They Did It with Love
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Description
Secrets lurk under the smooth surface of a wealthy Connecticut neighborhood, until a murder reveals all
Sofie and her husband have left Manhattan in search of a more tranquil life in the suburbs. But when a member of Sofie’s new neighborhood book club turns up dead, things get messy. She discovers that everybody has something to hide, including her own husband. Her neighbor Priscilla has been married to Gordon for fifteen years, but the love left their marriage a long time ago. Susan is Priscilla’s biggest supporter until she has to choose between loyalty to her friend and telling the truth. Ashley is eager to fit in, but her youth and status as a second wife keep her on the outside. She may know more than they think she does, though. Julia seems to have it all: the perfect house, job and husband. But her untimely death has people questioning how perfect her life really was. Through this swamp of suburban secrets, Sofie must wade to find the truth behind Julia’s murder and the state of her own marriage. They Did It with Love is a delightful, twisty, and twisted exploration of the things we’ll do for love.“Elegantly written, with both sharp psychological portraits and an intriguing mystery that keeps you turning pages without feeling manipulated. Subtle and satisfying, They Did It with Love belongs with the best of the genre.”—Carol Feliciano, The Seattle Post-Intelligencer
“[A] delightfully perverse whodunit… Morgenroth’s greatest accomplishment is the ease with which she describes a certain kind of ennui and aimlessness—and the kinds of fatal betrayals that can lurk beneath all that suburban gloss.”—Amy Alexander, The Washington Post
“Agatha Christie meets The Stepford Wives in this rolling read.”—Marie Claire
“Agatha Christie meets Desperate Housewives in Morgenroth’s smashing, Stepfordesque mystery… The character development and local color are so strong that this would be a hit even without the dazzling surprise ending.”—Publishers WeeklyKate Morgenroth is the author of the bestseller They Did It With Love, two thrillers, Kill Me First and Saved, and three young adult novels, Jude, Framed, and Echo. She lives in New York City.
INTRODUCTION
Sofie and her husband have decided to trade their Manhattan apartment for a house in Greenwich, Connecticut. But the oak-shaded streets are not the tranquil retreat that Sofie expected. When Julia, a member of Sofie’s new neighborhood book club, turns up dead, things get messy. Sofie discovers that everybody has something to hide, including her own husband.
As Sofie wades through a swamp of suburban secrets, it becomes clear that no one’s life is exactly what it seems to be. Priscilla has been married to Gordon for fifteen years, but the love left their marriage a long time ago. Susan is Priscilla’s biggest supporter, until she has to choose between loyalty to her friend and telling the truth. Ashley’s youth and status as a second wife keep her on the outside, but she may know more than the other women think she does. Julia seemed to have it all: the perfect house, job, and husband. But her untimely death leaves everyone questioning how perfect her life really was.
The investigation into the mysterious circumstances surrounding Julia’s death uncovers the lies behind the façade. They Did It with Love is a delightful, twisty, and twisted exploration of the things we’ll do for love.
ABOUT KATE MORGENROTH
Kate Morgenroth is the author of Kill Me First and Saved, and two YA novels, Jude and Echo. She lives in New York. Visit her website at www.katemorgenroth.com.
Warning: Questions and discussion topics below may reveal plot points
A CONVERSATION WITH KATE MORGENROTH
Q. Are you an Agatha Christie fan? And if so, which is your favorite Christie novel?
A. I love Agatha Christie, but I have never been able to figure out the mystery in her books before the reveal. Can anyone? Even my mother (who I consider a master mystery reader) can’t figure them out. But that doesn’t affect my enjoyment of the books. I think I like them as much for Christie’s little comments about human nature as I do for the mystery element. And as for a favorite, I share Sofie’s preference for anything/everything Miss Marple.
Q. You also write YA novels. Do you approach an adult novel differently when you are writing it than a novel for young adults? Or is the process of creating the characters and story the same for you?
