Saturday, July 7, 2018, 10:20 a.m.
Initial questioning, Greer Garrison Winbury, Saturday, July 7, 10:20 a.m.
After Nick finishes writing notes from his interview with Abby, he pulls on a pair of latex gloves and enters the cottage where Merritt Monaco was staying. He has gotten in ahead of forensics, which is how he prefers it.
“Tell me a story,” he whispers. “What happened?”
The cottage has been decorated with a feminine sensibility, in pastels and florals. It’s probably meant to evoke an English garden, though to Nick it feels cloying and overwrought; it’s like walking into a Crabtree and Evelyn.
The living area appears untouched; Nick doesn’t see a thing out of place. He moves into the bedroom, where the air-conditioning has been turned up so high, the room is like a meat locker. Nick has to admit, it feels good, nearly delicious after the oppressive heat outside. The bed is made, and Merritt’s suitcase is open on the luggage rack with her shoes underneath. Her bridesmaid dress—ivory silk with black embroidery—hangs alone in the closet. Nick enters the bathroom. Merritt’s cosmetics are lined up on the lower glass shelf—she is clearly a fan of Bobbi Brown—and her hairbrush and flat iron are on the upper glass shelf. Toothbrush in the cup.
She was nice and neat, Nick thinks.
A quick check of Merritt’s cosmetic bag reveals eyeliners, mascaras, lipsticks, and powder, but nothing more.
Hmmpf, Nick thinks. He’s looking for something, but what? He’ll know it when he sees it.
On the dresser, Nick finds an open clutch purse that contains a driver’s license, a gold American Express card, seventy-seven dollars in cash, and an iPhone X. He studies the license: Merritt Alison Monaco, 116 Perry Street, New York, New York. She’s a beautiful woman, and young; she just turned twenty-nine. It’s such a shame.
“I’m going to do right by you,” Nick says. “Let’s figure this out.”
He picks up the iPhone X and swipes across. To his enormous surprise, the phone opens. Whaaaaa… He didn’t think there was a Millennial alive who left her phone unsecured. He feels almost cheated. Does this woman have nothing to hide?
He scrolls through her texts first. There is nothing new today, and yesterday there’s one text from someone named Robbie wishing her a belated “Happy Day of American Independence”; he hopes she’s well. The day before that, Merritt sent a text to someone named Jada V., thanking her for the party. Attached is a photo of fireworks over the Statue of Liberty.
The call log is ancient as well—by ancient, Nick means nothing within the past twenty-four hours. Friday morning there was a call placed to a 212 number but when Nick calls that number from his own phone, he gets the switchboard for the Wildlife Conservation Society. Merritt had probably been checking in at work.
The scant offerings on Merritt’s phone lead Nick back to Abby’s comment that Merritt might have set her sights on someone who was already at the wedding. She wouldn’t have to call or text anyone if she could talk to him in person.
Nick puts the clutch purse down where he found it and pokes around a little longer. A journal left lying around is too much to hope for, Nick knows, but what about a joint, a condom, a doodle on a scrap of paper with the name of the person she was involved with? She’s too attractive for there not to have been someone.
He finds nothing.
The mother of the bride is still in her bedroom, and the bride herself still at the hospital. Nick finds Greer Garrison, mother of the groom, on her phone in the kitchen. She has obviously just told someone the awful news and is now accepting condolences.
“Celeste is devastated,” she says. “I can’t imagine her agony.” She pauses. “Well, let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves… we’re all still in shock and”—here, Greer raises her eyes to Nick—“the police are trying to figure out what happened. I believe I’m the next to be interrogated, and so I really must hang up, I’m afraid. Love to Thebaud.” Greer punches off her phone. “Can I help you?” she asks Nick.
She looks fairly put-together, considering the circumstances, Nick thinks. She’s dressed in white pants and a beige tank; there is a gold cross on a thin gold chain around her neck. Her hair is sleek; she’s wearing lipstick. Her expression is guarded. She knows her task is about to be interrupted and she resents it.
Nick says, “Ms. Garrison, I’m Detective Nick Diamantopoulos with the Massachusetts State Police. I’ll need you to put away your phone.”
“You’re Greek?” she says, tilting her head. She’s probably trying to reconcile the name with his black skin.
He smiles. “My mother is Cape Verdean and my father is Greek. My paternal grandparents are from Thessaloníki.”
“I’m trying to write a novel set in Greece,” she says. “Problem is, I haven’t been there in so long, I seem to have lost the flavor of the place.”
As much as Nick would love to talk about the Aegean Sea, ouzo, and grilled octopus, he has work to do. “I need to ask you some questions, ma’am.”
“I don’t think you understand my predicament here, Detective,” she says. “This is my wedding.”
“Your wedding?”
“I planned it. I have people to call. All of the guests! People need to know what’s happened.”
“I understand,” Nick says. “But to find out exactly what did happen, I require your cooperation. And that means your undivided attention.”
“You do realize I have a houseful of people?” Greer says. “You do realize that Celeste’s mother has terminal breast cancer? And that Celeste has been taken to the hospital? I’m waiting to hear from Benji about how she’s doing.”
“I’ll make this as fast as possible,” Nick says. He tries to ignore the phone, although he would like to take it from her. “Would you please come with me to the living room?”
Greer stares at him with reproach. “How dare you order me around in my own house.”
“I’m very sorry about that, ma’am. Now, please.” He walks down the hall and hopes she follows him. He hears her rustling behind him so he stops at the entrance of the living room and lets her walk in first. He closes the door tightly behind them.
Greer perches on the edge of the sofa, leaning forward as though she might spring to her feet and escape at any moment. Her phone is in her lap, buzzing away.
“Can you please tell me what you remember after the rehearsal dinner ended?” Nick says. “Who went where?”
“The young people went out,” Greer says. “The old people stayed home. The exception was Abigail, my daughter-in-law. She’s pregnant. She stayed home.”
“But both the bride and groom went out? Who else?” Nick pulls out his notepad. “Merritt? Did she go out?”
“Do you know what I do for a living, Detective?” Greer asks. “I write murder mysteries. As such, I am intimately familiar with procedure, so I appreciate that you have to ask these questions. But I can tell you exactly what happened to Merritt.”
“Can you?” Nick says. “Exactly?”
