She opened her mouth as if she wanted to say something but didn’t know what.
“Let’s just go inside and finish this. Act like nothing happened.”
Marlowe didn’t say anything. She raised the fabric of her dress, lowered her head, and staggered back into the bridal shop. I remained on the sidewalk, my chest heaving as if I’d just finished a marathon, my brain struggling to process.
Clearly, Marlowe was bothered by something, likely her unresolved feelings from the divorce, and Ava’s reaction only made it worse, leaving Constance and me caught in the confusion, but at that moment, I couldn’t be concerned with any of it.
I was too disturbed over what might have happened to Danielle Schwartz.
21
Friday: The Night of the Party
Marmee’s bedroom light is on.
I would have thought by now she’d be asleep. After the shock of Marlowe’s death, everything that goes against my expectations frightens me, my mind anticipating the next disaster. I burst through her bedroom door, afraid of what I’ll find on the other side.
Her bed is made with a luxe velvet comforter and a dozen decorative pillows. I curse in frustration when I see the door to the balcony is open—I’ve already told her to stay away from the balcony once tonight—but then worry settles in the pit of my stomach. Marlowe’s death could be just the beginning. What if I invited danger into Marmee’s home?
I dart toward the balcony door. When I turn the corner, that’s when I see her. She’s slumped over in the armchair that rests behind the partitioning wall. Her head is tilted to the side, eyes closed. She snores loudly.
Relief floods my body, a warm and comforting reprieve from the despair I’ve been feeling. Marmee is safe. Another emotion soon slithers inside me. Dread. It’s up to me to tell her about Marlowe.
“Marmee?” I kneel in front of her and rub her hand, feel the ropelike texture of her varicose veins. “Can you hear me?”
Regardless of how gentle I am, she startles awake, her eyes bulging at the sound of my voice. She relaxes when she sees that it’s only me. A self-effacing titter escapes her lips, which are still painted coral from earlier in the night.
“Tippi?”
My hands deliver a nurturing squeeze. “We need a telephone. Are you sure there isn’t one in the house?”
“I tossed the landline ages ago,” she says, still hazy with sleep. “You know that.”
“Is there any way to contact the police?”
She sits up straighter now, piecing more together. The late hour. My pointed request. The tear trails staining my cheeks. Her brow furrows, her entire expression clouded with concern.
“Tippi, what’s wrong?”
I exhale, the right words ceasing to exist. There can be no humble delivery, only devastation and disaster. “It’s Marlowe,” I say. “She’s fallen from the library balcony.”
Marmee blanches, pulling her hand away as though I’ve played a cruel joke. “Is she all right?”
“She’s dead.” Every time I’m forced to say it, a new wave of disbelief rattles me to my core. My throat swells with grief as fresh, bitter tears begin to fall.
“My goodness,” Marmee says, leaning into the cushioned backrest. Her head turns to the open balcony door, lace curtains swelling as a gust of cool wind swirls inside. She stares at that tiny patch of night sky as if trying to imagine the ghastly scene below.
Marmee has encountered plenty of tragedy in her life. Her parents died at an early age. Most of her peers have passed over the years. Her husband suffered a similar fate to Marlowe’s in this very house. My mother, her daughter-in-law, bled out mere hours after I was born, leaving her to raise me with limited help from my absent father. I’ve often wondered how one person can endure so much sadness, so much loss. And now she’s confronting it once again.
“How could this happen?” she asks.
“I don’t know.” I reconsider everything we’ve uncovered since touring the library. There’s no sense in holding back now. I can test my theory on Marmee, see if it sounds half as crazy as it does in my own mind. “I think she was pushed.”
“Pushed?”
“All the balconies are structurally sound. I spoke to the handymen last month when they were repairing parts of the property. She couldn’t have fallen by accident,” I say. “The glass doors in the library were shattered, as if there had been a struggle.”
Marmee remains silent. Maybe she’s simply mourning the loss of another precious life. My friends have visited Marmee’s estate several times over the years. While I’ve always believed she preferred Ava—they’re so alike with their beauty and glamour and charm—she had a soft spot for Marlowe, too, and not only because of the delicious meals she’d prepare upon request. Marmee has always valued authenticity, could sense it in Marlowe and people like her. All those attributes are forever snuffed out.