A. The only difference for me in writing a young adult novel is the age of the protagonist. My favorite books are the ones where the feelings underneath are universal—the books where it doesn’t matter whether the main character is eighteen or eighty. So that’s what I shoot for in writing. However, though the process of writing YA isn’t any different, I did approach writing a novel with a mystery differently. (See the next question . . . )
Q. Did you plot out the novel before you began it, or were you surprised by who did it?
A. Sometimes when writing, the story takes you places where you don’t expect, so I’m not a fan of intricate outlines. I like to leave room in my books to be surprised while I’m writing. But I did a lot more structure work with this book because of the mystery element. I think with a mystery the goal is that the reveal isn’t obvious beforehand, but when you do know the ending, you can look back and it all makes sense. In order to layer in that retroactive feeling of it all making sense, I had to know who did it. That’s not true for all mysteries though. I read that Scott Turow, in writing Presumed Innocent, didn’t know if his protagonist was the murderer or not. And I think that worked brilliantly there because there is this constant swinging back and forth in when you’re reading that novel, yes he did, no he didn’t, yes he did, no he didn’t . . . you get the idea.
Q. Was the setting of the book always Greenwich, or did that come to you along the way? Why did you pick Greenwich?
A. At first when I wrote the book I made it a fictional town in Connecticut—but in my mind I was thinking of Greenwich. Then at a certain point I decided why not just make it Greenwich? Well, actually, I do know why I didn’t make it Greenwich at first. It is so hard—almost impossible—to portray the complexity of reality in fiction. When you use anything from “real life” in fiction, you’re not going to capture the whole truth of it. Rather you use pieces that serve the story. So, in my mind, my Greenwich is a fictionalized version. There are elements of truth, but it’s not the whole truth.
Q. Do you live in the city or the suburbs? Have you ever lived in the suburbs?
A. I live in Manhattan now, but I spent the first eighteen years of my life in the suburbs. There are the obvious differences—the logistics of getting around, the physical surroundings, the number of people per square mile. But on a deeper level I don’t think that living in the city and living in the suburbs are so wildly different. I think maybe the main difference is one of perception; people expect strange things to happen in the city, but they always seem shocked when the same strange things happen in the suburbs. But strange things—very strange things—happen in the suburbs all the time.
Q. There’s an element of competition and gossip to the closed community portrayed in this novel. It’s one that is often attributed to gated suburban or wealthy suburban communities. What creates this environment, do you think, and is it possible in cities as well as the suburbs? Are there more secrets in the suburbs than in cities, and are they just ignored more often in city environments?
A. I certainly don’t think the gossip and competition are the exclusive domain of wealthy suburban communities. I think you find gossip and competition anywhere you have people. But there is an environment in which gossip and competition seem to do best—any group of a certain closeness and homogeneity (what we usually refer to as “community”) tends to be the ideal breeding ground for gossip and competition. A larger group with more diversity will result in other things, like the “us and them” mentality or a sense of isolation that goes along with a lack of community, but gossip and competition don’t fare as well. One isn’t necessarily better than another—I think it’s a matter of picking your poison, as they say.
Q. Are you in a book club? If yes, what have been some of your favorite books that you’ve read with your group? Do you have “rules” like Priscilla does about who can join and what you read?
A. I have been in many book clubs in the past. I am in only one at the moment, but I like doing as many book clubs as I can possibly fit into my schedule. I love having an excuse to read so I can say to myself, “Nope, I can’t pay those bills, do the laundry, defrost the arctic icecap that is my freezer tonight because I have to read this book for tomorrow’s meeting.” One of the best book clubs I was in had a rule where everyone had to prepare a little presentation on the book, and though it sounds like a fifth grade book report, and it always seemed a bit of a pain in the neck to do beforehand, when it came time for the book group to get together it always made the meeting better because it was fun to see the different ideas that people came up with, and it kept us focused on the book.
Q. Who and what are your favorite authors and books, and what draws you to them?
A. I have an eclectic group of favorite authors. It’s curious, but none of my very top picks are contemporary. My top three are Anthony Trollope, Jane Austen, and Selma Lagerlof (not well known, but she was the first woman to win a Nobel Prize for literature). I love that sense of reading someone who was writing a hundred or two hundred years ago, but feeling like the authors are describing people I know. I love that sense that the traits of human nature are timeless.
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
Praise for Kate Morgenroth’s novels
“Mesmerizing. I am as delighted by Kate Morgenroth’s nerve as much as by her skill.”
—Toni Morrison
“I read Kill Me First in one sitting. Kate Morgenroth has created an exciting and formidable character in Sarah Shepherd.”
