“You do follow through on your promises,” Marguerite said. “I can vouch for that. If you ever set out to murder someone…well, let’s just say I’d hate to be on your bad side.”
“And you, Marguerite?” Anne asked. “How would the self-help guru go about getting revenge?”
“I really don’t think murder is the best way to handle your problems,” Marguerite said, shooting Eliza a somewhat bewildered glance. “I hope you know that’s not at all what I meant when I said we needed to give men a taste of their own medicine. Things spiraled for a bit there.”
Eliza hid her smirk. They hadn’t covered this in their PR briefing earlier in the day. It wasn’t often Marguerite stumbled from her platform. In a way, it pleased Eliza to see her floundering. However, instead of savoring the moment, Eliza tossed a life vest to her client. Leapt in to save the day as usual. That’s why they paid her the big bucks.
“Marguerite’s far too clever for anything as obvious as plain old murder,” Eliza said. “If she wanted to get revenge on a man, she’d probably off him in a big way, then frame all of us and get away scot-free, wouldn’t you, Marguerite?”
TRANSCRIPT
The Court: Prosecution, you may call your next witness.
Prosecution: I call to the stand Anne Wilkes.
The Court: Will the witness please stand to be sworn in by the bailiff.
(witness stands)
Bailiff (to witness): Please raise your right
hand. Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole
truth, and nothing but the truth?
Anne Wilkes: I do.
(witness goes to stand and sits down)
Prosecution: Mrs. Wilkes, let’s start with the night of February 13, 2019. What do you remember about that day?
Anne Wilkes: I met up with a few of my girlfriends for a book club event that afternoon.
Prosecution: Which girlfriends?
Anne Wilkes: Eliza Tate and Penny Sands. Marguerite Hill, the author, was there, too, but I didn’t know her well at the time.
Prosecution: Which book were you discussing at this event?
Defense: Objection. How is the book club selection relevant to the murder case?
Prosecution: I will demonstrate its relevance if given the opportunity.
The Court: Overruled. You may continue, Ms. Clark, but make your point.
Prosecution: The book, Mrs. Wilkes?
Anne Wilkes: It was called Being Free by Marguerite Hill.
Prosecution: I’m not familiar with a book by that name. Not by that author. Do you mean Be Free?
Anne Wilkes: Er, yeah. Same thing.
Prosecution: This is a murder investigation, Mrs. Wilkes. Details are important.
Anne Wilkes: Sorry.
Prosecution: Is that or is it not the follow-up to Ms. Hill’s nonfiction bestseller Take Charge, a smash hit that took the world by storm a year ago?
Anne Wilkes: Yeah. Er, yes. At our first book club in October, we read Take Charge. We liked it, so in February, we read the sequel.
Prosecution: What is the book about?
Anne Wilkes: I think the title is self-explanatory. Both of Marguerite’s works are pretty typical self-help books for women. About how to take charge of your life and all that garbage. It’s inspirational, or so I assume. I didn’t actually read either book. There are hefty SparkNotes summaries online that are a godsend if you’re looking to get the gist of it. I have four kids. How do I have time to read a book that doesn’t involve pictures?
Prosecution: Where were you between the hours of 11:00 p.m. on February 13 and 2:00 a.m. the next morning?
Anne Wilkes: At a bar. Garbanzo’s. Our book club, uh, didn’t go as planned, so we went out to blow off some steam.
Prosecution: Were you with Eliza Tate during that time?
Anne Wilkes: Part of it.
Prosecution: Please explain what happened that night at book club.
Anne Wilkes: Now, that’s a long story.
Prosecution: We’ve got plenty of time, Mrs. Wilkes. Why don’t you start from the beginning?
ONE
Nine Months Before
May 2018
Whole wheat bread. One and a half slices of ham. One squiggly squirt of mustard. Five Lay’s cheddar cheese potato chips arranged carefully on the bread. Cut crusts off, insert into plastic baggie, draw permanent-marker heart on the front of the brown paper lunch sack.
Was Anne Wilkes in a rut?
Probably, she thought, looking at the sandwiches she’d prepared for her children while simultaneously spinning to yank the refrigerator open and place the ham, cheese, and mustard in their rightful spots.
She stared at her perfectly organized fridge. Even her fridge was in a rut. The same milk, the same yogurt (Activia because Mark suffered from indigestion and bloating), and even the same treats. One Lindt truffle per day in order to keep her ass smaller than Pluto. After four kids, two of them twins, it was a constant battle.
The fridge closed, and Anne gave an incoherent mumble into the phone that would keep her mother’s stories flowing for the next few minutes. Jutting a hip against the counter, Anne snuck a few cheddar cheese crisps from the bag, figuring it counted as breakfast.
“Anne, are you even listening? I wish you would pay attention,” Beatrice said. “I wish…”
Beatrice didn’t need to finish the sentence. It didn’t matter, because Anne knew where she was going with it. Her mother wished for a lot of things. She probably wished for a different daughter. After what had happened three years ago, Anne was officially an embarrassment to Beatrice Harper.
For a while there, Anne had been somewhat mediocre in her mother’s eyes. She’d acquired a house, children, and a highly respected husband. Anne’s marriage had been her crowning glory for the last fourteen years. Happily married to a handsome, decorated LAPD officer—formerly of the narcotics division, newly promoted to detective—she’d done one thing right in her life. Until she’d failed at her marriage, too.
“Mom, I’ve got to let you go,” Anne finally said. She’d hit a wall and was unable to listen to her mother’s latest drama about the country club for a second longer. “It’s time to get the kids ready for bed.”
“You really should hire a chef, or at least a nanny,” her mother sniffed. “It’s not good for you to be running around like you do. You’ll get bags under your eyes. Then Mark will leave you, and you’ll be all alone—an unwed mother of four children.”
“Thanks, Mom,” Anne said. “We’ll see you in a few weeks.”
From the other room, the sounds of screeching reached Anne’s ears. She sighed. It had been too easy. The twins had gone down early, both sleeping peacefully in their cribs by seven thirty. A record of sorts these days.
It must have been Samuel, sneaking into the room to torture them again. At four years old, he was fascinated by his two younger siblings, though his fascination often walked the fine line between love and hate.
“Mom!” Gretchen, the oldest at seven and a half, yelled unhelpfully from the living room. “The twins woke up!”
“Right, I can hear that,” Anne hollered back. “Go get your jammies on, will you? Help your brother, please.”
Anne shoved tomorrow’s lunches back into the fridge and slammed the door. She did a super-quick cleanup of the kitchen and told herself it was good to let the twins cry it out for a little longer. A quick check of her watch told her the babysitter was due to arrive in under twenty minutes.