Page 18

SIXTEEN

April’s house is located in one of the many subdivisions outside downtown.

I’ve been there only once, when she insisted she would host last year’s Christmas meeting.

She ushered us into her grand kitchen, all slow-release cabinets and stone countertops, where she’d set up a candy cane martini bar alongside various appetizers.

Thinking back to that time, I remember feeling out of place.

My social gatherings are limited to the Mystery Maiden meetings.

On the rare occasions I do visit someone’s place, it’s usually an apartment or a condo.

The rest of us are centrally located to downtown, really—Danielle has an apartment within walking distance to her law office, and Victoria’s condo is close to WU.

My two-bedroom looks like something a broke college kid would beg to rent.

April’s house is a real, mature home. Instead of a white picket fence, a large black privacy fence surrounds the perimeter of her backyard, blooming rosebushes decorating the front.

I remember walking around her living room and dining room, candy cane martini in hand, admiring all the little details.

The crisp white molding along the ceiling.

The heavy frames which held abstract artwork.

The colorful vases she’d purchased on her honeymoon in Venice.

It wasn’t just the material things that stood out to me.

In the corner of each room were large wicker baskets filled with children’s toys.

Family portraits were scattered around the house, a loving presentation, by no means boastful.

I left that Christmas party believing April lived a charmed life. Happily married. Two beautiful children. And she still managed to carve out time for her writing. She’s exactly the type of woman my own mother would love to have as a daughter.

Those were all superficial observations.

Tonight, I’m visiting her house to try and gauge whether she could be the person who is taunting me.

It’s strange that she skipped tonight. In the year I’ve been part of the group, she’s not missed a single meeting.

Even when her kids are sick, which seems to always be the case in the fall and winter, she arranges for her husband to watch them.

Writing is a priority for her. Maybe the only reason she missed tonight’s meeting is because she has a guilty conscience.

I walk up the immaculate brick pathway snaking through her front lawn. The porch is alight with lanterns and adorned with fall décor. The doorbell rings loudly, and it’s only seconds before I get a response.

“Hello?”

The voice is clearly April’s, but I don’t see her. I look behind me trying to make sure.

“Come closer to the door,” she says. “I can’t see your face.”

I move nearer, trying to peer through the pockets of ornate glass, but it’s impossible to see anyone through the warped pane.

“Um, it’s Becca,” I say, still trying to figure out who I’m speaking to. “From Mystery Maidens.”

“What a surprise,” she says, and it’s hard to tell through the speaker if she’s taken aback or annoyed. “Just a second.”

“Where are you?” I ask, still looking around.

“Upstairs. I’m watching you on my door cam,” she says. “It’s hard to spot unless you bend down.”

That’s when I see it. A small white rectangle beside the door hinge. Now that I’ve noticed it, the modern technology looks out of place alongside the traditional décor. I bend down closer, catching my tiny reflection in the lens.

The door swings open. April stands in the doorway wearing an oversized lounge set, an ensemble that screams casual comfort. Her hair is pulled away from her face, covered with a patterned silk scarf.

“Becca, what brings you out all this way?”

“I don’t want to bother you,” I say, raising the small brown package in my hands. “Victoria said your gang was sick, so I thought I’d bring over some minestrone from Mario’s. It always makes me feel better when I’m under the weather.”

The idea to bring soup was a last-minute one, but I needed some excuse to visit.

Even though a married mother of two isn’t high on my suspect list, I must investigate every possibility, and this is my opportunity to corner her alone.

If she is the person behind everything, she’d get too suspicious if I showed up on her doorstep empty-handed.

“That’s so sweet of you,” she says, looking behind her. “I’d invite you in but?—”

“Do you think I could use your bathroom?” I ask quickly. “It’s about a twenty-minute drive back to my place.”

Her smile is tense, and I notice she grips the door tighter.

“Sure,” she says, stepping back. “You really didn’t have to come all this way.”

“It’s fine. I didn’t have anything better to do.”