—Lisa See, author of Snow Flower and the Secret Fan
“Compulsively readable…”
—Entertainment Weekly
“Nearly impossible to put down.”
—Time Out New York
“Riveting…Morgenroth writes with quick, razor strokes.”
—New York Post
“Intensely absorbing…”
—Publishers Weekly
“One knockout story…Morgenroth succeeds not only in creating something different but in doing it well.”
—St. Petersburg Times
“An appealing heroine supported by savvy plotting. Morgenroth’s second outing: [Kill Me First, 1999] proves again that she knows how to weave a spell.”
—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
“A must read for those who like their women tough but vulnerable.”
—USA Today
KATE MORGENROTH is the author of Kill Me First and Saved and the YA novels Echo and the Edgar-nominated Jude. Visit her website at www.katemorgenroth.com.
THEY DID IT with Love
A Novel
Kate Morgenroth
A PLUME BOOK
“To have trusted someone! To have believed…and it was lies—all lies.”
—Agatha Christie, They Do It with Mirrors
Cast of Characters
NEW YORK
Prologue
PART I GREENWICH
1. Priscilla & Gordon
2. Susan & Harry
3. Ashley & Stewart
4. Julia & Alex
5. The Mystery Readers
6. Sofie & Dean
February
7. Priscilla & Susan
8. Julia & Alex
March
9. Sofie
10. Sofie & Susan
11 The Mystery Readers
May
12. Sofie & Dean
FOUR MONTHS LATER:October
13. Priscilla & Susan
14. Priscilla
15. Priscilla
16. Sofie
17. Sofie & Dean
PART II
18. Sofie & Priscilla
19. Detective Peters
20. Detective Ackerman
21. Alex
22. Priscilla & Gordon
23. Ashley & Stewart
24. Sofie & Dean
25. Susan & Harry
26. Priscilla & the Detectives
27. Susan & the Detectives
28. Ashley & the Detectives
29. Sofie & the Detectives
30. Priscilla
31. The Detectives
32. Priscilla & Susan
33. Alex
34. Alex
35. Sofie & Priscilla
36. Alex at Priscilla’s House
37. Alex at Susan’s House
38. Alex at Ashley’s House
39. Alex at Sofie’s House
40. Sofie & Dean
41. Susan & Harry
42. Priscilla & Sofie
43. Dean & the Detectives
44. Stewart & the Detectives
45. Gordon & the Detectives
46. Sofie & the Detectives
47. Alex
48 Alex & Sofie
49 Dean & Priscilla
50. Susan & Detective Ackerman
51. The Mystery Readers
52. Sofie & Alex
53. Alex
54. Sofie & Alex
55. Priscilla & Dean
56. Sofie & Alex
57. The Detectives
58. Sofie & Dean
59. Sofie & the Detectives
60. Sofie & Alex
61. Sofie & Alex
62. Priscilla & Gordon
63. Sofie
64Sofie & Dean
65. Sofie & Dean
66. Sofie
67 Sofie & Dean
68. Sofie & Dean
69. Sofie & Alex
70. Alex
71 Detective Ackerman
72. Sofie & Detective Ackerman
73. Priscilla
74. Priscilla & Dean
75. Priscilla & Gordon
76. Priscilla & Susan
PART III NEW YORK
77. Sofie
78. Susan & Detective Ackerman
79. Sofie & Alex
80. Sofie & Alex
81. Sofie & Alex
Cast of Characters
The Couples
Sofie and Dean
Priscilla and Gordon
Susan and Harry
Ashley and Stewart
Julia and Alex
The Detectives
Detective Peters: Detective from the Greenwich
Police Department
Detective Ackerman: Detective from the DA’s office
THEY DID IT with Love
It was autumn. Early morning. The air was sharp, and the sky was a deep October blue. The cars on the narrow suburban street whizzed by, churning up little whirlpools of leaves—but none of the people in the cars noticed the body hanging among the trees.
The feet were suspended in midair not far from the ground, and they looked like they had maroon stockings on—the deep purple color due to the blood pooling in the lowest parts of the body. The long, blond hair hung in a curtain around the lolled head. A light wind ruffled the hem of the nightgown and shivered the leaves in the trees, but the body hung motionless.
