“Officer,” someone says. In her tone is irony, derision.
Investigator, she thinks, before turning. A young woman, reclined on a sofa with her feet draped over its back, is looking in her direction. Her head is resting in the lap of a young man. She looks familiar—an actress? A singer? Judy feels as if she’s seen her on TV.
“What’s the working theory?” says the girl.
The young man she’s resting on puts a hand over his mouth, as if suppressing a laugh.
Judy ignores her. Looks down at her pad again.
“Who’s the prime suspect?” the girl tries, sitting up now.
“Shut up, Polly,” says another girl across the room, curly-haired, rubbing sleep out of her eyes.
Polly looks to the young man next to her. “What are you laughing at?”
“The way you said that,” he tells her. “It’s just so—earnest!” And he allows the laugh he’s been hiding to burst forth.
“I’m sorry,” he says, looking at Judy. “I know this is serious. I’m hungover.”
“I’m interested,” says Polly. “I want to know.”
Judy detests these people. And then remembers her training; feels guilty about her quick leap to hatred.
Unswervingly, surprising even herself, Judy walks straight through the main room, ignoring them all, and heads down a hallway on the other side. She’ll gather her thoughts before interviewing any of them.
• • •
A part of her acknowledges that she is moving in this direction, away from the crowd she is supposed to interview, out of personal curiosity—she has always wondered about the homes of the members she serves at the golf club, and this one, she is certain, is even grander—and yet she assures herself that if she is caught by a colleague, she’s within her rights to tell him she’s simply looking for more people to interview.
Some of the doors along the hallway are open, and some are closed. She limits herself to the open ones. Into these, she pokes her head, knocking softly.
Most are untidy. Beds unmade, suitcases open, contents spilled out.
In one, she finds a man still asleep, snoring loudly, apparently unaware of, or uninterested in, the commotion on the grounds.
She goes on her way. The next door is closed but not latched.
She puts a finger to it and pushes. Inside, there is the vague smell of fresh paint. The walls are a light pink that makes Judy wrinkle her nose.
Someone’s suitcase is open on the floor in front of her.
Judy steps forward tentatively, her weight on her heels.
Inside are feminine things that someone has not taken care of: dresses and slips and high heels and a bikini, bright orange, still wet from a swim. Judy—herself very neat—suppresses the urge to hang it up someplace.
Inside the room, it becomes clear that the walls have been hastily painted. A quick effort on the part of the hosts to make things look nice before the start of the party, Judy guesses. Her own mother might have done the same.
Her thoughts are interrupted by a rapid knocking on the front door. The voices in the great room quiet.
Judy goes to investigate.
Louise
1950s | 1961 | Winter 1973 | June 1975 | July 1975 | August 1975: Day One
Annabel, as it turns out, does have a different story.
Alone in her dressing room—Denny Hayes has excused himself, has told her to wait there—Louise can no longer hear the anguished indiscernible outbursts that punctuated the first thirty minutes that went by. Instead, she hears Annabel’s laugh, on occasion. She’s calm now. Off the hook. Denny Hayes is joking with her mom and dad.
The crybaby, thinks Louise. The canary.
There is no doubt in Louise’s mind that Annabel talked.
• • •
Finally, a knock.
Denny Hayes enters without waiting for a response. In his hands he is holding something Louise recognizes.
He says nothing. Sets the brown paper garbage bag on the vanity to the left of Louise. Then sits down opposite Louise, regarding her, silent.
Louise brushes some nail shards off her lap.
The smell of Annabel’s vomit, still inside the potato chip bag, reaches her, and she retches. Hides it.
Why on earth, she asks herself, did she assign Annabel the task of disposing of this evidence? Why did she not deal with it herself?
Denny clears his throat.
