Who is Maud Dixon?(86)

Idrissi and Florence both turned toward him in surprise.

He’d been mostly silent as he listened to Florence’s story, asking few questions and nodding his head often. The case was an embarrassment for him, Florence knew. He hadn’t believed her. He’d fallen for Helen’s invented narrative.

And that was when Florence told them about the body in the pool.

This set off a new flurry of activity as Nick’s body was found, dredged, photographed and—finally—removed. Florence averted her eyes through all of it.

Instead, she watched Massey’s face register the realization that if he’d just believed Florence, Nick would still be alive. It was then she knew that he wanted the case closed as badly as she did.

Idrissi was the only one left sputtering in anger and disbelief. But what could he do? He had suspicions that her story was off, but no proof that she’d actually done anything illegal.

Finally, they gave her permission to return to Marrakesh in the morning. After all, there could be no trial. The murderer was dead.





47.



Twenty-four hours later, Florence arrived at a dramatically arched entrance on Avenue Hommane Al Fatouaki in Marrakesh. The name of the hotel was spelled out grandly across the top: La Mamounia. She stepped through it and entered a courtyard lush with olive and palm trees. At the far end, a building with an intricately carved facade emerged from the foliage.

The walk from her hotel, a few blocks from the one she’d stayed in with Helen, had taken only ten minutes. This time, she’d navigated the warren of narrow streets with surprising ease and turned onto the bustling avenue feeling invigorated by the chaos rather than overwhelmed.

She wore sunglasses and a wide-brimmed straw hat she’d bought in the souk that afternoon, even though dusk had just started to fall.

Two men in red capes and white fezzes heaved open a pair of wooden doors as she approached. A brightly lit lantern swung dizzily above.

The lobby had the air of a high-end mall, with an Yves Saint Laurent boutique and a famous Parisian macaron shop. It was just another marble-clad temple of luxury commerce. Helen was right, she thought: Solitude and freedom were far more precious forms of opulence.

Florence had called Greta the night before, after Idrissi and Massey had finally left Villa des Grenades, to push back their meeting until the following day, but she hadn’t explained why. Now Florence found her tucked away in a dark corner of the Churchill bar behind the lobby. Her face was lit by the unearthly glow of her phone, and a pair of reading glasses balanced on the tip of her nose.

She jumped when Florence said hello.

“Florence, you surprised me.” She took off her glasses and snapped them shut. “Please, sit.”

Florence settled into the plush velvet chair opposite Greta’s.

“Here’s the man,” Greta said, beckoning a server in a burgundy vest. “Tell him what you’d like.”

“Whatever you’re having,” Florence said, gesturing at the nearly empty wineglass on the table.

“Two more of the same,” Greta told him. “The Pinot Noir.” The man nodded and retreated as unobtrusively as he’d arrived.

“What happened to you?” Greta asked Florence, frowning at her injuries.

“Well that’s one chapter in the story I have to tell you. And I should warn you: It doesn’t have a happy ending.”

Greta raised her eyebrows. “Okay, you have my attention.”

The waiter arrived with their drinks, and they both sat in silence as he carefully arranged the glasses on white doilies. When he left, Florence took a sip of her wine and began.

“What would you say if I told you that Mississippi Foxtrot was a work of nonfiction? That the murder was real, and Helen Wilcox is the one who committed it.”

Florence watched Greta’s face carefully. She saw both concern and disbelief flash across Greta’s features, as if she couldn’t quite decide whether to take Florence seriously. But there was no doubt in Florence’s mind that she was taken aback. Florence had half-wondered whether Greta might have known Helen’s secret this whole time.

“Let me start at the beginning,” Florence said.

She then proceeded to explain what had happened between Jenny and Helen when they were teenagers, how Helen had killed a man and let her friend go to prison for it. How Jenny had gone to visit Helen after she was paroled in February; how Helen had killed her.

Greta listened mostly in silence, but when Florence got to the part about the compost pile, she interrupted: “Florence, these are incredibly serious allegations. How sure are you about all this?”

“Look it up,” Florence said. “Google ‘Helen Wilcox Cairo New York.’” Some of the local papers had already picked up the story; the discovery of a dead body in a compost pile was big news in a small town like Cairo.

Greta hesitated, then started typing into her phone. Florence watched as the blood slowly drained from her face.

“Good god,” Greta whispered.

Florence went on. She explained why Helen had hired her: so that she could fake her own death and assume Florence’s identity, even changing her will so she could keep her money.

Greta shook her head. “I knew something was off when she told me she wanted an assistant. It made no sense. Privacy had always been her principal concern.”