Dead to Her(83)
“Wow,” she said softly.
“William made it hard for her to grieve sometimes. He wanted to put it all away. Out of sight, out of mind. He couldn’t cope, he said.” She sighed, leaning casually against the doorframe, and in the soft yellow lighting from the bedroom lamp and the hall chandelier, there was the echo of the woman she’d been in her thirties and forties. It was hard for Marcie to imagine. But then Marcie had never imagined Eleanor as youthful and free as she appeared in some of these pictures. It took a moment before she realized that Iris was in a few too, laughing on the beach with Lyle holding her hand on one side and Eleanor’s on the other, the two women having a great time. Best friends. How nice to have a friend like that, Marcie thought with a pang of envy.
“Men always think their feelings run deeper than ours when the situation is about them,” Iris continued. “But it’s not true. They just make more noise about theirs. And they have deep feelings so rarely compared to women that the emotions come as something of a surprise to them.” She paused and then straightened up. “Anyway, there’s a shower or bath and fresh towels in the bathroom, and a robe in the closet if you need it. There’s also a TV tucked away in the cabinet by the window if you can’t sleep. Or a book, of course. But you get settled. I’ll be back up with a hot chocolate, and if you’re in the bathroom, I’ll just leave it by the bed. And try not to make yourself too upset. We’ll know more in the morning, I’m sure. Life is always better when you know exactly what it is you have to deal with.”
As she turned to go, Marcie, on impulse, called her back. “I know I’ve not always been too friendly,” she said awkwardly. “And thank you for being very kind to me. I know a lot of people wouldn’t, given everything that’s going on right now.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised,” Iris said. “We can be funny in this town, I’ll give you that. Little things matter. Surface things can become overly important. But when it comes down to it, when the big storms come, all that disappears. We take pride in our Christian values. The real ones. Not judging others too harshly. Looking for the best in people. Fairness. Kindness. I suppose that’s why I ended up married to a judge.” She smiled. “Plus, of course, we’re all steeped in history here. Everyone has shame at some point in their family’s past. You learn to be sympathetic and not judge one person for the sins of another.”
“I found it hard being the second wife,” Marcie said. “After the divorce and everything. I always feel—felt—that everyone thought I wasn’t good enough to be part of all this. I was too coarse. Too common. Hard. Too trailer trash, I guess.” The final words were out before she could stop them. No one knew about the trailer park. Not until Jason on Saturday night. But it was only a turn of phrase and Iris didn’t show any curiosity.
“It’s hard to come into something so established, that is true,” Iris said. “But everyone worries. I remember Jacquie worrying about her Creole roots being judged. But you know what I’ve found in life?”
Marcie looked up at her from her seat on the side of the bed.
“Often what you worry other people might be thinking of you is most likely to be what you think of yourself. Be kinder to yourself, Marcie. Nobody’s perfect.”
Marcie’s exhaustion took hold fast and after barely a sip of her hot chocolate, and with the bedside lamp still on, she closed her eyes for a second and was gone. She slept deep and long and dreamless, as if the dead mother and son trapped smiling on the wall had gifted her a taste of their eternal rest, and if Iris hadn’t shaken her awake she’d probably have stayed lost in the darkness all day.
“What?” she muttered as she was dragged unwillingly back to consciousness. The lamplight had been eclipsed by streaks of early morning sunshine from beyond the shutters and drawn drapes. She squinted and looked up at Iris looming over her, resisting the urge to close her eyes again.
“You’d better get up.”
It was the tone of Iris’s voice that made Marcie suddenly alert. Gone was the tender warmth of last night. It had been replaced by something cool and suspicious. Her heart raced. “What is it?”
“The police are here.” Iris paused. Her mouth was tight and her spine stiff. This was not good at all. Marcie pushed herself upright.
“You okay, Iris?”
“They say you have to get dressed. They have a warrant for your arrest.”
And with that, Marcie knew her house of cards had crumbled.
Be kinder to yourself, Marcie. Nobody’s perfect.
No one would be saying anything like that to her again for a long time.
51.
“You know something?” Kate Anderson looked almost entertained on the other side of the interview table from Marcie. “I don’t think I’ve ever worked a case where my problem was having too many suspects who could all easily be guilty. The issue I have is—and don’t take this personally—that you’re all such truly atrocious people.”
The second detective, a muscle-bound hulk of a man whose skin was so dark it shone, smiled as Anderson paused and sipped her coffee. Marcie was letting her own grow cold. She knew how it would taste from a Styrofoam cup. Plasticky, too cheap, and too strong. She’d been in a room like this before with an equally useless court-appointed lawyer beside her, just like now. The coffee was meant to amp up whatever jitters the suspect had.