“Well, not exactly,” Greer says. “But the gist is fairly obvious, is it not? The girl drank too much or she took pills and then she decided to go for a swim in her dress and she drowned.”
“You’ll agree,” Nick says, “that as viable as that explanation might be, it leaves some unanswered questions.”
“Such as?”
“I’ve interviewed one witness who says she’s fairly certain that Merritt didn’t go out. So if she stayed home, where and what was she drinking? Did anyone see her? Did anyone talk to her? I just walked through the cottage where Ms. Monaco was staying. There was no alcohol in the cottage—no bottles, no empties, nothing. And no pills, no prescription bottles. As a fiction writer, you must know that it’s difficult, when one is drinking and popping pills, to get rid of all incriminating evidence. Also, Ms. Monaco had quite a nasty cut on her foot. How did that happen? When did that happen?”
“Don’t look for drama where there is none,” Greer says. “There’s a term for that in literature. It’s called a red herring. The term was coined in the early 1800s by hunters who would throw a kipper down behind their trail to divert the wolves.”
Nick almost smiles. He wants to dislike her but there’s something about her he admires. He has never met a published author before, and it’s true—if she is a seasoned mystery writer, she might be able to help them. “That’s good to know,” he says. “Thank you.”
“I came across Merritt at the end of the rehearsal dinner,” Greer says. “She was hiding in the laundry room. She was crying.”
“Crying?” Nick says. He remembers that Abby also said Merritt had been crying, out in the rose garden. “Did she tell you what was wrong?”
“She did not,” Greer says. “And I didn’t press; it wasn’t my place. But I think it was clear she was feeling left out. Her best friend was getting married. Celeste was the center of attention and Merritt was at the wedding alone. Maybe she was depressed. I have no idea. But I can say that she was very upset, which only solidifies the argument that she drank too much, maybe took some pills, and went for a swim. Maybe she drowned accidentally or maybe it was intentional.”
“Suicide?” Nick says.
“Is that impossible?” Greer asks. “It’s not something one likes to think about, of course. But…”
“Let’s get back to you,” Nick says. “What did you do when the party ended? You and Mr. Winbury stayed home, is that right?”
“I don’t see why what Tag and I did is relevant,” Greer says.
“You’re a mystery writer,” Nick says. “So you’re familiar with the term alibi?”
Greer raises an eyebrow at him. “Touché,” she says. “Yes. My husband and Mr. Otis, the bride’s father, had a drink in Tag’s study and then they must have gone outside to smoke a cigar because when Tag came to bed, he smelled like smoke.”
“We found a cigar stubbed out on a table under the tent. One cigar. Would you guess that cigar belonged to your husband?”
“I would guess,” Greer says, “but I couldn’t be sure.”
“What kind of cigars does your husband smoke, Ms. Garrison?”
“He smokes Cuban cigars,” Greer says, “but more than one kind. Cohiba. Romeo y Julieta. Montecristo. I hardly see how the cigar is relevant to what happened to Ms. Monaco.”
“We aren’t sure it is relevant,” Nick says. “Right now, we’re just trying to figure out who was where after the party broke up. It appears a handful of people were out under the tent smoking and drinking, and we’re trying to identify who exactly was there. Did Mr. Winbury say where he’d been when he came to bed?”
“I didn’t ask where he’d been because I knew where he’d been. Here, on the grounds.”
“What time did Mr. Winbury come to bed?”
“I have no earthly idea. I was asleep.”
“You were asleep but you noticed that Mr. Winbury smelled like cigar smoke?”
“That’s correct,” Greer says. “I woke up just enough to know Tag was coming to bed and that he smelled like cigar smoke but not enough to bother checking the time.”
“And you didn’t wake up again until the morning?”
“That’s correct. I woke up on my own at half past five.”
“And, Ms. Garrison, what time did you retire? Did you go to bed right after the party was over?”
“No, I did not.”
“What did you do after the party? While Mr. Winbury and Mr. Otis were in the study?”
“I sat down at my computer. I was writing. I have a deadline looming.”
“I see. And where did you do this writing?”
“On my laptop,” Greer says. “In my sitting room.”
“And does that desk face a window?”
“Yes, it does.”
“Did you notice any activity out the window?”
“I did not.”
Nick pauses. Is it likely she didn’t see anything out the window? No lights? No shadows?
“And what time did you finish writing?” he asks.
“I finished at eleven fifteen,” she says.
