Fran frowned at her. “Just because Kramer isn’t here, doesn’t mean it’s a free-for-all.”
Gabby flashed an insolent look and shrugged. “I’m going to sit in here and work. Feel free to report me to Kramer.” Might as well work on the PowerPoint for the party in comfort. She did just that, but like she told her kids, “Not everything worth doing is worth doing well.” Done was going to be good on this one. She found a stock photo of a graph going up and titled the slide “Profits are rising!” It was pure stock photo bullshit, pretty much the same as the office décor, come to think of it.
With one slide to go, LISTSERV sent her a notification. “There’s a guy parked outside the Greene house.” In the comments section, Shelly said, “What’s with all the guys this week, Gabby? Are you doing a reno?”
Gabby laughed. If only.
“Getting some quotes,” she answered. It was always better to give them an answer of some type or they’d keep asking. Shelly was relentless. Sure, there was nothing but suspicious activity this week, but that was just incidental. No one could do anything without Shelly having an opinion about it.
After Gabby had spent a few hours in Kramer’s office, her smartwatch announced it was time to go home in half an hour. At this point, who cared? She might as well be Phil looking for his wallet. It was hopeless. There was nothing to do but leave early.
She brushed past Fran on her way out, leaving the woman shell-shocked. “What about the party?” Fran called.
“Cross your fingers and hope for the best.”
Friday, 5:00 p.m., Greene household
Areminder alert sounded on her phone. The party was at five o’clock tomorrow, twenty-four hours from now. How could someone kill children over some bank codes? Fucking codes. Smirnov was going to kill her, the kids, and probably Granny and Burt over—she didn’t even know how much money. It had better be a lot.
But this wasn’t a horror movie where she could peer between her fingers or step out and make popcorn until the scary part was over. It was her life.
She passed Justin’s. A new Botticelli-style statue was in his garden. TheTWENTY IS PLENTYsign in Shelly’s yard missed the actual danger lurking outside entirely. As she turned in to her driveway, Mischa gave her a big wave, almost like he was glad to see her. She didn’t return the greeting because what the hell, Mischa.
A flash of light caught her eye as the setting sun glinted off Shelly’s front door slamming shut. Gabby slunk low in the driver’s seat, but it was no good. In the rearview mirror, she saw Shelly’s angled bob making a beeline right for her like she’d been waitingfor Gabby to pull in. Gabby shut her eyes and gathered herself. What was it going to be? Was she supposed to volunteer for something or host a neighborhood party or… it could be literally anything. There was no bigger busybody than Shelly, except Fran. There was one in every neighborhood or office.
Gabby could do it. Compartmentalize. Talk to Shelly. Box the feelings up to process later or discard when they’d expired. Make dinner. Save her family. Save the world.
With a deep breath and the calmest expression she could muster, Gabby stepped out of the car to find Shelly standing at the end of her driveway, tears streaming down her face, holding Tarragon, who was supposed to be in Gabby’s closet, not causing any trouble. How the hell had Shelly gotten it?
Mischa sat up and took note.
“GABBY FUCKING GREENE,” Shelly hollered slowly and loudly.
This was not supposed to be happening. She did not deserve this anger. She hadn’t killed the cat. She hadn’t stuffed him, or even bought him at the Pacific Palisades Farmers Market. Tarragon had been in her closet, safe and sound, until she was ready to deal with this problem, which is when she remembered—it wasn’t her closet anymore.
“Your grandfather brought me this cat and had the audacity to ask for the reward money.”
Jesus, Burt.
“Like I would give him a thousand dollars for returning him in this state.” Shelly was trembling with rage. “How did this even happen? What kind of monster are you?” she cried, her voice quavering.
Justin, the vegan taxidermist, and Burt—they were all going down.
“No no no. I’m so sorry. This is a big misunderstanding.” An epic misunderstanding. The mob surveillance was now leaning his head out the window watching. It was undoubtedly the best show he’d seen all day.
“How? You had my dead cat in your closet. That’s not a misunderstanding. That’s depraved.”
Gabby took a deep breath and shut her eyes. She did not have time for this. In the even tones of a hostage negotiator, or Sloane Ellis for that matter, she said, “Tarragon was hit by a car. Justin found him for sale at a taxidermy booth at the Pacific Palisades Farmers Market.”
Shelly cocked her head to the side. “What?”
Mischa blurted out a laugh, and Gabby glared at him.
Shelly yelled, “See, it doesn’t make sense to—” She gave him a confused look and finished, “Whoever the hell that guy is.” In a too-loud voice, she yelled, “You’ve been putting up flyers for a cat you were keeping dead in your closet. What kind of person does that?”
Mischa flinched and shook his head. Shelly was clearly winning him over.
“Sorry. I was just trying not to upset you. I didn’t know how to break it to you.”
