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26
WILLA
THURSDAY, MAY 4, 2017
I squint in the early afternoon sunlight, shading my eyes to get a better view of the apple trees. A tractor pulling an empty trailer filled with hay rumbles over the pitted ground. It stops close to where Paul and I are standing. A man in muddy jeans, a plaid shirt, and a Pirates ball cap jumps out of the cab and undoes the back latch so we can climb aboard.
I turn back to Sienna and Aurora, who are poking around the huge bin of leafy broccoli at the farm stand. “Are you sure you don’t want to come on the ride?” I ask them for the third time. I’d invited Paul to come along to discuss some things I’d found out about the case, but at the last minute, I’d invited Sienna and Aurora, too, figuring a trip to Round Acres Farm would at least get them out of the house.
“At least go into the butterfly tent.” I gesture to a little structure behind the bin of pumpkins. Years ago, when my mother used to bring Kit and me here, we would spend hours in that little tent, letting all sorts of butterfly species land on our arms. It’s why I wanted to come to the farm today: It’s a good connection I have to my mother’s memory, and thankfully, very little about the place haschanged aside from the fact that they finally take credit cards and they now have a donkey in the petting zoo.
With that, Paul and I climb onto the trailer behind the tractor and sit on spiky hay bales. I wish Kit could be here, too, but she seemed determined to go to work. That’s ballsy of her, considering that she found out a colleague, Lynn, slipped her a pill at the benefit. How Kit found this out, I’m not sure—but when Kit told me that news, it took me a long time to respond, so long that Kit asked if there was something wrong. “People are shitheads,” I finally croaked out. My voice sounded strange. My hands, I realized, were curled into fists.
And yet it made sense. It never quite added up how drunk Kit had become that night on only one cocktail. Now at least we know why.
I’d asked Kit if we should report Lynn to the cops. Kit thought it over and said she wasn’t sure—which surprised me. I would go after a person who spiked my drink for their own professional gain—it violates all sorts of workplace bullying regulations. But Kit seemed distracted, almost like it was an annoying side problem.
Then I looked up Lynn on Facebook. I found tons of photos of her—she’s one of those people who posts abouteverything. It took me mere seconds to know why she looked familiar: She’s the wife of the man Kit was talking to outside the funeral. His name, Facebook tells me, is Patrick.
“Are yousurewe shouldn’t put Lynn on our suspect list?” I asked Kit pointedly, later that day. Was there more to this Lynn-Kit-Patrick triangle than met the eye? I flash again on the charged way Kit and Patrick were staring at each other in the parking lot after the funeral. Was there something else for Lynn to be jealous of?
“I made an inquiry about Lynn with Detective Reardon, and her alibi is clear,” Kit explained. “Dozens of people saw her at the benefit long after the coroner determined Greg had been stabbed. There’s no way she could have been in two places at once.” Sheshrugged. “It sucks that she poisoned me, and she’s crazy, but she didn’t kill Greg.”
After that, the conversation ended. My sister didn’t offer anything more about Patrick. I don’t know why, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask point-blank. For as much as we’d come together in this past week, it still felt like there was a barrier between us. Perhaps there are too many years to make up for.
Paul seems nervous as the tractor jerks forward, gripping my arm to catch his balance. It gives me a pleasant tingle. Once he lets go, I smirk at him. “Never been on a tractor ride before?”
“I already told you no.” Paul rights himself and brushes hay off his jeans.
“You never came here as a kid?” When he shrugs, I add, “Actually, of course you didn’t. You were too cool for hayrides.”
Paul raises an eyebrow. “Are you trying to say I was cool when I was younger?”
I turn away, feeling my heart flutter. “You’re kidding, right? You wereMisterCool.”
“Mister Cool?Me?”
I feel my eyelashes batting at him, but then feel a little silly. This isnot me.I’m not flirtatious. I don’t put myself out there. I can’t believe I even invited Paul today—though, in other ways, it’s necessary. We’re here to brainstorm about Greg’s death. This is business.
The tractor begins to ascend a bumpy slope toward the apple orchards. “So,” I say, my tone suddenly professional again. “Any luck with that data on snowstorms from last winter?” We’re trying to track down the exact date Greg came home drunk and stinking of perfume. Sienna said there had been a big snowstorm that day, so I asked Paul to look into last year’s weather history.
Paul nods. “We had only three really big storms last year. One was the first week of January, one was the third week in February, and one was late March.” He nods thoughtfully. “I remember that late March one, actually—because of Greg. I was supposed to meethim to work on a piece I was ghostwriting for him, but then some of the roads were shut because of downed power lines, and we had to do a Skype session instead.”
“And he never talked to you about anything personal?” We’re passing a huge patch of wildflowers now. I dwell on them, my gaze resting on the tangle of pinks and yellows.
Paul shakes his head. “We didn’t have that kind of relationship. I told him more about myself, actually—I was in the thick of the divorce at the time, and I remember my lawyer kept calling with updates from her lawyer.”
“Your wife thought to get a lawyer?” I ask.
Paul’s face clouds. “Just because she was young doesn’t mean she was stupid.”
His tone is harsh, defiant. I turn away, digging my fingers into the straw. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Paul says after a beat, so quietly I almost can’t hear him over the roar of the tractor’s engine. “I should be used to people’s opinions about it by now. And I know it seems kind of... stereotypical—older guy, super-young woman. But I reallydidlove her. And sometimes it doesn’t make much sense who you fall in love with. That’s happened to you, right?”
I concentrate for a moment on the patches of sunburned skin on the back of the tractor driver’s neck and arms, suddenly feeling sad. There’s a lot Paul and I really don’t know about one another. “Not really,” I admit.
“Oh.” Paul seems surprised, then awkward. He folds his hands in his lap.
