The Perfect Couple(45)

Nick puts the clutch purse down where he found it and pokes around a little longer. A journal left lying around is too much to hope for, Nick knows, but what about a joint, a condom, a doodle on a scrap of paper with the name of the person she was involved with? She’s too attractive for there not to have been someone.

He finds nothing.


The mother of the bride is still in her bedroom, and the bride herself still at the hospital. Nick finds Greer Garrison, mother of the groom, on her phone in the kitchen. She has obviously just told someone the awful news and is now accepting condolences.

“Celeste is devastated,” she says. “I can’t imagine her agony.” She pauses. “Well, let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves… we’re all still in shock and”—here, Greer raises her eyes to Nick—“the police are trying to figure out what happened. I believe I’m the next to be interrogated, and so I really must hang up, I’m afraid. Love to Thebaud.” Greer punches off her phone. “Can I help you?” she asks Nick.

She looks fairly put-together, considering the circumstances, Nick thinks. She’s dressed in white pants and a beige tank; there is a gold cross on a thin gold chain around her neck. Her hair is sleek; she’s wearing lipstick. Her expression is guarded. She knows her task is about to be interrupted and she resents it.

Nick says, “Ms. Garrison, I’m Detective Nick Diamantopoulos with the Massachusetts State Police. I’ll need you to put away your phone.”

“You’re Greek?” she says, tilting her head. She’s probably trying to reconcile the name with his black skin.

He smiles. “My mother is Cape Verdean and my father is Greek. My paternal grandparents are from Thessaloníki.”

“I’m trying to write a novel set in Greece,” she says. “Problem is, I haven’t been there in so long, I seem to have lost the flavor of the place.”

As much as Nick would love to talk about the Aegean Sea, ouzo, and grilled octopus, he has work to do. “I need to ask you some questions, ma’am.”

“I don’t think you understand my predicament here, Detective,” she says. “This is my wedding.”

“Your wedding?”

“I planned it. I have people to call. All of the guests! People need to know what’s happened.”

“I understand,” Nick says. “But to find out exactly what did happen, I require your cooperation. And that means your undivided attention.”

“You do realize I have a houseful of people?” Greer says. “You do realize that Celeste’s mother has terminal breast cancer? And that Celeste has been taken to the hospital? I’m waiting to hear from Benji about how she’s doing.”

“I’ll make this as fast as possible,” Nick says. He tries to ignore the phone, although he would like to take it from her. “Would you please come with me to the living room?”

Greer stares at him with reproach. “How dare you order me around in my own house.”

“I’m very sorry about that, ma’am. Now, please.” He walks down the hall and hopes she follows him. He hears her rustling behind him so he stops at the entrance of the living room and lets her walk in first. He closes the door tightly behind them.

Greer perches on the edge of the sofa, leaning forward as though she might spring to her feet and escape at any moment. Her phone is in her lap, buzzing away.

“Can you please tell me what you remember after the rehearsal dinner ended?” Nick says. “Who went where?”

“The young people went out,” Greer says. “The old people stayed home. The exception was Abigail, my daughter-in-law. She’s pregnant. She stayed home.”

“But both the bride and groom went out? Who else?” Nick pulls out his notepad. “Merritt? Did she go out?”

“Do you know what I do for a living, Detective?” Greer asks. “I write murder mysteries. As such, I am intimately familiar with procedure, so I appreciate that you have to ask these questions. But I can tell you exactly what happened to Merritt.”

“Can you?” Nick says. “Exactly?”

“Well, not exactly,” Greer says. “But the gist is fairly obvious, is it not? The girl drank too much or she took pills and then she decided to go for a swim in her dress and she drowned.”

“You’ll agree,” Nick says, “that as viable as that explanation might be, it leaves some unanswered questions.”

“Such as?”

“I’ve interviewed one witness who says she’s fairly certain that Merritt didn’t go out. So if she stayed home, where and what was she drinking? Did anyone see her? Did anyone talk to her? I just walked through the cottage where Ms. Monaco was staying. There was no alcohol in the cottage—no bottles, no empties, nothing. And no pills, no prescription bottles. As a fiction writer, you must know that it’s difficult, when one is drinking and popping pills, to get rid of all incriminating evidence. Also, Ms. Monaco had quite a nasty cut on her foot. How did that happen? When did that happen?”

“Don’t look for drama where there is none,” Greer says. “There’s a term for that in literature. It’s called a red herring. The term was coined in the early 1800s by hunters who would throw a kipper down behind their trail to divert the wolves.”