A dozen cars drove by without noticing anything. It might have been hours before the body was discovered—if it weren’t for Sofie.
Afterward Sofie’s life would never be the same, but a year earlier she hadn’t even known the woman. For her it had all started with another death.
NEW YORK
December
Prologue
The phone call came early Friday December 14 at seven fifteen a.m., ensuring that Sofie would remember that particular morning forever. That’s what happened with death. It took otherwise small, unmemorable moments and fossilized them. This would be the second time she had experienced the phenomenon. It had happened once before when she was three years old and had wandered into her mother’s bedroom because, though she’d waited forever, her mother hadn’t come to get her up. Even twenty-five years later Sofie still remembered those moments as clearly as if someone had taken a photograph. The open windows. The rumpled sheets. The slowly revolving ceiling fan. Then the sharp smell of urine. And the feeling…as if all the joy had been sucked out of her heart like water rushing down the drain when her mother pulled the plug in the bath.
Now it would be these moments—before the phone call—that would be preserved in her memory. She was sitting in the window seat, her mug of tea balanced precariously on the sill. The heat from the tea had made a small hazy patch of fog on the window pane just above the lip of the cup. The newspaper—opened to the second to last page of the Arts and Leisure section and folded to frame the crossword puzzle—lay on the cushion beside her, and her cat, Agatha, was curled in her lap, a small spot of warmth.
Outside the window a few snowflakes drifted through the air. Across Fifth Avenue the trees of Central Park were a tangle of dark gray branches against a pale gray sky. In a few minutes the sun would rise, and the first rays would hit the facades of the buildings across the park, turning all the windows into mirrors of light.
But at seven fifteen on December 14 the sun wasn’t up; there was only the flat emptiness of the sky and the aimlessness of the tiny flakes of snow. And her mood matched the day. That morning she felt…suspended. Poised on the edge of something. (Though later she wasn’t sure if this was true or if it was something she had retroactively inserted into her memory. Does the calm before the storm seem calm at the time? Or does it only seem calm in retrospect, knowing what is to follow?)
At that moment, sitting in the window seat, looking out over the dreary view, Sofie realized that the feeling of discomfort wasn’t purely internal; the tip of her nose was almost completely numb. She had been waiting for the heat to come up, but her husband, Dean, must have put the heat on manual override (he slept better when it was cold) and forgotten to switch it back. Cupping her palms around the mug, she lifted it to her face and exhaled, letting her own breath send a little cloud of steam billowing up. It warmed her nose, but only for a moment. As the steam ebbed away, the cold crept right back in, so she gently dislodged Agatha from her lap and stood, making her way through the dining room, then the living room into the foyer and over to the master climate control for the apartment.
As she was adjusting the heat up from an arctic fifty degrees she saw Dean’s gym bag tucked underneath the hall table. He must have forgotten it in his rush out the door earlier that morning. She sighed in exasperation. He always came home cranky when he didn’t work out. Now she had to decide if it was worth the bother to take his bag over to him at the office or risk his mood later. Maybe she would take it over to him. She nudged the bag out from under the table with her foot so she would see it when she went out, then turned to go back to finish the crossword puzzle.
The call came precisely as she was passing the phone extension in the living room, as if her presence had somehow summoned it into action. The abrupt jangle also echoed from the extensions in the bedroom and kitchen, and the hand that held the mug jerked, sending a little tidal wave of hot tea spilling over the side of the cup and onto her knuckles. It left a red mark where it splashed onto her skin.
She set the tea down and reached out to pick up the receiver. But her hand hovered in the air as if to delay the moment of knowing—though the truth was, she knew already. She knew it wasn’t Dean calling about his forgotten gym bag. She knew it wasn’t a solicitation offering her an opportunity to get the New York Times delivered right to her door. She knew it wasn’t the bookstore checking on her availability. She’d been expecting this call for weeks now.
She picked up the receiver.
Sofie went from the hustle of Manhattan on a Friday morning through the smooth automatic doors and into the stillness of the hospital lobby. She’d gone through those doors dozens of times over the last three years, but every time she was struck by the contrast—from the careless rush of the city into the hushed calm of the hospital, from the world of the living to the world of the dying. Every time she passed through those doors, she thought about how the two worlds felt so far apart and yet only the space of a breath actually separated them. For her mother, only the time it took to swallow a handful of pills. For her father, only the time it took to get the results of a biopsy.
