Page 9 of The Wives of Murder Club
Imogen swallowed hard. The only use she had for snakes was as snakeskin accessories. It wasn’t just dogs she had a problem with—she basically hated all animals. And bugs. And the outdoors in general. She’d made it very clear to Bernie that wherever they booked had to have indoor plumbing or she wouldn’t come. And now she was supposed to be vacationing in some kind of viper pit? Really, if it were up to her, they’d have booked their weekend at a Four Seasons, but Celeste and Marta didn’t have the budget for that kind of trip. Imogen couldn’t help thinking that she needed to start making wealthier friends.
Rick continued, “There is absolutely no reptilian threat to you here. I’ve never seen a rattler—or any snake for that matter—on Snakebite in over twenty years. The name of the island actually comes from an aerial view of the place; our tiny paradise is roughly circular and there are two boulder formations that look kinda like the puncture marks of a snakebite. There and there.” Rick pointed at the rocky outcroppings on either side of the dock. “But that’s enough geography for the day. You’ll have plenty of privacy here—this is the only cottage on the island. Plus, you see the trees over thattaway?” There was a faint line of green in the far distance across the water. “That’s all Crown land, which means no development, just sweet, sweet nature. Get out and enjoy the lake if the weather co-operates. There’s a paddleboat and a kayak, so feel free to take them out for a spin, but stay close to the island as Ms. Massassauga can get real feisty. You need one of these babies to properly handle the conditions out in the deeps.” Rick slapped the side of his motorboat. “Water safety should be your number one priority, because Venom Lake has taken lives. You’ve got the rapids and the falls if you go about two klicks in that direction.” He pointed west. “So my advice would be—don’t. Every decade or so, we lose someone to the dark waters, but it’s always someone who was acting foolish—drinking and boating, going out in poor conditions, no life jacket . . . you get my point. As long as you act smart, you’ll stay safe. All righty, that’s the end of my lecture.” Rick took a slight bow.
“Um, excuse me, Rick?” Marta asked, holding up her cellphone. “Is there cell service out here? My phone doesn’t seem to be working. Or what about Wi-Fi?”
“Cell service is shit out here,” said Rick. “Practically non-existent. Plus, our region got hit by a lightning storm earlier this week that damaged some towers, and they’re still working on getting it all back up and running. Next year we’re supposed to get some kinda satellite thing that’ll provide better coverage, but for now you’re outta luck. Maybe you’ll catch a bar from time to time, but it’s nothing to count on. And we don’t offer Wi-Fi here—it doesn’t jibe with our nature-first philosophy. You’re outdoors! Enjoy it.”
Imogen reflexively checked her phone and cursed under her breath. She should have responded to that message from Fran-cesca before coming out here. Imogen pushed the thought aside and told herself it would be fine.A few more days is nothing.
Rick hopped back into his boat and Betsy followed him. “Of course, if you really do need to get in contact with anyone, use the land line. You can always get me on my cellular—you’ll find the number taped to the fridge. I wish you a lovely vacation at Villa Pines.” He gestured behind them at the cottage. “My husband and I went to Italy for our fifth anniversary, and when we got back, he decided the place needed a fancy name.” Rick spread his arms wide, as if to encompass the sparkling expanse of blue. “Oh, and I should let you know there’s a storm fixing to roll in this weekend, so enjoy this last gasp of warm weather while you can. Have a good stay, ladies! I’ll be back Sunday morning to collect you.”
The women thanked Rick and he motored off with Betsy. Imogen was feeling more like herself again, her queasiness and irritation with Rick receding as his boat disappeared from view. She was finally able to take in her surroundings with appreciation. The two-storey A-frame cottage looked out over the lake from a slight elevation and the whole front of the wooden structure was glass—a tasteful marriage of rustic and modern. In front of the cottage there was a firepit ringed with Muskoka chairs, and the L-dock they’d landed on was deep enough to accommodate several loungers. The island was small—approximately an acre—and shaded by a scattering of pines, maples, and birch trees. The late afternoon sun glittered on the lake as Imogen scanned the horizon. Except for the far-off smudge of green that Rick had described as belonging to the Crown, there was no other land in sight.
The four women carried their luggage inside—a monogrammed Louis Vuitton for Imogen (she didn’t see why she shouldn’t travel in style, even on a cottage weekend); a full-size rolling suitcase for Celeste; a sleek carry-on for Bernie; and a gym duffle for Marta—and then traipsed back down to the dock to collect the cooler and heavy bags of food.
After depositing the groceries on the kitchen island, Bernie confessed that the cottage only had three bedrooms. “But one’s got two queens, so it’s no big deal! Don’t go allReal Housewiveson me, scrambling for the best room—I’ve already claimed it.” She laughed. “And I’ll cut a bitch who tries to drop her suitcase on my bed!” Bernie disappeared upstairs to the primary suite, leaving the others to put things away.
Imogen was fuming. She never would have agreed to the rental if she’d known there weren’t enough rooms, and she was pissed that Bernie hadn’t even offered to share the best room. But she decided not to make a thing of it—she had way bigger problems to worry about. Imogen quickly laid claim to the smaller of the two rooms on the main floor, loudly exclaiming that Mark had been complaining that she snored (not true! she even used a special facial tape to prevent mouth breathing and wrinkles). Her room choice meant that Celeste and Marta were stuck together in the larger room on the main floor, the one with two beds. They probably both figured they’d bunk with her, Imogen realized as she lugged her bag down the narrow hallway.Tough titties—not my problem.She and Marta used to have sleepovers all the time in high school, and Imogen had fond memories of them whispering to each other as they drifted off in her parents’ basement, but she couldn’t fathom sharing a room with anyone right now. Not with everything going on.
