Page 19 of Kill Your Darlings

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Before leaving, Thom said, “There was a distant past when you would have joined me on this expedition.”

“Oh, it’s an expedition?”

“You never know who or what you might find at the Tavern.”

Wendy knew exactly what he would find there. Several scotches, and the same slurry, repetitive conversations with the other

semi-regulars. “I’ll pass for now,” Wendy said.

“Your loss,” Thom said, and went out the side door.

“You can go with him if you like,” Jason said, either being sweet or else there was something he wanted to watch on television

that he wasn’t supposed to.

“Maybe I’ll go later,” she said to Jason, then finished cleaning the kitchen.

There were three bars on Goose Neck, but the Tavern at the Wonson Inn was the only one that was open year-round.

It was a dark, wood-paneled cellar bar with portholes that looked out on nothing.

The longtime bartender, Howard, was famous for ignoring drink orders, especially from tourists, and simply making martinis or Manhattans, depending on his mood.

And it was true that for a time in her marriage to Thom they would often walk down after dinner for a nightcap or two.

Maybe she should join him, she thought, or at the very least wander down and peek in at the bar.

It was a nice night for late October, a light breeze kicking up the fallen leaves, cold enough that you needed a sweater but not so cold for a jacket. Wendy decided to go.

After stepping down the short stairway to push through the heavy door that led into the cellar bar, she spotted Thom in his

usual seat, at the far curve of the bar. He was talking intently to a man whom Wendy didn’t immediately recognize. She approached

them, and Thom looked both surprised and genuinely pleased. A rare surge of affection for her husband pierced at her.

“Meet my new friend... I’m sorry, I know you told me your...”

The man reached out a hand and Wendy took it. “I’m Stan. Your husband was giving me the rundown on this area.” His hand was

very warm and very dry, and he had a faint accent that was familiar.

“You sound like you’re from Dallas,” she said.

“Aren’t you clever? I thought I got rid of that years ago. Yes, I was from Texas, but I like to think of myself as a nomad

now.”

He couldn’t have been older than fifty, Wendy thought, and yet he was putting on an act like he was some kind of old salt.

She instantly disliked him and was annoyed at herself for giving in to pressure and leaving the house to meet Thom. She was

about to say that she’d only popped in to say hi, but there was a sudden martini in front of her, courtesy of Howard, even

though she hadn’t ordered one.

“Thank you, Howard,” she said, then added, “and don’t make me another unless I ask for it.”

“How is it that you so quickly recognize a Dallas accent?” Stan said.

Before Wendy had a chance to answer, Thom said, “Her first marriage. You weren’t in Dallas, but—”

“I lived in Lubbock for about two years.”

“Oh yeah? In college, I suppose?”

“Actually, no. But it was right after college.”

“And what did you think of the Lone Star State?”

“It was a long time ago,” Wendy said, quickly adding, “Stan, what do you do for work?”

“Well, I’m lucky enough to be an early retiree. I worked for twenty-five years as a police officer in Flower Mound, just outside

of Dallas. Have you heard of it?”

“I haven’t. What brought you here?”

He hesitated, enough for Wendy to know that he was deciding what to say. “Well, I’ve always loved to fish, and I was all set

to head to Corpus Christi like I usually do, and then I thought to myself, now that I’m a man of leisure, why not travel around

America and see what fishing is like in different parts of the country? So I’m on an epic road trip. And New Essex was pretty

much first on my list.”

His Texas accent, through the course of this story, had noticeably strengthened.

“You should talk to Rick. He should be in here later tonight, and he’ll happily bore you with fishing stories.”

“Oh, you know, I think I talked with Rick a few nights ago.”

“Yeah, that was Rick,” Thom was saying, and Wendy realized that Stan had been hanging around the Tavern for a while.

The door swung open and two older couples came in, probably having just finished their dinner at the upstairs restaurant.

Stan slid down the bar and back to his seat. Wendy and Thom clinked glasses.

“It’s so nice you came,” Thom said.

“Jason convinced me. God knows what he’s up to right now.”

Thom lowered his voice and said, “What was up with you and Stan?”

“What do you mean?”

“You were acting pretty chilly toward him.”

“Well, I suppose so. You ever meet someone and instantly dislike them?” After saying this, Wendy realized that Thom had probably never experienced something like that. It was a fundamental difference between them.

“He seems okay,” Thom said.

