Page 24 of The Wives of Murder Club
“We’d understand why you were angry with her,” said Bernie. “Sleeping with your husband? I’d be furious too. Especially with her hypocritical accusations against me.”
“Why would you say that?” Imogen’s face was beet red. “What do you know?”
“She was careless with her phone the other day. And I saw a message from Mark. It was pretty graphic.”
“That’s crazy, no, she said . . . no, he wasn’t . . . I need to see her phone.”
Marta knew her friend well enough to see that something was off—Imogen didn’t seem surprised.Did she know?Imogen was a jealous person in general; she definitely wouldn’t have taken the news well. But would she have been so angry that she’d do something crazy?
“It’s right here.” Bernie picked up Celeste’s phone from where it was charging beside her bed. She pressed the home screen button. “But it’s locked.”
Imogen took the cell from Bernie’s outstretched hand and tapped hard, as if she could make it unlock by pure force of will.
“We can open it.” Marta could hardly believe she was suggesting it, but she had a practical mind. “We just need her thumbprint.” The other women looked at her in surprise, as if she’d suggested sawing off Celeste’s hand.
Finally, Imogen blinked and nodded. “No, you’re right. Good idea. It’s not going to hurt her, and I really, really need to know.” She glared at Bernie. “Because Ididn’tknow. Idon’tknow.”
Huddled around Celeste’s body with the other women for the second time that day, Bernie peeled back the tarp. For a moment, Marta hoped against hope there would be no body underneath. But of course she was still there. Marta looked away when Imogen knelt down with the phone and reached for Celeste’s hand. “Fuck. It’s not working.” Imogen kept mashing Celeste’s thumb against the sensor, to no avail.
“Try the other one,” Bernie suggested.
As Imogen reached across the body, a memory surfaced in Marta’s brain. It was the whisper of a podcast she’d listened to before falling asleep a few weeks ago, a new one with a focus on tech and true crime. “Wait. I was wrong—it won’t work. I forgot that the phone doesn’t just read the fingerprint, it also scans for electrical activity. Basically, it only works if the person is alive.”
Imogen stood up quickly and Bernie flipped the tarp back over the body.
“So what now?” asked Imogen. “Anyone want to guess her passcode?”
“Actually, yes,” said Bernie. “I’d bet she and Harry had the same one. She told us that his was their wedding anniversary. Do either of you remember the date?”
“Ohmygod, I should know this,” said Imogen. “She came over to my house for drinks on her anniversary this year because she didn’t want to be alone. That was a few months ago . . . It was definitely June, the girls were almost done their school year.” Imogen tried0610—no luck—but then1006got them in. “What did you do, you—” Imogen was muttering to herself as she tapped into Celeste’s messages. Marta watched her closely, trying to decide if this was all an act. A flutter of movement drew her eye: the heron again, winging its way across the lake. When she looked back over at Imogen, who was still concentrating on the phone, Bernie caught her gaze and raised an eyebrow as if to ask,What do you think?A shiver ran through her.
After a couple of minutes of silent scrolling, Imogen spoke. “You were right.” Anger clipped the edges of her words. “She was fucking him.”
Marta extended her hand, needing to see for herself. Imogen hesitated for a moment, then handed over the phone with a murmured, “What does it matter anymore.” Marta skimmed a few of the messages and felt her face get hot. It was all too familiar.
“Pass it here,” said Bernie. Marta gave her the phone and Bernie took a brief look, then slipped Celeste’s phone into her pocket.
“Can you believe she would do that to me? Fucking unbelievable.” Imogen started pacing, almost losing her balance on the slick pine needles coating the earth. Marta thought that Imogen was either a really good actor or genuinely surprised at the extent of Celeste’s deceit. From what Marta was able to see, the affair had been going on for months.
“You know what?” Imogen vented. “She even told me recently that Mark was flirting with her. Like she was warningme about him, like she was being such a good friend. But she just wanted to see me squirm. Thatcunt.” The hardC-word made Imogen catch herself and shake her head. “Sorry. But this doesn’t change anything. I didn’t know about the affair, and even if I had known about it, I wouldn’t have wanted her dead.”
Marta wondered if any of it was true.
29
IMOGEN
I’m glad she’s dead.Imogen ground her teeth as she walked away from Celeste’s body, trailing Bernie and Marta back to the cottage. Inside, Imogen went directly to the fridge, excavating several bottles of wine before locating the mineral water. She poured herself a glass and drank it down in quick gulps, the cold doing nothing to extinguish the angry embers in her heart. Imogen stared at the bottles on the counter, now glazed with condensation, and imagined cracking Celeste across the skull with the dewy rosé. She could imagine at a visceral level the way such a blow would feel as it reverberated up her arm to her shoulder. After all, it was the exact feeling she’d experienced a couple of weeks ago.
It was mid-September and Imogen had been putting Derrick off for weeks.
His initial polite emails turned into terse text messages, then became incessant phone calls, which Imogen had been letting go to voice mail. She thought it was telling that he hadn’t gotten Marta involved in his attempts to contact her. Imogen and Marta texted each other on a near-daily basis, and had seen each other a bunch of times since Derrick first got in touch. The fact that Marta seemed oblivious was the only thing keeping Imogen calm; if Derrick didn’t want his wife to know that he needed the money, then he didn’t have a leg to stand on. She started deleting his voice mails without listening to them.
But this morning, a school Professional Activity day, Derrick turned up at her house. Imogen was not yet dressed for brunch (she wished she were going somewhere classy—like high tea at the Windsor Arms or lunch at Canoe—but for some reason she’d let Marta pick, so they were heading to a grim spot in the west end), and she answered the door in her pink housecoat, expecting an Amazon delivery. Her arm flinched when she saw Derrick standing there, but she gained control and opened up all the way.Smile, she told herself. Imogen was proud of her veneers. She’d gotten her teeth fixed recently and she thought they made her look smarter, like she’d gotten her MBA from a top-tier school—which was, of course, what she told people.
“Finally. You’re a real pain in the ass to get hold of, you know that? You know why I’m here.” Derrick’s normally clean-shaven face was rough with stubble and his hair was mussed. He was still very handsome, but his aura was curdled like rancid milk.
Imogen realized this was the first time in years that she’d seen him in anything other than khakis and a crisp button-up. Sweeping her eyes up and down his body, it made her uncomfortable to realize she could make out the shape of his dick in his grey sweatpants. It was bigger than she’d thought it would be, and her brain glitched momentarily. “I’m . . . it’s a surprise to see you here, to be honest. It’s early.” She made an effort to muster a pleasant, relaxed tone. “Is this about that withdrawal you messaged me about?”
