Who is Maud Dixon?(67)

“Come here? To Morocco?”

“I think I have to. Helen is one of my biggest clients, and frankly I’m worried about her. She hasn’t been herself recently.”

“Greta, I don’t even know where she is.”

“We’ll find her.”

Florence said nothing.

“Florence—don’t worry, we’re going to get everything all sorted out. Helen is volatile, but she always settles down.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Listen, I’m going to get Lauren to book me a flight. You flew into Marrakesh, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Then where?”

Florence paused. Then she slowly replaced the phone into its cradle.

It started ringing less than a minute later. Florence just stood there with her hand still on it, not moving, while Amina watched.

“This is why I don’t like talking on the fucking phone!!!” she wanted to scream. A creative walkabout? What the fuck was that? And Greta was coming here? No. No.

She released her frustration in a low, grumbly growl. As she did, the lights flickered and went out. Amina looked at her in alarm as if she’d done it.





37.



As Florence climbed the stairs she realized she was gnawing on her knuckle and abruptly stopped. Helen was right: Panic is a waste of energy.

She had a plan. She was leaving Semat today. She was leaving Morocco as soon as possible. And she was taking over Helen Wilcox’s life. No one was going to stand in her way. Not Officer Idrissi. Not Greta Frost. Not anyone.

Florence started packing. She would have liked to leave all of her old belongings behind, but that would raise questions. It shouldn’t look like two people had arrived at the house and only one had left. Especially if a body washed up. So she packed two bags, one filled with Helen’s things and one with her own. She dragged them one by one down the stairs, ignoring the pain in her wrist.

The rain had stopped while she was upstairs. She left the bags by the front door and walked out onto the back terrace. Everything was dripping. A few brave birds were hopping around, seeing what items of interest the storm had turned up. They were rewarded: Dozens of drowned worms, their bodies swollen with rainwater, clung to the top of blades of grass. Florence took a deep breath. The heat had broken.

She turned to go inside and tell Amina she was leaving. She’d need her to call a taxi to the car rental agency. She’d be back in Marrakesh by nightfall. She’d have to make a reservation at a different hotel, because tonight she was checking in as Helen Wilcox.

Suddenly she froze. She could hear voices coming from inside the house. She poked her head in.

From the foyer, a man’s voice said, “There she is.”

Officer Idrissi stood in the doorway, along with a man in his thirties—American, by the look of him—in khaki pants and a light blue button-down.

Amina was holding the door for them, looking uncomfortable. They both strode toward Florence with wide, confident steps. Their shoes tracked mud on the floor, and she saw Amina eye the marks with dismay.

The man she didn’t know stuck out his hand and introduced himself. “Dan Massey. US State Department. I work at the embassy in Rabat.”

Florence looked back and forth between the two men. “What’s going on?” They found Helen’s body.

“Please, let’s sit,” Massey said, extending an arm toward the living room. As they walked past the foot of the stairs, Massey glanced at her luggage.

“Going somewhere?”

“Yes,” she answered without elaborating.

All three of them sat down. Massey placed his briefcase on the table in front of him and opened it. “So, Ms. Wilcox”—he glanced up—“you are Helen Adelaide Wilcox, of Cairo, New York, correct?” He pronounced it the wrong way.

Florence nodded. “Cay-ro, yes.”

“Alright, well, the Cairo Police Department has been trying to get in touch with you for a few days now.”

“I was in an accident.” She held up her cast. “I lost my phone.”

“Do you know what this might concern?”

“Not a clue.”

“A body has been discovered on your property.”

For a brief, dizzying moment Florence thought—Helen? But no, that didn’t make any sense.

“A body,” she said dumbly.

Massey nodded. “It was found in your compost pile”—he pulled a file from his briefcase and checked it—“nearly a week ago now.” He cleared his throat. “Apparently the corpse was quite far along in the decomposition process. Your neighbor’s dog found it.”

“Bentley?”

“What?”

“Is Bentley the name of the dog who found it?”

Massey frowned. “I don’t know the name of the dog, Ms. Wilcox.”

“Well, it’s not important, I guess.” She paused. “Whose body?”

“See, now that is the first question I’d have thought someone who’s just been told there’s a dead body on their property would ask. Not the name of the dog who found it.” He consulted his notes again. “It has been identified as the body of Jeanette Byrd.” He glanced up, watching her reaction. “That name mean anything to you?”