“I’m a wreck,” Nell says. “I’m at Sebastian’s throat all day. Everything he says annoys me. And the baby’s waking every few hours again.”
Colette goes to the kitchen, taking a paper dessert box from the counter. “Not much help, but I got chocolate-chip muffins today. Thought you could use one of these.” She puts the muffins on a plate and sets them on the coffee table before heading down the hall toward the bedrooms in the back. “I need to find a shirt. Coffee’s made, if you want it.”
Nell takes a seat on the couch. “Not me. I’ve had four cups already.”
Francie walks into the kitchen, which is separated from the living room by a large butcher’s-block island. She slides her hand along the smooth wood and the spotless white countertop to the double farmhouse sink. She pauses before opening the refrigerator, examining the array of Polaroids stuck to the door. Poppy, lying on a soft pink bedspread, propped up on a nursing pillow. Colette and a tall, handsome man Francie assumes is Charlie, their tan, toned arms clasped around each other’s waists, Colette’s long auburn hair beach-blown and wild, her face spattered with a map of fresh freckles. A note in male handwriting, curled and paled by the sunlight streaming in the large window nearby:
Attention all kitchen utensils, unfinished books, “useless childhood artifacts,” and general household objects: take heed. Colette Yates is nesting. None of you are safe.
Colette appears in a man’s white T-shirt that swallows her. “You know her?” Nell asks Colette. Nell’s standing in front of a bookshelf, holding a framed photograph in her hand.
Colette glances at Nell and then walks into the kitchen to pour a cup of coffee. “Yes.”
“How?”
“She’s my mom.”
“You’re joking.”
“Who?” Francie says. Nell turns the photograph, and Francie walks to take a closer look. It’s an image of an older woman with a crisp white bob, standing on a paddleboard, her arms raised triumphantly overhead.
“Rosemary Carpenter.” By the stunned look on Nell’s face, it’s apparent Francie is supposed to know who that is.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know her.”
“She started WFE,” Nell says.
Francie is shocked. “The wrestling organization?”
Colette and Nell laugh, and Francie’s face warms with embarrassment.
“No,” Nell says. “Women for Equality. The feminist organization.”
“Actually, it is kind of like a wrestling organization,” Colette says.
Nell puts the photograph back. “My mom gave me a signed copy of her book for my high school graduation.”
“Funny,” Colette says. “So did mine.”
Francie is unsure of what she’s supposed to say, wondering why it is that everyone in New York City seems either to be a famous person or know one. Winnie. Colette’s mother. The only famous person Francie ever met before moving to New York was the owner of the largest chain of car dealerships in western Tennessee, whose family portrait she assisted with at the photography studio where she worked.
“What was that like?” Nell asks Colette.
“You mean, being the daughter of the woman known to coin the phrase ‘The only thing worse for a woman than making herself dependent on a man—’”
Nell finishes her sentence: “‘—is to have a child dependent on her.’”
“How awful,” Francie says before she can help herself.
“It was complicated, but we can’t get into that right now. Charlie will be back soon, and I have something I need to share with you.”
“Is it about Midas?” Francie asks.
“Yes.”
“Good. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about things.” Francie releases Will from the Moby Wrap and sets him on the floor before taking the notebook from her diaper bag. She kneels on the soft area rug and opens the notebook to the timeline she’s made of the night, including who was there, and what time they left. “I’ve been trying to piece together a clear chain of events, see if there might be someone who can fill in the holes. Where was Winnie? What time did she leave? Who, if anyone, did she leave with?”
Nell sits on the floor beside Francie.
“The police work on this—something isn’t right,” Francie says. “Lowell’s uncle is in law enforcement. I’ve been reading the news to him, and he’s appalled by how many mistakes the police have made. Did you see this?” Francie searches her bag for the article by Elliott Falk she printed from the New York Post’s website this morning. “Apparently someone opened the windows in Midas’s room and moved his crib sheets before photographs were taken.”
“And did you read the article yesterday?” Colette asks. “Suggesting the person who took Midas could have been inside the house when the police arrived?”
“I know, I saw that too,” Nell says. “Is that why the door was open when we got there?”
“Let’s start with how someone got in.” Francie sits back. “Nell, I have to ask you again. Have you given any more thought to her key and phone? Any idea at all what may have happened? They couldn’t have just disappeared.”
Nell keeps her gaze on Francie’s notebook. “I don’t know. I put her phone in my purse. I know I did. You guys watched me.”
“When you dropped your purse, and things scattered, do you think the phone fell out? Maybe it slid under a nearby table?”
“I dropped my purse?”
“Don’t you remember?” Francie tries to keep the irritation from her voice. “When you were trying to find Winnie’s phone?”
“Right,” Nell says, but Francie can hear the uncertainty. “I don’t think her phone fell out.”
“Walk me through what you do remember,” Francie says.
Nell presses her hands to her eyes. “I went to the waitress station to order the fries. A little while later, I went to the bar for a drink with Scarlett. We came back—”
“No, you’re wrong.” Francie knew it. Nell was even drunker than she’d thought. “Scarlett wasn’t there.”
“She wasn’t?”
Francie feels a fresh flood of remorse. Why had she trusted Nell with Winnie’s phone? She was well aware that Nell had had too much to drink. Why hadn’t she been smarter? “No. Look.” She shoves the notebook closer to Nell and points at the list of names. “Scarlett didn’t come.”
“Okay, Francie, relax. I’m getting the name wrong,” Nell says, her tone defensive. “I told you guys, I’m terrible with names. Who’s the woman who came but left pretty quickly? The Pilates one. We went to get a drink together.”
“Gemma? Wearing a blue tank top and jeans?”
“Yes, Gemma. It was her.”
“And then what?” Francie asks.
“And that’s it. I went to the loo. I came back to the table, we all chatted for a while, and then Alma called.”
“You’re sure?” Francie asks. “You didn’t ask anyone to hold your purse? You didn’t lose sight of it at any point?”
“Francie, take a breath,” Colette says. “You’re going to pass out.”
Francie sits back on her heels. “I just can’t make sense of any of this. Where was Winnie when Alma called? And when did she get back to her house that night? And did you see what Patricia Faith said on The Faith Hour this morning?”
Nell lets out an irritated sigh. “Patricia Faith. I despise that woman. How does being a former Miss California qualify you for a one-hour talk show on cable television?”
“Do you know what her beauty contest talent was?” Colette asks. “Social commentary.”
“Please,” Nell says. “What? Did she stand on a stage in a bikini, arguing in favor of arming schoolchildren?”
“You can see the foam brewing at her mouth,” Colette says. “A rich baby stolen away. The mother, a beautiful, once-famous actress, and now a single mom. She’s going to make her network a fortune.”
“I know, but guys,” Francie says, “did you see what she said this morning? They know about us. That we got in.”
Nell gasps and grabs Francie’s wrist. “What do you mean?” The color has drained from her face. “She talked about us? By name?”