“Visiting family,” I say. “No one’s expected to come back until after the weekend.”
“What if the phone doesn’t work?” Damien asks, hopping off the back of the golf cart.
“It will,” I say, blind positivity my last resource.
I bend down, sifting through the rocks along the house’s edge in search of the hide-a-key. Once I find it, I unlock the front door with ease, and we enter the small house. I haven’t been inside since I was a young girl.
A framed photo of Marmee and Mrs. Wilson hangs on the wall. It’s from a trip they took to Rome several years ago. It was Marmee’s gift for Mrs. Wilson’s sixtieth birthday. They’ve been in each other’s lives for such a long time that their relationship far exceeds that of employer and employee. Other decorative items are tacked on the wall. Family photographs, landscape portraits, and a vintage quilt encased in glass.
“Over here,” Ava says. Hanging on the wall by the grandfather clock is a landline with a rubberized spiral cord. I race to grab the receiver.
After a lifetime of watching suspenseful movies, I anticipated some kind of defeat. A cut phone line. A downed tower. I almost squeal when I hear a dial tone. My call to 911 connects within seconds.
“Our friend fell from a balcony,” I tell the operator when she answers, my voice breaking again. “We need an ambulance.”
Ava and Damien stare at me with such intensity, it’s difficult to concentrate. The operator tells me to start over, give her as much detail as possible about our location and the lead-up to the fall. Most of her questions pertain to Marlowe’s condition.
“Is she breathing?” the operator asks. “Can anyone administer medical attention?”
“We tried,” I say, stumbling over the words. “There’s no saving her.”
The operator continues, “And you say she fell from a balcony?”
My opinion was formed earlier in the night. Marlowe was murdered. I could tell the operator my suspicions, that her fall was no accident, that she was pushed by someone here. If the police know foul play is involved, they’ll hurry their arrival. The scene unfolding inside my mind is vivid and frightening. Police roving around Marmee’s property like it’s a crime scene, interrogating people about their whereabouts, piecing together every detail of the night.
Authorities will have to get involved at some point, sure. I want them involved so Marlowe can receive justice, but I want an opportunity to unravel the other mysteries of this night first. I need more time.
“Yes, she fell,” I say at last.
“Is anyone in immediate danger?” the operator asks.
“No,” I lie, reiterating that Marlowe’s death was an accident, explaining that we have no cell phone connection and no cars and had to venture to a different residence in order to phone the police. She relays her instructions. Cooling relief spreads through my cheeks by the time the call ends.
“What did they say?” Ava asks once I clunk the receiver back on the switch hook.
“It will take at least ninety minutes for a cruiser to arrive.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Damien says, checking the time on his Rolex.
“The operator said emergency services are tied up with the car accident in town,” I say. “The tarot reader mentioned it, remember?”
“That’s why she was late.” Ava exhales, then shakes her head. “There’s been a death. You’d think that would be at the top of their priority list.”
“Not if there are people in town needing resources.”
And not if they believe no one here is at risk.I don’t dare share my thoughts.
The police will come. My lie has only extended the timeframe.
“Did they say anything else?” Ava asks, wrapping her arms around herself.
“They said no one should leave,” I say.
“Not like we have much of a choice.” Damien massages his temples, annoyed.
I jangle the golf cart keys and start toward the front door. “We better head back to the house.”
Ava and Damien shuffle behind me, noticeably upset that this night is far from over.
