and the next day he’s a human blowtorch.”
That can’t be fun, I think again, and I’m finally recognizing how much of a pain in the ass Guy’s boss has become for him.
“It won’t be forever. Are you still planning to start looking for a new job at the end of the year? In New York?”
“Maybe sooner. This fall even.”
“Ah, I like that idea. Us living under the same roof for good.”
“I like that idea, too. I’ll get you the iced tea.”
“Guy,” I say as he starts to exit the room. “Let’s keep the doors locked even during the day, okay? We don’t want to take any chances.”
It takes him a moment to register what I mean, and then he nods, understanding.