“At least I have help. With all that.”
She reaches to squeeze my hand. “You do. I know Phil and I haven’t been pulling our weight with the patrols and curfew enforcement. We’re not militia material. But feel free to drop Rory off anytime.”
Phil appears from the stockroom. “I could watch Muriel.”
I smile. “Better than watching a six-month-old?”
“Er…”
“Yes, please. If you could take over Muriel duty, that would help a lot. Thank you.”
As I take Rory to Dalton, I am very aware that I’m on a deadline. One more day to solve this, or at least get Gretchen to the point where she’ll cancel her pick up. I can’t help feeling that she holds the key. If she didn’t kill her husband, then she knows more than she’s telling.
I need to question her about a connection between Blake and Mark.
I cannot question her about that until I know who the hell Mark was.
An interview fishing expedition is a last resort. I need facts.
I can’t rush Émilie. I can’t push Gretchen. While I told Isabel that I was dropping the Muriel thing, that’s really the only avenue I can pursue tonight. Not talking to her but doing exactly what I plan to do with Gretchen. Get more ammunition.
Time to search Muriel’s apartment.
Muriel’s apartment is clean. Ridiculously clean. I consider myself a tidy person. Or at least I was before I had a baby, whichmade me accept a whole other standard, one with dirty dishes in the sink, toys on the floor, baby blankets everywhere… But even at my best, my place never looked this immaculate.
Those in the single residences share bathrooms and common areas. It’s like a midrange dorm, where you have a room to yourself, but it’s little more than sleeping space. A twin bed, a dresser, a small desk, and a chair.
We don’t offer many luxuries in Haven’s Rock—it’s as all-inclusive as possible. But for people who spent their lives in a capitalist society, if all their needs are covered, they see their labor as unpaid. So we still have the credit system for true extras. In furnishings, some remove the desk and chair and upgrade to a double bed. A more popular option is giving up the desk and ordering a more comfortable chair from Kenny. That was Muriel’s choice, which fits with her claim of being an introvert. She has a gorgeous rocker-recliner, complete with cushions, which would have been purchased separately.
I spend a few minutes wondering what she does in that chair, when there’s no sign of any leisure activities. Then I find her book stash—three in her dresser drawer, all library borrows from the past week.
So her introvert story checks out. She saved up for the best chair possible and is an ardent reader. She also must spend time cleaning her apartment, given the state of it. Or, maybe, if she’s in this small space most of the time, she needs it this tidy. I get that.
What I don’t get are any clues. There are absolutely no signs of a woman having a fling. I hate to stereotype, but usually, when someone goes from single to not, there’s evidence. I remember shortly after I arrived in Rockton, Dalton started shaving his beard, and apparently, it was his way of sprucing up for me. Shave. Wear your most flattering clothes. Use more mouthwash. Manicure, pedicure, new underwear…
There’s nothing of that here. No sign that she used credits to buy new clothing. Her underwear all comes from home, and it’s well-worn, as are her bras.
Could I have been wrong?
No, but clearly I am stereotyping. There must be an affair; she just isn’t changing anything for it.
I’d asked Isabel whether she’d seen Muriel in the Roc more often, and the answer was that she rarely showed up there at all, and when she did, she was with women. That was definitely a man’s voice we’d heard.
I pace around the tiny room, every surface clear and dusted, the bed made, not even a sweater lying out. I open the drawers of her dresser again. Every piece of clothing is folded, right down to her underwear. Her toiletries are in a bag, which I already checked. Hell, even the books in a drawer are stacked by size.
Nothing to see here.
That’s what the room screams, what it had screamed from the moment I walked in and screamed louder when I opened the drawers. It’s easy to hide things in a mess. My first reaction had been that this might be the easiest search job ever. I only had to look under the bed, and flip through stacks of clothing.
Nothing to see here.
Is that intentional? Or am I projecting, unable to imagine this degree of cleanliness. Surely people leavesomethingout when they live alone.
Fine, yes, I’m projecting. This seems suspicious because I don’t know anyone who keeps their space this perfect before hurrying off to work. But still, it nags at me, that little voice whispering “nothing to see.”
I take a deep breath, and then I start with the bed. I’d already checked under the coverlet. Now I dismantle it and shake out everything. I crawl under the bed with my flashlight, andI don’t even need to cringe or hold my breath—there’s not a dust speck, let alone a dust bunny. I check the frame. I lift the mattress and look there.
I look under the chair and squeeze the cushions, all the while feeling like I’m being ridiculous. It’s a single woman having a fling, not a murder suspect. Am I angry because she stonewalled me? Lied to me? Is my frustration over this case bleeding into an overreaction?
