“You have to be very careful, Bryn. You told me you were going to keep a low profile.”
“I know, and I don’t like exposing myself, but going out is the only way to gather information.”
I tell him then about running into Conrad earlier in the day and the case he made in defense of himself, the other waiter, and Eve as well.
“So if the kitchen crew didn’t leave the matches, who did? Like I said, it had to be someone who was there that Thursday.”
“Yes, and . . .” A thought forms, one that feels like it’s been slowly knitting together in my mind for days. “And part of me wonders if the missing money and the matches are connected to everything else. There’s this weird overlap.”
“How do you mean?”
“I’m not sure exactly. It just seems strange that everything unfolded at the same time—me being harassed plus the murders. Could it really be a coincidence? Here’s something else interesting. Conrad said one of the male guests had spoken to Eve by the kitchen that night. A quick, private conversation.”
“Really? Which guest?”
“I didn’t have to ask him. I saw Kim’s husband come from that direction at one point, though I assumed he’d gone to the bathroom.
“You’re not thinking he killed Eve, are you?”
“No, not necessarily, it’s just odd. He was there that night, he clearly knew Eve, and yet after the murder, he never mentioned he knew her.”
Silence again. Is he trying to make sense of it as well?
“Derek, please don’t share any of what I’ve told you with the reporter. It’s just between the two of us right now, okay?”
“Absolutely. And promise me you’ll be careful, Bryn. Is there any chance I can convince you to stay in?”
“I don’t have plans to go anyplace else,” I tell him. Though at some point I’m going to have to return to the house and collect my stupid checkbook.
“Call me in the morning. I’ll be around.”
After hanging up, I double-check that the security bolt is in position on the door. Earlier I felt safe here, but I don’t right now—even with that steel door between me and the hall.
I peel off everything but my T-shirt, and slide between the sheets. All I can think about is Miranda. Her poor kids. They’ve surely been told by now and must be on their way home from their colleges, shocked and grief-stricken and forever changed.
Though I’d never compare my loss to theirs, I’m grief-stricken, too. There’s an ache in me, resulting not only from the death of my marriage but also from the loss of my life as I knew it to be. I’ve been conned by Guy. I might even be in danger from him.
Detective Corcoran, I realize, is going to grill me hard about Miranda’s murder. She’ll want to know about Guy’s relationship with his attractive assistant, whether it was amicable, whether it could have been more than a work relationship. After I began to lose trust in Guy, I wondered briefly whether he’d ever slept with Miranda, and yet I can’t imagine tossing that kind of conjecture out to the cops without any proof.
But then what should I tell them? They’d surely be interested in Guy’s secret years in Dallas and the way he demanded to know if I’d shared the news about his past with Miranda. And yet I don’t think I can bring myself to throw him under the bus when I don’t know for sure how culpable he is.
My eyes pop open, and I jerk straight up in bed, staring into the darkness. Derek’s comment has wiggled its way back into my brain, the one about Guy being a common denominator. I realize I’m a common denominator, too. If Corcoran thinks I hated Eve for possibly having an affair with Guy, she may assume I also suspected Miranda and fixated on her as well. That I’m a jealous, murderous maniac.
Something else: I was out tonight, without a solid alibi for every moment.
No, it’s all too far-fetched for Corcoran to actually believe. With the first murder, she let herself become snarled in the idea that I was hounding or stalking Eve. She could hardly think the same in regards to Miranda. I’ve seen her only twice since I’d been living full-time in Saratoga, the two times I dropped by the office.
But wait, those aren’t the only times. Through the sheet I feel goose bumps pop on my arms. I saw Miranda yesterday at the restaurant, eating with her friends as I finished my coffee alone. It was all pure coincidence, both of us ending up at the same lakeside spot on a Saturday.
If in tracing Miranda’s last steps, the police check the credit card receipts at Dock Brown’s, they’ll know I was there at the same time and may conclude that I’d stalked her, too, obsessed with the notion that she was involved with Guy. I’d have to count on Sandra telling the cops that the restaurant pick was all her idea.