“My husband, niece, and daughter were all home.”
“Did you notice anything unusual, any cars, or persons walking by?”
“No, just the maid of our new neighbors, whom I don’t know yet. She was walking their King Charles across the street.”
An old blue Volvo station wagon with academic bumper stickers of privileged educations (St. Patrick’s Episcopal Day School, St. Peter’s Academy, Yale University) pulls into the driveway. Bunny swings open the car door, almost forgetting to turn off the engine, and runs across the front lawn. Rumpled skirt, disheveled hair—a girl who doesn’t know yet how this time in her life will come to haunt her, shape her—the days a person remembers only after they are gone.
“Mom!” She wraps her arms around her mother as if regressing into a little girl.
“I know, honey Bunny, it’s okay.” Meredith rocks her baby girl. She lifts Bunny’s face and places her manicure-free hands around her flushed cheeks. “It’s going to be okay.”
“Why are the police here?” Bunny asks, as if Gomez isn’t standing right beside her.
“They’re here to ask a few questions, everything is fine.”
Bunny turns to Officer Gomez. “Were you there last night?” she asks. “Did you see the bodies? I read online they chopped Audrey’s—”
“Jesus, Bunny, please, go inside, we will talk about this in a minute.”
“Well, no one is saying that! Why do you think someone would do something like that? You’re a cop, what do you think?” Bunny’s entangled curiosity and entitlement project a virtuous victim of this story she’s decided to insert herself inside of without thinking of the repercussions.
“Elizabeth Bartholomew! Inside. Now,” Meredith says.
Bunny’s eyes linger on Officer Gomez a moment longer than would be considered appropriate. “Fine. This is so fucked.”
Gomez clears his throat, calm in the face of Bunny’s outburst. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Meredith closes her eyes, pinches the bridge of her nose with her pointer finger and thumb while Bunny opens the screen door then slams it shut behind her.
“I’m sorry, this is not a good time.…” Meredith pleads.
The landline rings. Meredith looks over her shoulder, then back to Gomez. “Except… I, uh, do have one question before you go. Do you… or have you or the FBI… have they found a motive yet?” Meredith looks increasingly tense.
“We cannot say at this time.”
“I see…”
Bunny yells down from the top of the front staircase, “Mom! Someone’s calling from Geller and Cromwell? They’re saying they’re an attorney?!”
Meredith, suddenly embarrassed, cuts Bunny off: “Uh, no, honey, hang up! It’s just a sales call. I’ll be right there!”
“But they’re saying it’s not!” Bunny yells back, increasingly distraught.
“Excuse me, I have to go attend to my daughter now.…”
“Thank you for your time, ma’am.” Gomez nods his head, places his hand on his belt, and offers a kind smile before he heads back to the car.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Bartholomew.” The arborist walks over. “I’m so sorry to interrupt”—he’s trying to appear as diplomatic as possible—“I hate to have to tell you this right now, but I found a fracture, which means this poplar is at high risk for developing symptoms of decay, internal rot, and wood-boring pests.…”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Betsy steps out of her Jaguar decorated with gifts from Doug: her twenty-year upgrade, a twelve-carat emerald-cut diamond falling against her pinky from its weight, diamond hoops, and a designer coat that resembles a superhero cape. With her peripheral vision, Betsy attempts to search for Linda’s Audi station wagon without looking too obvious. The only person she sees is a young secret service agent strolling behind the guardrail across the street, the arches of the Taft Bridge visible across the park.
The school is inside an old colonial row house adorned with arched windows and Corinthian columns. ALLIANCE FRANÇAISE DE WASHINGTON, DC is engraved in gold on a sign planted in front of lush boxwood bushes, the French flag neglected and wound tight around its pole, the front windows glowing from the warm yellow light of a dangling chandelier.
Upon entering the foyer, Betsy catches a whiff of a musty odor. It’s old, and smells like mothballs. She clears her throat, breathes out of her mouth. For the love of God, someone light a Diptyque candle.
“Bonjour! Alliance Française, how may I help you?” asks the young bilingual receptionist from behind thick glasses, her hair pulled back with a pink scrunchie.
“Hello.” Betsy places her Versace Sultan purse on the counter; its chain falls, an embarrassing crescendo of gold against drywall. She gathers the chain quickly with both hands, introducing herself: “I’m Betsy Wallace.…”
“Yes, welcome, Mrs. Wallace. I put together this package for you.” The receptionist, probably a PhD student, flips through the pages as evidence. “You have the option of group courses, private courses, Skype classes, and other adult learning experiences here including a grammar boot camp and field trips, as well as drop-in classes.”
“Oh, wonderful, I will take a look,” Betsy says.
“Feel free to have a seat. Would you like a cup of tea? Water?”
“Oh no, I’m fine, thank you.”
Betsy takes a look around the room, walks toward the photographs on the wall showing parties at the French ambassador’s residence, graduating classes, maps of France, special dinners with foreign dignitaries and cultural festivals. Betsy spots a photograph of Linda and her husband with the French ambassador and his wife. A pang of jealousy hits her as the front door opens and a petite redhead in a white Ralph Lauren sweater, skinny jeans, Chanel ballerina flats, diamond studs, and a Louis Vuitton tote breezes in, the wooden floors creaking even though covered by several Persian rugs. Betsy turns around. It’s Linda Williams.
“Linda!” Betsy says with a wide smile. “Too funny seeing you here.”
Linda gives a phony smile, gauging whether she knows who Betsy is, the way a celebrity might fake it if they thought there was a chance this person was important. “Oh, hello!”
“We met briefly at back-to-school night a few weeks ago. I’m Betsy Wallace, Doug Wallace’s wife.” As Betsy is attempting
