Joyce pulled out into traffic and settled into the soft leather seat, wrapping her coat tight around her shoulders. She kept picturing her husband’s face across the table, that hang-dog expression he got when something didn’t go his way. Joyce used to think it was cute, back when they were in college and he’d hang around outside her classes. She was always one of the last students out because she liked to ask the professors questions after lecture rather than during—she’d been a bit shy back then—and Simon would get upset sometimes, waiting for her to finish up.
Joyce pulled into their long driveway, hearing the satisfying crack of pebbles under the tires as she turned off the main road.
Clara was inside vacuuming when Joyce arrived home. Joyce went into the kitchen and set the kettle to boil. She and Clara liked to have a tea and a chat on Monday afternoons, catching up on their weekends and reminding each other about the various dramas of their lives. Joyce didn’t know if she could call Clara a friend, because she paid her to be there in a way, but it was the closest relationship Joyce had with another woman.
Simon had suggested at one point that she might be friends with Trina. Joyce could barely stomach the thought.
Joyce already had her hobbies. She didn’t need more friends.
It was coming up on a year now, and Joyce remembered how last year the biting cold crept into her bones after the accident and wouldn’t leave her until forced to by the obscene heat of summer. She’d stand by the fire, or soak in a scalding bath, but she’d still shake from the chills that wracked her body. All she would feel was the bite of ice on her skin.
“Is the tea ready?” Clara stood in the doorway to the kitchen, her maid’s uniform fitting neatly against her round hips and sharp waist. Clara told Joyce once that, back in Croatia, she’d been a dancer in a nightclub. Her parents threatened to disown her, but she’d made enough money with her waspish figure to manage to leave and move to the US. Now a grandmother, she still had the same silhouette and Joyce found herself wishing she hadn’t trained her body into boyish thinness.
“Almost. I bought some strudel from Straufmann’s.” Joyce set down a plate of the pastry on the round dining table in the eat-in portion of the kitchen. Not that she’d eat any of it, but Clara enjoyed a sweet treat with her tea.
“Tell me about your day.” Clara settled herself in one of the chairs, crossing her feet at the ankles like a debutante.
Joyce poured the tea. Her phone thrummed in her purse on the counter, but she didn’t move to get it. She knew it was probably Simon, calling for an apology for how she acted at lunch. She’d give him one, but not yet.
“Not much to report,” Joyce said.
Clara took a sip of tea, her face expectant.
“What is it?” Joyce poured a dash of milk into her cup to mix with the Earl Grey. Drinking from the delicate porcelain, the heat of the tea snaked its way pleasantly down through her chest.
“The police stopped by earlier today.” Clara said it as though it were a confession.
“Why was that?” Joyce forced herself to ask the question, and then followed up with, “Has one of our neighbors been robbed?”
“No, nothing like that. They were asking about a woman.” Clara paused. “The woman.”
“Trina,” Joyce said, and Clara nodded in confirmation.
“She’s gotten herself into some other kind of trouble. They wouldn’t say specifically, and I was lucky they even mentioned her name when they were here. But they asked if you or Mr. Morgan were home, and I told them you were both out, and then I demanded—oh yes, I demanded—” Here, Clara balled her hand into a fist and set it firmly on the table, fixing her eyes on Joyce. She had very little traces of her accent left, but it came out in softer vowels and clipped consonant pairs when she got frustrated or angry. “I demanded to know if any of it had to do with that woman, and they wouldn’t confirm anything but they also wouldn’t say it wasn’t about her. That’s how I knew she was coming back into your life.”
Simon was always a fool in that way. He thought he could save the world, when he couldn’t even take care of himself. He never should have stopped that day to help Trina. Joyce could picture exactly what he’d said when she’d gone to him at the hospital to find him slouched on a gurney, his shirt soaked in blood and holding his head in his hands.
“I thought I could help.” Simon’s shoulders shuddered as he collapsed into sobs. Joyce held him, her heart going out to her husband, her dear friend in so many ways. But she’d also spoken to the police before going to Simon, where she was told Simon had killed his patient. That he’d done something wrong while trying to save the young man.
“Did they leave a card?” Joyce asked.
Clara reached into the pocket of her white apron and produced a business card printed on cheap cardstock, the police department insignia stamped in the top left.
“They asked you or Mr. Morgan to call and set up a time to talk.”
Joyce snatched a piece of strudel and took a huge bite. The sugar icing mixed with the cherry filling, flavor exploding in her mouth.
She knew what to do now.
Joyce took another bite, finishing the entire piece and licking her fingers afterwards.
CHAPTER SIX LAURA
“What’s the name again?” the woman asked.
“Dermot Carine,” Laura repeated. It was the fifth time she’d called, but the first time someone picked up. A keyboard clattered in the background.
They wouldn’t let her see the body, let alone take it home, which was absurd because she was the closest to family Dermot had. He’d listed her as his emergency contact, which was why she got the call early Monday morning from the police.
Laura leaned against the thin windows in the trailer and looked out at the bare woods. It was finally cold enough outside today that the creek might freeze over.
“Oh, here it is. Do you have the name of the funeral home we’re sending him to?”
“Can’t I just come and pick him up?” Something heavy pressed on Laura’s chest, and she balled her fist and pushed into the center to try and relieve the pressure. Laura hadn’t been told anything about a funeral home.
“No, honey,” the woman explained patiently. “You can’t just come and take his body. He needs to go somewhere people know how to prepare him.” Laura wasn’t used to people being so kind to her. Except for Dermot.
Who was dead.
Laura heard a thump come from the bedroom. Terry must be up. She balanced the phone on her shoulder and plugged the coffee maker in. She’d put the grounds in last night, so it’d be ready in the morning.
“I’ve never been to a funeral home before,” Laura said. Two years ago, her sophomore chemistry teacher had a massive coronary in the teachers’ lounge and Dermot had offered to take her to the calling hours at the funeral home, but she’d said no. The idea of seeing Mr. Kimble when he wasn’t Mr. Kimble anymore made her queasy.
“I can give you a few names and numbers,” the woman at the morgue said. She paused. “If you can’t afford it, you can have him cremated. That’s a lot less expensive. Or if you can’t do that, the hospital will take care of things, but you won’t be able to bury him.”
Terry came into the main room of the trailer, shirtless and scratching at his crotch. “Where’s my coffee?”
“I’m on the phone,” Laura mouthed, but Terry ignored her and gave a huge yawn, moving past her to grab the creamer from the fridge.