I step into the house, the warm air in the foyer surrounding me like a hug. A vanilla candle scents the air, and, just like last time, everything looks immaculate, although she clearly hasn’t brought out the decorations yet.

“I’ll take that,” she says, reaching for the box.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll just be a second. Don’t want to bother you when you’re sick.”

I walk straight ahead and duck into the hallway bathroom.

It looks the exact same as last time I was here, only the Christmas hand towels have been replaced with auburn ones with embroidered leaves around the hem.

Maybe it’s the tight quarters of the room, but I begin to wonder what I was hoping to accomplish by coming here.

She says her family is sick; how am I supposed to prove otherwise?

I remind myself that whoever is doing this must have me in their sights.

Even a quick conversation could be enough to see if I notice a change in her behavior toward me.

When I exit the bathroom, the first thing I notice is how quiet the house is. April’s kids stayed with relatives during last year’s holiday party, but I imagine on an average evening they’re quite noisy, feet pattering, squeals ringing. They must be ill if they’re not making a peep.

I make my way back to the kitchen through the dining room, looking around for anything I remember during my last visit.

Some of the family portraits are still on the walls, but I swear there were more last time.

There are things missing, too, I think. The vases.

The artwork. Even the basket filled with toys is gone.

“This was really nice of you,” April says. She’s sitting at the breakfast bar in the kitchen. The soup I brought has been reheated and transferred into a ceramic bowl. “I’m starving. Haven’t eaten all day.”

“You must be really sick to miss a meeting,” I say, watching her closely. “You’ve never done that before.”

She clears her throat. “Yeah, I hated to miss, but I just wasn’t feeling up to it. I haven’t worked on anything new, anyway.”

“I figure you’re still in celebration mode,” I say. “An offer of representation is a big deal.”

She smiles weakly and nods her head. “Yeah. I’m gearing up to get back in the editing phase. It could be a while before I work on anything new.”

I look around the kitchen, noticing that it is also noticeably bare.

It no longer gives off the homey vibe I remember from last year.

Instead, it almost looks like a showroom, something a realtor would stage before taking pictures.

In fact, it looks like everything has been cut back.

Maybe April’s moving and hasn’t told us.

I study her. She eats the soup ravenously, but beyond that, her complexion is as radiant as ever. I haven’t heard a cough or a sneeze since I arrived. She doesn’t appear sick at all, except for a slight smudge of darkness around the eyes.

And the quiet. I could swear we are the only two people in the house. Where is her husband? The children?

“What is it?” April has both her hands on the table, staring at me quizzically. I never have had a good poker face.

“Nothing,” I say. “Just admiring the place. You have a beautiful home.”

“Thanks.” She picks up the spoon again, the clinking of the utensil against the bowl filling the silence.

“The kids must really be sick,” I say. “I’ve not heard a sound the whole time I’ve been here.”

“The kids…” Her voice trails off, her gaze fixated on something in the other room. I look behind me and see she’s staring at one of the family portraits on the far wall. Her eyes are glossy with tears.

“April,” I say. “Is everything okay?”

She clears her throat again and stares into her lap. “It’s nothing. Really.”

“It seems like something is bothering you.”

As the statement leaves my lips, I realize I’m not asking as an amateur detective, but as a friend. There’s something off with April’s behavior, but she’s not acting like someone who has been targeting me. Her pain seems more personal.

“The kids aren’t here,” she says, her voice flat. “They’re staying at their father’s tonight.”

“Their father’s?”

“Chase and I are getting a divorce.” She exhales, as though she physically couldn’t contain the statement inside a second longer. When she looks at me, the tears start trailing down her cheeks. “We’ve been separated for a few months.”

“April,” I say. “I had no idea.”

“No one does. I mean, besides our immediate family. It’s not something I’m ready to share with the world.”

“I’m sorry I came by,” I say, hot anxiety climbing the back of my neck. This conversation feels too personal, too intimate. I’d come here for answers, but this isn’t the mystery I was trying to solve.

“No, you were just being nice. Besides, I need to come to terms with what’s happening. It’s just hard.”