I use the words on my mom’s note card to calm me. Tomorrow is Monday, and I’ll be able to reach out to the law firm that Susan recommended. I just have to stay strong until then.
As soon as I wake in the morning, I splash water on my face and take a seat at the small desk where I’ve set up my laptop. I search the Saratogian website for any news about Miranda. There’s a short item saying that her body was discovered last night by a friend dropping off a package. No weapon mentioned. No suspect at this time. Police are trying to determine if there is any connection to the murder of another local woman, Eve Blazer.
Surely it won’t be long before I hear from Corcoran. She’ll want to meet with me in person, demanding to know where I was last night and when I saw Miranda last. I need to line up a lawyer before that call comes in.
And maybe, I think, it would actually be smart to forewarn Sandra. That might be a better tactic than simply giving her name to Corcoran and counting on Sandra to confirm that Miranda and I were both at the restaurant by pure chance.
With still an hour to go before I can reach the law firm Susan recommended, I venture down to breakfast. The room is nearly full, and disconcertingly noisy, with a chatty couple at one table humble-bragging to the people next to them about trips they’ve taken all over the planet.
By the time I’m on my second cup of coffee, the room has mostly emptied. I’ve been waiting for quiet to help me think, but now that it’s arrived, I still can’t make sense of why Eve and Miranda have been killed a week apart. Guy is a common denominator. But because both women worked with the opera company, there must be other people they both interacted with. They may have even been connected somehow outside of work.
My mind snakes its way back to the idea I floated by Derek last night—that the murders and the scary things that have happened to me over the past few weeks may be related. I don’t have any rational reason for thinking this, but they do seem weirdly mushed together. From the moment I tugged open my desk drawer and found the burnt matches, everything began to unravel.
The key may be to finally figure out who left the matches. The answer will be a thread I can begin to follow, and even if it leads away from the murder, I’ll at least finally know who was trying to shake me up.
I toy with an idea. Maybe Kim was the one who stole the money, but not because she felt resentful of my success. Rather it could be because Nick was sleeping with Eve and Kim found out. Maybe she caught her husband talking to Eve in the kitchen and knew from their body language that something was up. And . . . and she took the money so it would reflect badly on Eve. She would know I’d suspect Eve or one of the waiters and likely never use the catering company again.
As for the matches, perhaps Kim spotted them someplace and stuffed them in the drawer, so that I’d be even more upset with Eve and her crew. And later she killed Eve in a jealous rage.
Or Nick killed her in a rage, after sneaking off from the party. If he did, that doesn’t explain why he’d try to break into my house or call me on the phone with the crackling sound of fire playing.
And it doesn’t explain Miranda. Nick must have spoken to her on the phone intermittently, as he set up activities and appointments with Guy. He may have even met her on occasion. But I can’t envision a reason that he’d have for killing her—or that Kim would have, for that matter, even if she’s the one who murdered Eve. It might be that the two murders have absolutely nothing to do with each other.
Or they do, and Guy is the killer, after all.
My head hurts from thinking so hard. Coffee cup in hand, I ascend to the second floor and finally, at exactly nine, I call the law firm Susan recommended the highest. An assistant picks up the line for the partner I’m supposed to talk to, Kyle Landry. She informs me that Mr. Landry has been expecting my call but won’t be able to speak with me until one o’clock. I tell her I’ll be waiting.
Next I phone Sandra. Voicemail picks up, and I leave a message for her to please call me. It’s an hour before I hear back from her.
“I’m sorry to bother you when you’ve got your event coming up, but I could use your help on a matter.”
“Of course, Bryn. What can I do for you?”
“Is it possible for us to meet briefly? I’d rather tell you in person.”
She hesitates, probably perplexed. An in-person meeting suggests that it’s serious, perhaps sensitive. After the awkwardness of our conversation yesterday, I don’t want to spit out my request over the phone.
“Um, all right. And since I’m working at the venue today, it will give you a chance to see it. Are you familiar with the Washington Baths?”
“Yes, they’re in Saratoga Park, right?” I’ve driven by the large brick building she’s referring to. It’s one of the legendary old bathhouses still in operation. “What time?”