After a moment, I say, “Tippy said Gemma quit Lemon & Fig?”
Autumn nods. “Yeah. I tried to talk to her about it. Maybe she was really sure about the job interview.”
“That would only have been the start of a series of interviews,” I think out loud. “Why would she have quit this soon? Do you think she found something else?”
But that can’t be right. She emptied her apartment out. Was she running from something?
“Maybe it has something to do with the man she was with on Marcus’s security cameras before she died,” Tippy says as she returns to the table, dropping into her seat with a graceless plop.“I heard Marcus had to hand over all the footage they have to the police.”
There was a man with Gemma?
My head swivels in her direction so fast it’s a miracle I don’t pull a muscle. “What?”
Looking surprised by her own words, Tippy reaches for one of the wine bottles on the table and topples her full water glass, sending a flood over the tablecloth and what plates and silverware are left to be cleared. We are all on our feet, racing for napkins in a frenzied effort to keep the water from spilling onto our laps.
“Sorry,” Tippy says with a giggle.
At first, I think she’s a little too toasted, but as I take in the loose, lazy quality to her gestures, I upgrade “too toasted” to “fully blitzed.”
She’s a goner.
“Thankfully”—Autumn perks up—“washing tablecloths is something of a specialty of mine. Este, want me to throw this in the laundry for you?”
“I’ve got it,” I say.
But Autumn’s already in motion, snagging a few glasses to help with clearing and pulling up the tablecloth. I pause only for a moment to see a sly smile on Tippy’s face.
“What did you say about the security footage, Tippy?” I ask, hoping to keep the desperation I suddenly feel from bleeding into my voice.
Tippy waves a sloppy hand. “It’s nothing. Just gossip.”
I study her.
Is she being intentionally obtuse? Or is she too drunk to know what she’s saying at all?
Before I can arrive at a conclusion, though, my phone dings with a text from Polly.
8:47 P.M.
I see Marcus’s car in your driveway. Please tell me he cooked.
To keep her afloat in the sea of mung beans that is Ms. Dowling’s palette, I slip Polly meals here and there. I message her back.
8:49 P.M.
Meet you at the usual spot in one minute.
I grab the covered plate from the warming drawer and start out toward the pool deck, walking down to the hedges where I know Polly will be waiting.
She’s looking at her phone until I call her name, and her face lights up with enthusiasm.
“Ohmygod. I’m starving.”
I lift the plate and say, “I come bearing lamb shanks.”
Polly winces. Her eagerness washed away with disappointment in an instant.
“I’m kidding. I had Marcus make you a chicken quesadilla.”