She crossed to the elevator and pressed the button for the third floor. They grouped patients with the same type of cancer together. The section for pancreatic cancer was small and grim. As she exited into the familiar hallway, she wondered how many times had she been there in the last few years? Ten? Fifteen? More? How many times had the doctors told her that it looked as though her father wouldn’t make it out of the hospital again? But somehow (by pure willpower he claimed) he’d always fought his way back. So when he’d been admitted again yesterday she came to visit, listened to the doctors say the same thing they always said, then went home when visiting hours ended. The only difference was that this time the doctors had been right.
When she reached her father’s room she found the door open. The sun was streaming in through the windows, and the vase of orange tulips that she’d brought was still perched on the sill, but all the curtains around the bed that her father usually kept closed were now drawn back, and the bed was stripped down to the plastic mattress pad. A nurse was bent over the bed removing the pad, and she must have sensed Sofie’s presence at the door because she looked up.
“I’m so sorry,” the nurse said. “He’s not here anymore.”
“Where did they take him?” Sofie asked. She was amazed that her voice came out so calm. So even.
“They took him to the lower level,” the nurse told her. “Do you want to view the body?”
Sofie nodded.
“Just take the elevator down to the basement.”
So Sofie retraced her steps back down the hallway and waited patiently for the elevator. When the doors slid open and she got in, she saw the button next to the one for the lobby labeled “B.” If she’d ever noticed it before, she would have assumed that it was a dark, musty basement filled with buckets and mops and supplies. She pressed it and the elevator took her down. Down past lobby level. Down below ground level. Why had she never thought about the fact that a hospital needed somewhere to store their failures?
When she exited, she found not the concrete walls and the buckets and mops she’d imagined, but a carpeted reception area. And there weren’t silent men in blue coveralls, but a very pretty, very young girl sitting behind a desk. The girl didn’t look old enough to be out of high school, and it seemed incongruous to have someone so young manning the reception desk for the hospital morgue. But maybe, Sofie thought, only someone young would be willing to work down there. For the young, death was something that happened to other people.
Sofie gave the receptionist her father’s name, and the girl checked the computer. She picked up the phone, but before dialing she said, “It will be just a few minutes,” and motioned for Sofie to take a seat. Five minutes later an orderly appeared. He was dressed in green scrubs with a plastic identity card clipped to his pocket. Sofie noticed his name was James…the same as her father’s.
“If you’ll come with me,” the orderly said. So she followed James down the corridor. Just past the reception area the carpet ended and the floor was a slick, hard linoleum. As Sofie walked, the sound of her footsteps seemed embarrassingly loud, and it felt like it took forever to get down the hall. They took a right, and the orderly stopped in front of a closed door.
“Do you want me to go in with you?” he asked politely.
“No, thank you.”
She waited while he turned and retreated down the hallway. Only when he had disappeared back around the corner did Sofie open the door. As she slipped inside and closed the door behind her, she felt as if she had entered yet another reality. This wasn’t the hospital, the world of the sick and dying. This was the world of the dead. Her father’s body lay on a steel table in front of her, a thick white sheet pulled up to his shoulders. My father’s body she repeated to herself, as if it had only been some possession that he had relinquished. Her father’s town house, her father’s vacation homes, her father’s cars, her father’s businesses, her father’s body. He owned none of them anymore.
She crossed the small space to stand beside him. She had thought that he might simply look like he was sleeping, but he didn’t. His face looked different. In life there was always something tense about it—the lips pressed together, the eyes creased into a squint, even the skin had seemed to stretch tight over the bones. It was the same face, but now everything was slack—not peaceful, just slack.
At that moment Sofie suddenly realized that this was the first time in her life that she had been in the same room with her father and not felt a nauseous, clutching sensation in her stomach like how you might feel right before a big test that you haven’t studied for but desperately needed to pass. And with that realization she finally believed her father was dead. The body hadn’t done it. The slackened face hadn’t done it. Only this—this sense of calm in his presence—made it real.
