The Accomplice(51)

“Who is Luna?”

“A friend.”

“A friend of yours?”

“Yes.”

“Not a girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Were Scarlet and Luna friends?”

“Yes,” Owen said without conviction.

“Were they?”

“They were. Then…” Owen said, trailing off. He wasn’t sure how to describe what they had become.

“Then what happened?”

“Why are you asking about Luna?” Owen said.

“Because in the last hours of Scarlet’s life, she had a single-minded focus on Luna. So, Owen, help me out here,” Detective Oslo said. “What the hell was Luna’s secret?”





October 13, 2019


Everyone woke up rough in Luna’s house. No one, however, rougher than Mason. Luna found him the next morning stumbling through the kitchen, opening and closing drawers, hunting for something.

“What are you looking for?” Luna asked.

Mason froze, stared at Luna, and gripped the kitchen island for balance. “I forgot,” he said.

Casey emerged from the guest bedroom and took her husband’s hand, guiding him, like a senile patient, back to the bed.

“Lie down before you vomit,” Casey said.

Casey asked Luna for an Alka-Seltzer and dropped the tablets into a large tumbler of water. She delivered the fizzy beverage to her husband’s bedside, shut the door, and returned to the kitchen. Luna made a pot of coffee. While they waited for it to brew, they talked about the night before, trying to conjure up memories lost to booze.

“What’s the deal with Leo? I remember him from the wedding. But I sensed some strange vibe.”

“I’ll tell you if you promise to not say anything to anyone.”

Casey nodded her acquiescence. “If you only knew the kind of secrets I’ve kept.”

“Owen was sleeping with someone,” Luna said.

“And…”

“You’re not surprised?” Luna said.

“I’m surprised that you’re surprised,” said Casey. “Now, what’s the deal with the old guy?”

“He’s been looking for a new assistant. I offered to help.”

“Why? You don’t like him. No one likes him, come to think of it.”

“If I helped, Irene wouldn’t have to. That was the logic.”

“Why would she have to help?”

“I don’t know. She felt obligated. I can’t explain,” Luna said. “Anyway, each time I set up interviews, he canceled them. Then, this week, out of the blue, he hired Owen’s…girlfriend.”

“You mean mistress,” Casey said.

“Yes,” Luna said.

“This is a small town. She might have legitimately been the best candidate.”

“Maybe,” Luna said. She didn’t want to get into it right then. “Do you have to leave today?”

“Afraid so. We have meetings all next week.”

Luna poured two cups of coffee.

“How was it seeing Griff?” Casey asked.

There was no succinct answer to that question. It was so many things. Mostly, it was disorienting.

“It was—I don’t know,” Luna said.

A horrible retching sound came from the guest room.

“Think you’ll see him again?” Casey said, ignoring her husband’s purging.

“Doubt it,” Luna said. “Is he going to be okay?”

“That’s actually a good sign,” said Casey. “He’ll be fine in about thirty minutes. Well, not fine. But he won’t barf in the car.”



* * *



—

Owen woke to the smell of burnt pancakes. His brother was in the backyard, playing fetch with Sam the dog. As Owen watched Griff through his bedroom window, he felt a sharp ache. Guilt. He threw on his robe and headed downstairs. Vera was plating the brown disks as he entered the kitchen.

“Look, I made breakfast,” Vera said.

“Thanks, Mom,” Owen said. “Sleep well?”

“You know me,” said Vera.

His mother, when drinking—which was most of the time—usually crashed early, woke in the predawn hours, and watched infomercials until daybreak.

Griff and Sam bounded inside from the backyard. The joy of a retriever was at such odds with the mood of the house that it made Owen laugh.

“Thanks for letting us crash here,” Griff said.

“Yeah, totally. Thanks for…coming.”

Vera opened the refrigerator and discovered an open bottle of prosecco. “Anyone want a mimosa?” she asked.

Vera drinking translated to Vera not driving home, among other unpleasant scenarios. Owen gave his brother a pleading gaze and Griff nodded in understanding. Despite all that had gone down between them, they could still fall back into their sibling shorthand.

Owen’s mother mixed orange juice and flat prosecco. Griff stole her drink and gave it to Owen.

“Mom, when are you heading back?” Griff asked.

“I was thinking of staying the week. Breakfast is getting cold.”

Owen panicked silently. Griff squeezed his shoulder and accepted the plate from his mom.