“Who did Anne arrive with that night?”
“I don’t know. She was just there. Given how explosive everything was that night, and the fact we were all drinking, a lot of it is a blur. I don’t even remember her being introduced to any of us. It was maybe a week later when I read the article in the paper and found out she’d gone missing.”
“Did you talk to any of your friends about it?”
“We got together once, right after we heard.”
“Why?”
“Look, we may have been the last people to see Anne, and we didn’t want the police to think one of us had anything to do with it. We didn’t.”
“Let me guess, the pact you all made was more about Anne and less about Tilly?”
“I … yes. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Rosemary, who appeared to be in shock, looked at me and said, “If you don’t mind, I believe I need to have a talk with my husband in private.”
“Not at all,” I said, standing to leave. “If you think of anything else, please let me know.”
I walked to my car with one thing on my mind—the ring of names, all connected by a shared past.
All connected to Cambria.
All connected, now, to Anne Fontaine.
31
Wendy Ward lived on the quiet side of Cambria, in a small cottage tucked between two larger homes that looked like they’d been renovated one too many times. Hers hadn’t been. The paint was a soft teal that had started to fade, the kind of color chosen by someone who liked it because it made them happy, not because it was on trend.
I parked at the curb and sat for a moment, rereading the address Rosemary had messaged me after I left her house.
Wendy answered the door as soon as I knocked, and I assumed Rosemary had given her a heads-up that I was coming.
She was tall and thin, with silver-blond hair that fell to her shoulders. Oversized black glasses sat low on her nose, and she wore a cardigan several sizes too big over a black dress with symbols of the sun and the moon all over it.
“Wendy Ward?” I asked.
She nodded. “That’s me.”
“I’m Georgiana Germaine. I’m investigating Audrey Ashford’s murder.”
“Yes,” she said. “I was told you’d be stopping by.”
“If it’s a good time, I have a few questions.”
She stepped aside, and I walked in, noticing a plethora of plants crowding every counter and every windowsill, some healthy, others clinging to life.
“I’ve been meaning to catch up with Rosemary about the investigation for a few days now,” she said. “We’ve been playing phone tag, haven’t seemed to find a time that works for us both. Maybe you can fill me in on what’s going on.”
“I’ll do my best.”
We moved into the living room, and she gestured toward the couch, then sat in an armchair opposite me, curling one leg beneath the other.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about Audrey since she died,” she said. “She came to see me, not too long before she … she …”
Wendy turned, staring out the window as she wiped the tears from her cheeks.
“What did the two of you talk about?” I asked.
