Who is Maud Dixon?(80)

Finally, at 87 percent, the computer emitted a bright ping. The program had found something: a folder called “Book2.” Florence opened it. Inside were several documents labeled “Draft1” through “Draft4.” She clicked on the most recent. It was not the Paul Bowles novel that she had been typing up for weeks. She had never read these words before.

A cover page read:





The Morocco Exchange


A novel


by Maud Dixon




Florence picked a page at random and started reading.

Lillian glanced over at Iris, who had gone pale in the heat as she watched the fisherman pound the limp octopus to death. Lillian knew that Iris’s usefulness lay precisely there, in her naivete, but still she found it abhorrent. Weakness disgusted her in the same way she imagined cruelty or bad manners appalled others.



Florence stopped. She realized she’d been holding her breath and released it all at once. She scrolled to the end of the document.

Lillian slipped six clonazepam into the pocket of her dress. The doctor had told her to take half a pill for the flight.

She rechecked the route to the restaurant on her phone. Rue Badr was the only way to get there—or back.

Suddenly she heard a soft tapping at her door. Even Iris’s knocks were tentative.



Florence shut the laptop violently. She forced herself to take several deep breaths, then stood up and walked to the bathroom on unsteady feet. She braced herself over the toilet for a moment, but nothing came up. She moved to the sink and ran the hot water for several seconds. As soon as she felt the burning sensation on her skin, her breathing slowed. She watched herself in the mirror. When she felt steadier, she turned off the tap and went back to the laptop. She closed the document without reading any more of it and Googled the number for the Cairo, New York, police department.

Downstairs, in the kitchen, she listened to the phone ring several times before someone picked up.

“Cairo PD.”

“Hi, can I speak to Detective Ledowski, please?”

She was put on hold and then another voice came on the line. “Yeah?”

“Detective Ledowski?”

“Who’s asking?”

“This is Florence Darrow. I’m Helen Wilcox’s assistant.”

A brief pause. “I hope you’re calling to tell me what flight she’s on.”

“She wants to know first if she’s a suspect in the Jeanette Byrd case.”

“She wants to know if she’s a suspect?” He snorted. “She’s not a suspect. She’s the suspect. She’s it.”

“And Jeanette Byrd was definitely murdered? It couldn’t have been self-defense?”

“Two bullet wounds to the back of the head? Yeah, I’d say that’s a murder. An execution is what it is.”

Florence hung up the phone. She reached out for the nearest chair and pulled it toward her.

She heard Helen saying, “So I ran upstairs to get my gun.…”

Florence tried to recall everything Helen had said the night before. What else was a lie? All of it? That seemed safe to assume.

Suddenly she remembered finding Helen standing over the pool in the middle of the night. No, she thought. No. She shook her head violently to dislodge the ugly thought that had settled there.

But still she stood up.

She hurried out back, toward the edge of the scummed-over pool. She stared into its black-green depths. She could see nothing. She picked up a rock from the flowerbed and threw it in. Its path ripped a small hole in the surface that quickly healed itself. There was no trace of the stone.

Florence glanced back at the house then started rolling up her pajama pants. They kept falling down so finally she just took them off.

“You are swimming?”

Florence jumped and spun around. Amira was standing on the terrace holding a watering can.

Florence nodded. “I think I will,” she said with forced gaiety.

“I’ll bring a towel.”

“Thank you.”

She stepped gingerly onto the first step of the pool with a grimace. It was colder than she’d expected. The algae on the surface was stringy and slippery. Dozens of long-legged bugs jumped across it.

She climbed down the rest of the stairs with her teeth clenched, then waded around the shallow end in waist-deep water. Nothing.

She trod deeper into the water, kicking out her legs in wide arcs. She’d covered almost the entire pool. She was starting to feel ridiculous.

And then all of a sudden she felt something. There. What was that?

She moved her foot around. It was difficult to stay rooted in one place with the water up to her armpits. There! She felt it again.

She took a deep breath and plunged under the surface. She opened her eyes, but she couldn’t see a thing. No light penetrated the scum overhead. She held out her hands in front of her. They landed on something soft—fabric. She moved her hands. Teeth. A nose. She moved her hands again. She felt a thick plait of dreadlocked hair.

Florence struggled toward the shallow end, spluttering violently. “Fuck,” she said over and over.

She climbed out of the pool and grabbed the towel Amira had left for her.

“Fuck.”

She wrapped the towel around herself and ran into the living room. Her wet feet slipped on the tiled floor; she had to grab a wall to steady herself. Where was it? Where was Dan Massey’s card? It wasn’t on the table. She checked under the table, under the chairs. It was gone.