The Lifeguards(31)

“Look, it’s under the fireplace,” said Liza. Annette squinted and could see a sheet of water falling underneath the flames into a hot tub, and then into the pool.

“Wow,” she said.

“Mrs. Packer went to a Japanese spa that was heated by underground lava, and she wanted her yard to feel the same,” said Whitney.

“Underground Japanese lava. It’s fantastic!” chirped Liza.

Liza’s obsequiousness irked Annette. But when Whitney looked at her pointedly, Annette said, “Wow.”

Whitney smiled, placated. She stood by an outdoor kitchen with appliances almost as nice as the ones in Annette’s own restaurant-grade kitchen. “Et voilà!” said Whitney, flipping a switch. Pool lights glowed, and three neon signs somehow affixed to the hedges ignited, reading AUSTIN, 78704, and LOVE. Annette sank into a balloon chair. It embraced her—it did! She must have looked unsettled, because Whitney noted, “It’s memory foam. They all are.”

“Wow,” Annette repeated.

“And if I hit…this…” said Whitney, touching a keypad, “the entrance to the underworld opens…” The women swiveled as the pool fireplace moved aside to reveal a staircase.

“I feel like I’m in a Nancy Drew book,” breathed Liza.

“Where does the staircase go?” said Annette.

“Sixties-style bunker,” said Whitney. “To be honest, they didn’t go ‘top of the line’ on the underground space. It’d be fine for a few weeks…nice living room, fake garden, windows showing Paris, plenty of canned goods, but they skimped on features…no library, no playscape, if you needed anything medical you’d have to resurface.”

“Windows showing Paris?” said Annette.

“I know,” said Whitney. She paused, then burst into laughter, breaking her realtor persona to be herself among her friends. “The Eiffel Tower from different angles—forever!” she said, giggling.

“Should I get a bunker?” said Liza, worriedly.

“We probably all should,” said Whitney, clicking the buttons and restoring the Packers’ regular, resort-style yard.

“I hate thinking about doomsday,” said Liza.

“Me, too,” said Annette. She bit her lip, trying to find a way to segue to the other topic she didn’t want to think about.

“They want too much for this place,” Whitney continued, clearly reveling in being able to relax and speak freely. “Three mil. It’s just too much for the neighborhood. Tarrytown, maybe. Westlake? But not Barton Hills. Not yet, anyway!”

Liza queued up music—early Dixie Chicks—and began mixing drinks. Whitney went to the edge of the back lawn and lit a Camel Light, blowing the smoke toward the street. There was a long pause that felt uncomfortable to Annette: they were all waiting, she thought, for someone to talk about the boys and the body.

Annette felt weary. It had been a long day at Hola, Amigos. She wanted to hear what her friends knew and go home. “Can we…” she said. “Can we talk about it?”

“Yeah,” said Whitney, finishing her cigarette and walking toward them, accepting a drink from Liza.

“The police,” said Liza, her voice low, as if they were being recorded. They probably were being recorded. “The police called me.”

“Goddamn it,” said Whitney. “Why didn’t you tell us earlier?”

Liza looked as if she were about to burst into tears. “I didn’t…I don’t know. I’m sorry. I…” She shook her head.

“How would they even find your number?” said Annette.

“Please don’t be mad at me,” said Liza, blinking back tears. “My cell rang. I answered. A man said he was looking for Charlie and I…I hung up.”

“Do they think Charlie had something to do with this?” said Annette. She was ashamed to feel relieved: Robert wasn’t a suspect. Nobody had called her. Immediately, she berated herself. They were a team. If Charlie had done something wrong, she would protect him, too.

Wouldn’t she?

“Look,” said Whitney, lighting another cigarette. “There’s something you both need to know.”

They turned to her. Annette’s stomach clenched. “What?” she said. “What is it, Whitney?”

“Charlie left a kneepad at the…scene of the crime, I guess they call it,” said Whitney, gravely. “Xavier told me. The boys went back to get it and it was gone.”

“That’s not true,” said Liza, alarmed.

“It is,” said Whitney. “I’m so sorry.”

“But why wouldn’t Charlie tell me?” said Liza. “Why wouldn’t he ask me for help?”

Good question, thought Annette.

“You need to lawyer up,” said Whitney, putting her hand on Liza’s knee. “We all do.”

“You mean hire a lawyer?” said Liza.

Annette drew a breath. While she envied Liza many things—a bed to herself, time to do whatever she wanted, take-out pizza for dinner—at a time like this, she was glad to have a bulldog of a husband. Annette knew that as soon as she texted Louis, he would have the Fontenot family lawyer fly down from Midland. It was nice to be safe. It was nice to have a “family lawyer.”