Sofie had never really believed he would die. She’d always had the sense that he could do whatever he wanted, that the laws of the universe didn’t apply to him. That was why when he was diagnosed three years ago and the doctors told him that he only had a few months to live and he might want to consider forgoing the painful treatment and trying to get the most out of the time he had left, she hadn’t been surprised when he ignored the advice, did the treatment, and went into remission. He’d had her convinced that he would live forever. Now looking down at his body she felt a strange, unnatural lightness as if she’d been hiking for hours with a heavy pack and had finally taken it off. The only thing she knew for sure was that this wasn’t how you were supposed to feel when you were standing over the body of your father.
She was distracted from this thought by voices outside in the hall. And then the door was opening, and her husband, Dean, was there. Having him arrive felt like fitting that last piece of the puzzle into place. It came with a feeling of relief. She was about to speak when she noticed that hovering behind his shoulder was the pretty receptionist. The girl must have decided that Dean warranted a personal escort to the room instead of calling the orderly. That kind of thing always seemed to happen to her husband.
“Let me know if you need anything else,” the girl said to Dean.
“OK, thanks,” Dean said.
Sofie could see the girl still standing there even as Dean shut the door. He was a heartbreaker even when he wasn’t trying. Maybe part of the reason he’d pursued her so hard when they first met was that he couldn’t believe Sofie wasn’t interested in him. It was amazing for her to think back on that now—that there had been a time when she had looked at him with absolute indifference. That when she first met him, she thought he was a little too good-looking with his sandy blond hair and a dimple on one cheek, a little too slick with his ability to turn on the charm. She’d turned him down three times, but he had pursued her with a single-mindedness that eventually secured him a date. Who could resist being wanted that much? And during that first date she realized that he wasn’t just handsome, he was also sarcastic and smart and a little bit insecure and trying so hard to impress her while at the same time making fun of himself for it. She wasn’t sure exactly when it happened, but she fell for him—hard. So hard that she never admitted except to herself exactly how much. She knew that that kind of love tended to frighten men off, even husbands.
As Dean came up beside her, he put an arm around her shoulders. “Are you Ok, Cara Mia?” he asked. That was his pet name for her. He’d started out calling her Mia because he insisted she looked like Mia Farrow’s twin (though Sofie thought that he was glamorizing what was simply the Swedish inheritance she’d gotten from her mother: blue eyes and white-blond coloring). Over the years the nickname had morphed into the Italian endearment.
She nodded. “I’m fine.”
Then he looked down at her father.
By some miracle of fate Dean and her father had actually gotten along. Her father often said that Dean was the only thing she’d ever done right. And Dean had never in the three years they’d been together (the same three years her father had been sick) made a negative comment about her father. So now she expected Dean to say something about missing him or about how he was a tough old man. But after a long moment of silence Dean said, “He was such a prick.”
Sofie was so surprised, she started to laugh. But then the laugh caught in her throat. And then, to her surprise, she began to cry instead.
It was a few weeks later, after another crazy, exhausting day, that Dean brought up his idea.
They were lying in bed in the dark, looking out over Central Park and the carpet of trees and the buildings with their tiny twinkling lights on the other side of the park. Dean liked to sleep with the windows open and the heat turned down, so they were under the heavy down quilt. Dean was curled up behind her, his arm draped over her waist, his chin nestled in her shoulder.
They had been talking about the day—what she had gotten done, what happened at his work—but in the last few minutes they had fallen into a comfortable silence. Sofie was watching the lights wink on and off in the buildings when Dean spoke.
“I was thinking,” he said slowly. “These last few weeks have been rough on you, haven’t they?”
“A bit,” she said.
If pressed, she would have had to admit that the last few weeks had been more than “a bit” rough. First there had been all the details to take care of: the funeral arrangements, making phone calls, writing letters. Then there was the inheritance to deal with. Her father had a brother and a sister, both married with kids—six nieces and nephews altogether. He’d also gotten married (and divorced) twice after Sofie’s mother died. Both ex-wives were alive and well. But her father hadn’t left the brother or sister, nieces or nephews, or the ex-wives a dime. Sofie as the only child had gotten everything—all the houses, all the cars, all the antique furniture, his art collection—everything. And she had to make decisions about what to do with it all.
It was a nightmare.
