Dead to Her(92)

Anderson said nothing but raised an eyebrow as if to suggest that this wasn’t over yet.

“Have a good day, Mrs. Maddox,” Washington said.

“Screw you,” Marcie muttered under her breath in reply. “Screw both of you.”





56.

In Keisha’s dream, she was a marionette. She danced and danced, endlessly, her arms and legs pulled this way and that by wires that grew directly out of her skin. She was on a podium under a spotlight in a circus tent, and as she cried out to stop, exhaustion overwhelming her, the audience clapped and called out for more.

Uncle Yahuba, the ringmaster, cracked his whip, and overhead in the vast darkness her strings were pulled harder, the movement threatening to tear her flesh. A face lunged out of the crowd—Billy—laughing and applauding, cut wires dangling from his wrists. “Bravo! Bravo!” he called out. Beside him Auntie Ayo was on her feet, her whole body shaking as she yelped her delight. But they weren’t cheering for Keisha. Their shining eyes were turned upward. To whoever was making her dance.

She woke in a sweat, her heart racing, scratching at her arms to free herself, crying out for Marcie. She still hadn’t shaken the dregs of the dream away properly when her attorney arrived and told her the English police were flying an officer over. They had some questions of their own to ask.

When she got back to her cell, she scratched at her arms until they were nearly raw, and yet still she was sure she could feel wires tugging at her skin.





57.

Marcie had barely slept all night, a knot of fear in her stomach, her mind going over everything with a fine-tooth comb. Poor Jason, now charged and locked up and likely to stay that way until he was old. It made her feel strange, and despite her anger with him and her lust for Keisha, she had an awful ache of grief inside for him. So handsome. So charming. So youthful still. All that would be gone by the time he next saw freedom, if Anderson had her way. Love didn’t end overnight, she was realizing. She was still grieving for her marriage, for the man she’d fallen in love with, even if he wasn’t that person anymore. Maybe he never had been and she was mourning someone she’d invented.

She hadn’t poisoned William and she hadn’t embezzled any money, so that should have left her calm, but she wasn’t so sure that innocence was a guarantee of safety in this investigation. What if neither Keisha nor Jason had tried to kill William? Keisha wasn’t that calculating and Jason might be a lying thief but he wasn’t brave. This kind of murder required an element of bravery. And she figured he was right that William wouldn’t have wanted the scandal if he’d found out what Jason was up to. They’d both been so earnest when they’d spoken to her. No eyes sliding to one side, hiding truths. She’d bet money—if she had any—that they were telling the truth. But if she wasn’t guilty and they weren’t guilty, then who was?

She came out of her final jewelry stop—the diamond specialist—and as she tucked the envelope of cash in with the rest she’d gathered over the morning, the same name flashed in neon over and over in her head. Jacquie. It could only be Jacquie. The divorce had been bitter and now she wanted her revenge on Jason and Marcie for what they’d done.

In the car, she counted out five thousand dollars from her healthy bundle of bills and wrapped a band around it to take to Iris at the hospital before starting to reverse the car out of the tight space. She frowned as she looked in the rearview mirror. Something was stuck under the wiper on the back window. Irritated, she pulled the car level and got out to see what it was.

When she got close and realized what was trapped under the plastic, her skin crawled with horror. A coarsely made juju doll. She pulled it free, despite her revulsion, the fabric familiar under her fingertips—silk—a red slash of a mouth stitched in. Was this meant to be her?

She looked frantically around the parking lot for anyone familiar who might have left it, but all she saw were strangers going about their business, paying her no attention at all. Suddenly vulnerable, she scrambled back into the car and threw the doll onto the floor by the passenger seat, before locking the doors and turning the air-conditioning up high so the cool air would calm her down. She grabbed her cell to call Detective Anderson and then stopped. They’d probably think she made it herself to cast suspicion away from Jason or Keisha. She needed more than just this doll before she faced the police again.

Jacquie, Jacquie, Jacquie. The name rang like a death knell in her head. Jacquie had Creole roots, isn’t that what Iris had said? Did Jacquie believe in all this shit too? William and Keisha had dolls made in their likenesses and now William was half-dead and Keisha was locked up. Marcie didn’t believe in the magic but she did believe in the symbolism. That there was a message being sent in this doll. Was it a threat? A warning? What fate did the doll maker have in store for Marcie? Death or prison or what? And if this doll was telling her anything it was that the clock was ticking. She needed evidence against Jacquie. And fast.



Marcie raced through the hospital so fast she was breathless by the time she reached William’s room.

Elizabeth was in what Marcie was coming to think of as her “vigil chair,” a carpetbag on the floor beside her, Moby-Dick resting on top of a sweater and whatever else, perhaps toiletries, she’d brought with her. Emmett was standing behind her, one hand on Elizabeth’s shoulder, a gesture of support, as they both watched the shell of a man in the bed. Emmett immediately began babbling some apology for not telling Marcie about Jason’s investments, presuming that she’d known—which she didn’t believe for a second, he just hadn’t cared in that boys’ club way—and she wanted to change the subject and save them both the embarrassment.