Greer can think ill of Tag all she likes, but in the end, she knows, she will say and do whatever she needs to do to protect him.
There’s a knock on the bedroom door.
It’s Thomas.
“The chief of police is back,” Thomas says. “He’d like to talk to you next, Dad.”
Tag looks to Greer. She nods but is afraid to say a word in front of Thomas. Tag should stick to the story they came up with. She tries to convey this with her eyes but Tag hangs his head like a guilty man. Greer would like to go into the questioning with him. Let her talk, let her present the argument. She, after all, is the storyteller.
But that, of course, won’t be possible. Tag got into this mess without her; he will have to go it alone.
Greer is exhausted. It’s nearly four o’clock, the hour the ceremony was to take place.
She lies down on the bed. She is so tired she could sleep until morning. Maybe she will sleep until morning.
Merritt Monaco. She was twenty-nine years old. Pretty, but unoriginal. That was who Tag was screwing.
Disgust courses through Greer’s veins. She is hardly naive; she has written scenarios this nefarious and more so. There wasn’t one original thing about it—a charming, rich, powerful older man with an indifferent wife seduced or was seduced by a young, beautiful, silly girl. It practically described the history of the entire world—from Henry VIII with Anne Boleyn to an American president with his impressionable intern. But it feels brand-new, doesn’t it? Because it is happening to Greer.
Pregnant.
When Tag is charged with murder, the papers will have a field day. Their wealth and the fact that Greer writes murder mysteries will make the story positively irresistible. The New York Post will cover it, then the British tabloids. Greer will be cast as an object of pity; her fans will either cringe or rage on her behalf. The thought is horrifying—so many middle-aged women writing indignant Facebook posts or penning sympathetic letters. Thomas’s and Benji’s lives will be ruined. They’ll become social outcasts. Thomas will be fired; Benji will be asked to resign from his charitable boards.
Greer sits up. She can’t sleep. She needs a pill.
She goes into the master bathroom and eyes Tag’s sink—his razor, his shaving brush, his tortoiseshell comb. She couldn’t bear to walk into this bathroom and find Tag’s side empty. They have been together too long, endured too much.
Greer opens her medicine cabinet, and as she does so, she gets a peculiar feeling of déjà vu, as though she watched herself go through these exact motions a short time ago—and so a part of her knows that when she looks, her sleeping pills will be missing.
Wait, she thinks. Wait just a minute!
The pills were prescribed by her GP, Dr. Crowe. Dr. Crowe is doddering, nearly senile; he has been Greer’s “woman doctor” since she moved to Manhattan. The pills are “quite potent,” as Crowe likes to remind her, some cousin to the quaaludes everyone was taking in the seventies. “Quite potent” isn’t just some humble-brag; the pills knock Greer out immediately and lock her in an obsidian casket for a full eight hours. Greer doesn’t keep her sleeping pills in a prescription bottle but rather in a round enamel box decorated with a picture of a young Queen Elizabeth II. Greer received the box as a present from her grandmother on the occasion of her eleventh birthday.
The Queen Elizabeth box always sits in the same spot on the same shelf and Greer knows why it’s gone. Or at least she suspects she does.
She closes the medicine cabinet and stares at herself in the mirror. She needs to think this through. But there’s no time. She needs to talk to the Chief immediately. She needs to save her husband, that bastard.
Saturday, July 7, 2018, 4:00 p.m.
NANTUCKET
Marty Szczerba is sitting at the bar at the Crosswinds restaurant in the Nantucket airport finally eating his lunch. He likes the Reuben, loves the coleslaw; he has gained thirty pounds since Nancy died, which isn’t helping in his quest for a new girlfriend. A not-unattractive woman in her early to mid-forties suddenly takes the seat next to his. She points at his sandwich and says, in a posh English accent, “I’m having what this chap’s having. And a glass of chardonnay. A large glass.”
Marty fumbles with his knife and fork in an attempt to flag down Dawn, the bartender, who is watching Wimbledon on the TV in the corner. “Dawn, this young lady would like to place an order.”
While Dawn takes the order for the Reuben, the coleslaw, and the large chardonnay, Marty sneaks a better look at his new neighbor. She is blond, or blondish, in halfway decent shape, with laugh lines around her mouth and fingernails painted cherry red. She is dressed in a strapless army-green jumpsuit type of thing that Marty knows is meant to be stylish. It gives him a good view of her chest and arms. She’s a bit puffy, but Marty is hardly sculpted himself.
“I’m Marty Szczerba,” he says, holding out his hand.
“Featherleigh,” she says. “Featherleigh Dale.” She takes his hand and offers a smile, then her chardonnay arrives. She lifts the glass to Marty and says, “I can’t wait to get off this island. The past twenty-four hours have not been kind to me.”
Marty wishes he had a glass to cheers her with, but he’s still on the clock. He, too, has had one hell of a day, beginning and ending with the case of the Murdered Maid of Honor and the runaway person of interest. It turned out the guy they were looking for was caught by a local teenage girl who works for the Hy-Line. Marty is glad the guy isn’t still at large but he bristles at being bested by some kid who found him by using Facebook. That’s cheating, is it not? Marty would have benefited from a little glory. He has been considering asking out Keira, the chief of police’s assistant, but she’s in her thirties and goes to barre class every day and is, likely, looking for more of a hero than Marty can currently claim to be.
“So you’re just visiting?” Marty says. “Where do you live?” He knows better than to get his hopes up about anyone from off-island; he still has two years left until retirement, although after that, he’ll be ready to go. Laura Rae and Ty will be happily married, maybe even starting a family, and Marty will become an annoyance. He hopes this Featherleigh says she lives in Boston. How perfect would that be? He gets two free round-trip tickets to Boston on Cape Air per month. He envisions himself and Featherleigh strolling around the Public Garden hand in hand, stopping in at the Parish Café on Boylston for lunch. They’ll have cocktails down at the Seaport. Boston is a great city for people in love. They can ride the swan boats! Have high tea at the Four Seasons! Go to a Sox game! And in two years, when Marty is ready to retire, his relationship with Featherleigh will be established enough to take it to the next level.
“London,” she says. “I have a flat in Sloane Square, although I fear it’ll belong to the bank by the time I get home.”
London, Marty thinks as his dreams deflate. That’s too far away. But it wouldn’t be a bad place to visit Featherleigh for a casual, no-strings-attached fling. Marty has never been to London, which is something he needs to remedy, especially since his Match.com profile boasts that he loves to travel.
“And what do you do for a living?” Marty asks.
Featherleigh takes a long sip of her wine, then sets her elbow on the bar and rests her head in her hand to regard him. “I sell antiques to rich people,” she says. “What do you do, Marty?”
Marty straightens up a little. “I’m head of security here at the airport.”
“Well,” she says, “that’s a very prestigious job, isn’t it?” The way she pronounces the word prestigious in her English accent sounds so lovely, Marty grins.
“He’s the top gun,” Dawn chimes in.
Marty silently thanks Dawn for the backup even though he feels somewhat mortified that she’s eavesdropping on his first attempt at a pickup since 1976. He bobs his head yes, then wonders if Featherleigh is making fun of him. After all, it’s not like he’s the head of security at Heathrow. That would be a hellish nightmare of a job, Marty thinks. Flights from all over the world converging. How would he ever keep track of the potential threats? And yet somehow those chaps do it, day in and day out.
“In the summer, Nantucket is the second-busiest airport in the state,” Marty says. “Only Logan is busier.”
“Logan?” Featherleigh says.
“The airport in Boston,” he says.