Sofie remembered reading an article about what generally happens to lottery winners after they win; they are barraged by family, friends, and strangers. The same thing happened to Sofie. Everyone seemed to have an investment scheme, or some service that she couldn’t live without, or they simply thought they deserved a piece of the pie. With many of the people who called and wrote she wondered how they even knew about the inheritance. Her father had been a relatively well-known businessman, but nowhere near the level of the true titans of industry. His death appeared in the obituaries and in a few trade magazines and that was it, but there seemed to be some sort of network that passed around this type of information and then descended in a swarm.
It was all so overwhelming, and beneath the details and the daily hassle was an aching sense of loss. The feeling of lightness that she’d felt initially while standing over her father’s body hadn’t lasted. It had been replaced by a chasm of regret. It wasn’t that she missed her father. The way he had been in life—angry, contemptuous, vindictive, critical—she knew she was better off without him. What tortured her was the loss of the possibility for change. Not that he would change—she’d always known that was never going to happen—but she thought that she might.
She always had the idea that one day she would stand up to him. Her father sometimes taunted her, daring her to do it. “How can you just stand there?” he’d sneer at her (though she thought it took more courage than her father could know—to stand there quietly, keeping her face a mask of indifference while he screamed or yelled or mocked, depending on his mood). “You’re a damn victim,” he would say. “Your mother would roll over in her grave if she could see you. She’d never let someone talk that way to her. She had spirit. She had guts.”
Sofie had a hazy memory of screaming voices, voices so piercing that they penetrated closed doors and hands pressed over ears and pillows burrowed under. She thought this might be a memory of her mother’s guts and that this memory might also explain why she usually chose to avoid confrontation. The only problem was that she found the price of conciliation was her self-respect. And now her father was gone, and it was too late to change.
So the idea of change was already on her mind when in bed that night Dean said, “I was thinking we might need a change.”
From the way he said it, Sofie knew that it was a suggestion he thought she wouldn’t like.
“What kind of change?” she asked.
He hesitated then said, “Before I tell you, I just want to make sure you’re going to take some time to think about it before you give your answer.”
She was definitely not going to like it, Sofie thought.
“OK,” she said.
“All right, well, I was thinking maybe we should move out of the city. Not too far away,” he said quickly, anticipating a protest. “I could commute to work, and you could still come in to work at the bookstore if you wanted.”
Sofie had been working at the Black Orchid Mystery Bookshop since she was sixteen. As a freshman and sophomore in high school she spent so much time there—just hanging around, buying books by the armful, and trying to avoid going home—that she had gotten to know the owners, Bonnie and Joe, pretty well. She spent so much time there in fact, they finally suggested a part-time job. She’d jumped at the idea and found she loved it. She was surrounded by what she loved most in the world—books. And not just any old books—mysteries. Dean joked that she loved mysteries more than she loved him.
Dean went on, “Or if you didn’t want to commute in to the bookstore there’s also another possibility: Haven’t all your friends been saying for years that you should write a mystery? Well, this could be your chance to do it—get away from the city and all the distractions, somewhere quiet where you can think. We could set up an office for you. You could use this as an excuse to finally get started. And I was also thinking—”
“Dean,” she broke in.
“I thought you said you weren’t going to answer right away,” he said. “I thought you were going to take some time to think about it.”
“I don’t need to think about it.”
“But—,” he started, ready with more ammunition to persuade her to leave the city.
She rolled over, turning her back on the hulking buildings and their beautiful, twinkling lights. It was too late to change what happened with her father, but it wasn’t too late to make a change.
“I don’t need to think about it,” she said again. “The answer is yes.”
Sofie could see the look of shock on Dean’s face even in the dim light filtering through the window.
“Really?” he said. “You’re not joking?”
“Really.”
He started to smile. “Just when I think I’ve got you figured out, you go and surprise me again,” he said. “How is it you always do that?”
“You’re not too bright?” Sofie suggested.
“You’re in trouble,” he said, making a grab for her. But when he’d wrestled her, pinning her beneath him, he suddenly turned serious again. “Listen, I know how much you love the city, but this is the right decision. You’ll see.”
But it was this decision that eventually brought Sofie her third dead body. The first had been her mother, lying sprawled across the bed, sunshine streaming through the windows. The second was her father, in the cold fluorescent light of the hospital morgue. The third would be swinging gently from a tree, surrounded by brilliant red autumn leaves.
