Big Summer(88)

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When it was over, I led my parents out of the room. Groups of mourners stood talking in the halls, impeding our path to the door or any view I’d hoped to catch of Nick. I pushed and pardon me’d my way outside, got my parents in their Uber, and went back inside to collect Darshi. I’d just cut through a throng of older couples planning a post-ceremony lunch at La Goulue when I bumped up against a dark-haired, dark-skinned man in a badly fitting blue suit and sneakers.

“Beg your pardon,” he said quietly, in a voice that sounded familiar. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck rise.

“Hey,” I said. “Hey!”

The guy’s eyes widened behind his glasses as he saw me.

“Wait a second. I need to talk to you!”

He spun on his heel and cut through the crowd, slipping around the knots of people with astonishing speed.

“Hey!” I was trying to catch him, but there were people everywhere, and his sneakers had the advantage over my heels. “Stop!”

He gave me an apologetic look over his shoulder, and pushed through a knot of disgruntled-looking mourners and out through the big double doors. I was preparing to give chase when I felt a hand on my shoulder and heard another familiar voice.

“Daphne? Can I talk to you for a minute?”

Detective McMichaels wore a sober gray suit and a dark-blue tie. He had bags under his eyes, and his formerly close-shaved cheeks and chin had been colonized by silvery stubble.

“Thank God,” I said. “That was the guy! The one I saw outside Drue’s bedroom! The one with the water!”

He pulled out his phone, pressed a button, murmured into it, and put it back.

“Don’t you want to go question him?” I felt wild, wide-eyed, and frantic.

“Right now, I’d rather speak to you.” He gave me a hard look before raising his eyebrows. “Want to do it right here, or find somewhere a little more private?”

I led him to a French classroom, where the walls were covered in colorful travel-agent posters for Paris and Quebec. There was a wooden desk at the front of the room and three rows of six molded desk-chair combos, with wire baskets underneath the seats for books. Detective McMichaels leaned against the teacher’s desk. I considered the desks, the same kind I’d sat in as a student, and decided to stand.

“What can I do for you?” I asked. “What brings you to New York?”

“We’ve learned a few things.”

I kept my mouth shut, feet planted, waiting.

“Emma Vincent is not a suspect in the murder of Drue Cavanaugh,” he said.

I tried to keep my face still as my heart tumbled, over and over. So it was official. Drue had been murdered. And Emma had not done the deed. “Oh?”

“She had an alibi,” he told me. When he didn’t offer it, I didn’t ask.

“Do you have other suspects?” I asked.

“We’re casting a wide net. That’s why I’m here.”

“Here at the memorial, or here in New York?”

“Both.” Smoothing his tie, he asked, “Want to know how your friend died?”

My mouth felt very dry. “If you want to tell me.”

“Someone put cyanide in something that she ate or drank just before her death.” He looked at me and I immediately pictured myself, a glass of ice water in one hand and a pair of shot glasses in the other, trotting up the outdoor staircase and into Drue’s bedroom.

“Did it hurt her?” My voice sounded strange in my ears. “Did she… you know… did she feel anything?”

“It was quick,” said the detective. “That’s what the coroner tells me. Quick, but unpleasant.” He put his hands in his pockets. His shoes squeaked as he turned, making a show of looking around the room. “Fancy place. How much does it cost to go here?”

“When I was a student, about fifty thousand dollars a year. I had a scholarship. And they gave my family a break because my dad’s a teacher.”

“A scholarship girl.” With the first two fingers of his right hand, he stroked his bristly mustache, the picture of a man deep in thought. “You know, when someone dies, the first question they tell you to ask is Cui bono.” He looked at me. “You know what that means?”

“They make you take Latin here. One of the things fifty thousand bucks a year buys you. So yes. It means ‘to whom the good.’ Or, more colloquially, ‘who benefits.’?”

He nodded. “Correct. And that’s what I’ve been wondering, ever since your friend’s death. To whom the good?”

My knees wanted to shake. I refused to let them, clenching my leg muscles hard. “So have you come up with an answer?”

Instead of responding, he asked, “Did you know that Drue and Stuart Lowe were already married?”

Again, I tried to school my face, hoping I didn’t look surprised that he’d found out. “Stuart mentioned it to me a few days ago.” If he knew about the wedding, I wondered if he knew about the whole scheme—Stuart’s plan to leave Drue at the alter, Drue’s discussion with the Single Ladies producers, the way Drue and Stuart and Corina Bailey had planned to make money from the scheme.

He gave a curt nod. “Do you know that Drue had a trust fund?”