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“Or maybe it’s your friend who lied,” Wilma says. “Maybe she didn’t talk to the doorman at all.”
I shake my head. Marnie wouldn’t do that, no matter how fed up she is with me.
“There’s also this.” I show Wilma my phone, Instagram already open and visible. “Katherine allegedly posted this from their apartment today. But this picture wasn’t taken today. Look at the leaves in the trees and the calendar on the wall. This was likely taken weeks ago.”
“Just because someone posts an old photo doesn’t mean they’re not where they say they are,” Wilma says.
“You’re right. But Katherine didn’t even take that picture. Her husband did. If you look closely, you can see his reflection in the teakettle.”
I let Wilma peer at the picture a moment before switching from Instagram to Mixer. I point to Katherine’s red triangle, nestled right next to the one belonging to her husband. “Why would Katherine post an old photo she didn’t even take? Especially when, according to the location-tracking software on her husband’s app, her phone is still inside that house.”
Wilma takes my phone and studies the map dotted with red triangles. “This is like a thousand privacy invasions in one.”
“Probably,” I say. “But don’t you think it’s weird Katherine would leave and not take her phone?”
“Weird, yes. Unheard of, no. It doesn’t mean Tom Royce did something to his wife.”
“But he’s covering up where she is!” I realize my voice is a bit too loud, a tad too emphatic. Faced with Wilma’s skepticism, I’ve become the impatient one. It also doesn’t help that I snuck two more gulps of bourbon while Boone used the powder room before Wilma arrived. “If Katherine’s not here, but her phone is, that means Tom posted that photo, most likely trying to make people think Katherine is someplace she’s not.”
“He also bought rope, a tarp, and a hacksaw,” Boone adds.
“That’s not illegal,” Wilma says.
“But itissuspicious if your wife has suddenly disappeared,” I say.
“Not if she left of her own accord after getting into a heated argument with her husband.”
I give Wilma a curious look. “Are you married, Detective?”
“Seventeen years strong.”
“And have you ever gotten into a heated argument with your husband?”
“Too many to count,” she says. “He’s as stubborn as a mule.”
“After those arguments, have you ever gone out and bought things you could use to hide his body?”
Wilma pushes off the railing and drifts to the rocking chairs, handing me the binoculars in the process. She sits, twisting the scrunchie around her wrist in a compulsive way that makes me think it doesn’t belong to her daughter at all.
“You seriously think Tom Royce is over there right now chopping up his wife?” she says.
“Maybe,” I say, slightly horrified that not only am I thinking it, but I now consider it a more likely scenario than Katherine running away after an argument with her husband.
Wilma sighs. “I’m not sure what you want me to do here.”
“Confirm that Tom Royce is lying,” I say.
“It’s not that simple.”
“You’re with the state police. Can’t you trace Katherine’s phone to check and see if she’s called someone today? Or look at her bank and credit card records?”
Impatience thins Wilma’s voice as she says, “We could do all of those things—if Katherine is reported missing to the local authorities. But I’m going to be straight with you here, if you do it, they’re not going to believe you. People are usually reported missing by someone closer to them. Like a spouse. Unless Katherine has other family members you might know about who are also worried about her.”
Boone looks to me and shakes his head, confirming that both of us are clueless about Katherine’s next of kin.
“That’s what I thought,” Wilma says.
“I guess searching the house is out of the question,” I say.