PART I
GREENWICH
January
1.Priscilla & Gordon
Priscilla Brenner woke up in a foul mood. It was January. The sky outside her bedroom window was gray. It looked like it was going to snow again. And she was forty. She’d been forty for almost a week—and at the age of forty she’d discovered that she wanted to change everything about her life. But at that moment, waking up to another dreary winter morning, Priscilla saw no hope.
What she saw was her husband, Gordon, sleeping beside her. Just looking at him she felt a surge of irritation. She’d reached the point where everything about him annoyed her—even the way he slept. She hated the way his mouth hung open. She hated the way the loosening skin of his neck (invisible when he was awake) was pushed into little rolls under his chin. She even hated the sweep of his impossibly long dark lashes against his cheek, because it reminded her of how handsome she’d thought he was when they first met.
It wasn’t that he’d changed so much in the fifteen years they’d been together. He was still in good shape and, though his hair had gone gray and was thinning at the crown, he’d inherited the kind of patrician features that weathered well. But in Priscilla’s mind it was as if there were two different men—the man she thought she’d married and then the man he had turned out to be. When they first met, Gordon had seemed aloof and somehow mysterious. There were those long dark lashes of his and the quiet secretive way he had of smiling as if he were laughing at his own private joke. He also had an aura of glamour because he came from a wealthy Boston society family—though, being Yankees, they were very discreet about it. But after they got married Priscilla discovered that she had been all wrong about Gordon. What she’d thought of as aloof was merely awkward. The smile she’d thought of as secretive was simply self-conscious. And the idea of Gordon being glamorous—that turned out to be so completely ludicrous, she would have laughed if she could have managed to find the humor in it.
Gordon’s alarm went off and Priscilla quickly closed her eyes and pretended to be sleeping. In the morning Gordon liked to hit the snooze button and roll over and spoon her. Even the word made her shudder and his actually doing it made her feel trapped, pinned down, smothered. She finally told him that it was bad manners to wake her when she was still sleeping, and Gordon in his perpetual reasonableness had accepted the rebuke and had never done it again—and she despised him for that as well.
She lay there, rigid in pretend sleep, while he slipped out of bed and padded over to his bathroom. She waited a few seconds until she heard the hiss of the shower, and then she got out of bed as well and escaped into her bathroom.
Half an hour later she was in her dressing room morbidly inspecting her pores in her magnifying mirror (she’d actually thought she had good skin before she’d bought it, but the mirror showed her how wrong she was) when Gordon knocked on the door. Usually he would just call through the door that he was leaving, but today he poked his head in.
“I just wanted to let you know that I have to stay late today. That OK?”
“Fine,” she said still peering into the mirror. It came with rows of lightbulbs that you could adjust to evening, indoor, or sunlight. She kept it on the harshest sunlight setting.
“I don’t know why you insist on looking in that thing,” Gordon said.
“Why do you think? I want to see what I look like.”
“You look amazing.”
“I’m getting wrinkles.”
“I can’t see any,” he said.
“I can see the wrinkles in the mirror. The mirror doesn’t lie. This tells me the truth.”
“The truth? You mean if someone stood you under a spotlight and magnified your face, what, five times?”
“Seven times,” she said.
“Imagine yourself walking around with a head seven times the size it is now.”
“That’s not the point.”
“I think that’s exactly the point,” he replied.
She finally turned away from the mirror to shoot him a look.
“Sorry,” he apologized automatically. Then, to try to smooth things over, he asked, “What do you have on for today?”
US
Additional information
| Dimensions | 0.7000 × 5.3000 × 8.0000 in |
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| Subjects | connecticut, manhattan, destiny, betrayal, mystery books, beach read, Female friendship, mystery novels, thriller books, lies, Greenwich, suburbia, love story, page turner, mystery thriller suspense, murder mystery books, fiction books, housewives, white lies, stay at home mom, red herrings, surprise ending, fidelity, stepford wives, Friendship, crime, marriage, family, romance, thriller, fiction, FIC030000, detective, criminal, suspense, mystery, police, novel, murder, novels, chick lit, investigation, nyc, loyalty, New York, thrillers, mysteries |