After dumping her bag in her room, Imogen went to the washroom down the hall to freshen up. As she touched up her eye makeup, Imogen overheard Celeste and Marta talking as they got settled in their own room. She smiled when she heard Celeste complaining about Bernie’s behaviour—she could always count on Celeste to speak her mind.
“. . . she should have that room? She thinks she’s better than us, doesn’t she. Can you believe she told Rick to call her Dr. Parvis, not Ms. Parvis? Oh my god, and is it just me or is she insane for wearing that watch on a girls’ weekend?” Imogen knew for a fact that Celeste was wildly jealous of Bernie’s jewellery collection. “Do you know how much it costs?”
“No, I don’t.” Imogen heard Marta sigh. “But can we not—”
“More than your car, I’ll tell you that much.”
“Please, Celeste. Sound probably travels here. I just don’t want her to . . . Just keep it down, okay? I don’t want to start any problems this weekend. I really need to relax, and I just can’t handle any drama right now.”
“I’m not starting drama!” Celeste whispered back loudly. “When have you ever known me to start drama? I’m simply observing that Bernie can be a bit of an entitled bitch sometimes, and no one ever seems to say anything about it.”
Imogen almost stabbed herself in the eyeball with her liquid eyeliner.
“Celeste!” Marta sounded scandalized.
As Imogen finished her beauty touch-ups, she stewed about what she was going to do. There was a traitor among the group, there was no doubt in her mind. A traitor who was the reason for the dark circles under her eyes and her relentless snacking. She couldn’t continue like this, but at the same time, did she want to bring it up when they were all trapped with nowhere to go? No, she decided, that was a bad idea. She needed to be fun, carefree Imogen this weekend. More than anything, she didn’t want to let this person see how badly they’d gotten to her, because the blackmail would undoubtedly get worse. She’d figure it out when she got home. Meeting her gaze in the mirror, she realized she was chewing on a lock of her hair, and spat it out of her mouth.
Giving her makeup and outfit a final inspection—the red of her lips matched the red in her sweater—Imogen decided that she was satisfied. She made an effort to paint a smile on her face, then went to the kitchen to join Celeste and Marta. Celeste was busy preparing an arrangement of chips, nuts, cheese, and chocolate with a level of care that belied the fact that she herself would never indulge in such high-cal snacks.Anorexic bitch, Imogen thought, with a nip of jealousy. Marta had already rinsed four glasses and was drying them with a tea towel that proclaimed in bold blue stitchesIT’S TIME. Its twin, embroidered withFOR WINE, was draped over the oven handle. Celeste popped a pistachio into her mouth, chewed delicately, then pointed at the towels. “The wine gods have spoken. Who are we to disagree?”
Imogen uncorked a bottle of red and poured three glasses, then drained half of hers in a few quick pulls while munching on a handful of nuts. Between bites, Imogen noticed that Celeste ate only a single date, while Marta snacked with abandon, pinching slices of cheese with one hand while ferrying chocolate to her mouth with the other. Imogen often judged Marta for her lack of restraint but, at the same time, felt frequent pangs of envy at the way she was able to enjoy food openly and with gusto.
The wine did its work. Imogen felt the rope of tension that was coiled around her neck and head release its grip on her. However, as she ate, she began to feel the band of her sculpting jeans cut into her waist, and she wished she were wearing something more comfortable. But god help her if she ever dressed down like Marta, who was wearing grey sweatpants and an oversized green T-shirt emblazoned withI’m a Claudia. Imogen decided she was going to have to take Marta shopping again.
About ten minutes later, Bernie swanned into the kitchen, looking impeccably cottagecore in distressed denim and brandishing the two bottles of Dom Pérignon that she’d brought as a surprise for the group. Imogen couldn’t help mentally tallying the cost of Bernie’s outfit and the Dom.
“Champers on me!” said Bernie. “Finish your wine and let’s pop the good shit.” She nestled the bottles into an ice bucket and went banging around in the cupboards on an unsuccessful quest for stemware, ultimately settling for a set of mismatched ceramic tumblers. Imogen felt her resentment of Bernie fizzing away and disappearing into the ether as she sipped the deliciously dry bubbles.
Cozied up around the kitchen island, the group chatted lightly about their latest reality TV obsessions.Imogen noticed that Celeste seemed distracted—she kept checking her phone like she was waiting for a message. Imogen wondered what could be so pressing.Is she dating someone?She dismissed the thought, because Celeste surely would have already told her about a new man (in unsolicited and unnecessary detail). When Celeste started moving her phone around, searching for a signal, Imogen reached over to poke her shoulder. “Cee, care to share with the class who the—”
But the poke surprised Celeste into dropping her phone, which hit the floor and skidded over to Bernie’s foot. “Shit!” Celeste exclaimed. She bent down quickly to grab it, but Bernie was faster.
“Got it.” Bernie snatched it up and handed it back to Celeste, the screen still glowing.
10
BERNIE
The first thing Bernie did when she got to her bedroom at Villa Pines was remove a glass vial from the inner pocket of her suitcase. Then she pulled back the bedcovers and shook the contents of the vial onto the sheets. After snapping a few photos with her phone, she gently swept the dead bedbugs into a tissue, which she deposited in the trash. A refund on the booking from Airbnb was now all but guaranteed, not that she planned on telling anyone. She already had her eye on the new leather jacket she’d buy with the money the other women had transferred her for their share of the accommodations. Of course, she could afford to buy the jacket on the strength of her own salary, but wasn’t it more fun this way?