Wendy requested a glass of ice from Howard, poured her martini on top of it, and then asked him to add tonic. She had decided

to stick around that night, at least until Thom was ready to go. The door swung open again, and several more people entered,

a couple of tourists (the past few years the tourist season had been expanding all the way through November), and then Fred

Hayes, one of their neighbors. Wendy asked him to join them.

While chatting with Fred, she watched Stan, who was very slowly nursing what looked like a light beer, a drink he’d been lucky

to get from Howard. Now that she was able to study him, she realized he was older than he looked. It was just that he was

still fit and had a full head of dark hair. But his hands were ropy and his face was sun-damaged, his cheeks rosy with those

tiny broken vessels that hard drinkers sometimes get. Yet he was deliberately not drinking much tonight. And watching him

now, she had a strong feeling that he was here—here on Goose Neck, here at the Tavern—because of them. It was a feeling she’d

had before, that they were being watched by someone, and even though that feeling in the past hadn’t amounted to anything,

she was convinced that Stan was an exception.

Fred, like Thom, was a big fan of classic Hollywood, and the two of them were trying to impress each other by naming particularly

obscure films that they loved. Wendy asked Howard how the summer season was, and he smiled. “My faith in humanity is diminished,

but my wallet is fatter.”

“Sounds like an even trade.”

“I’d say so. Can I get you something else?”

“Just a plain old soda water, please. With a lemon.”

After he’d brought her the drink, Wendy asked him what he knew about the new guy, tilting her head toward Stan’s seat, unoccupied

for now, although there was a coaster on his beer to indicate he’d be back.

“Been here every night for a week. He’s your husband’s new best friend.”

“Looks that way,” Wendy said.

When she and Thom left, the temperature had dropped, and she wished she’d brought at least a light jacket. Walking back along

the narrow lane, Wendy scanned the license plates of the nearby parked cars. She spotted what was definitely a rental car,

a white Ford Fusion with one of those barcode stickers in the window. “Why are you studying cars?” Thom said.

“I didn’t know I was.”

Lying in bed that night, Thom downstairs watching the World Series, Wendy wondered why she simply hadn’t told Thom her suspicions about his new friend, Stan.

Maybe because it would sound like she was being paranoid, but she didn’t think that was it.

Because, in truth, she didn’t think she was being paranoid.

When Bryce, her first husband, had died, it had been very clear to her that Bryce’s older sister, Sloane, firmly believed that Wendy had been responsible.

She’d said as much at the funeral, and she’d also managed, along with a few other members of the Barrington clan, to hold up Wendy’s inheritance as long as she could.

It wouldn’t surprise Wendy at all if Sloane had decided to hire a private investigator to take another look at Bryce’s death.

Stan—had he told her his last name? She didn’t think so—was from Texas, an ex-cop, weirdly interested in talking with Thom.

His story didn’t exactly add up either. If he was on an “epic road trip” to different fishing areas all around the country, wouldn’t he be doing that in his own car?

Possibly, but maybe not. Still, she didn’t see any cars with Texas plates outside of the Tavern, and she had spotted a very obvious rental car.

Who knew if it was his. Still, she felt in her gut that Stan was bad news somehow. The question was: Why now?

The following night Thom was playing trivia at a brewery in Beverly with a few of his work colleagues and Jason was over at

his friend Julia’s house to watch a movie. Wendy went down to the Tavern by herself after dinner, surprised again by how crowded

it was but not surprised to see Stan at the bar. There was a free seat next to him, and she went and sat there. Stan swiveled

to face her. “Just you tonight?”

“Just me.”

Howard brought her a gin and tonic, unprompted but at least it wasn’t a martini, and Stan began peppering her with questions,

mostly about the town, how long she’d lived there, what she did for work. Basic stuff. She began to think she was wrong about

her suspicions, but after she’d asked for her bill, Stan said, “Thom said you used to live in Texas?”

“Well, a lifetime ago.”

“Where exactly?”

“Near Lubbock, like I told you already. It was for a total of about two years.”

“What did your husband do?”

Wendy decided that even if this Stan character wasn’t somehow sent by some member of her ex-husband’s family, he was annoying

her with his constant questions.

“He was a musician,” she said. “His name was Declan MacManus.”

Stan was nodding, but he’d given himself away. She could tell by the expression on his face that he was trying to figure out

how to deal with the fact that she’d just lied to him.