That part I don’t need a reminder for. Turning back toward the ballroom to talk to Autumn, I give Ms. Dowling one more wave, thinking it’s too bad I won’t be able to tell Polly that Dowling knew about the TPing incident until she’s at least in college.
But something about the way she said “after seeing the things people around here get up to” echoes in my head as I walk back into the ballroom.
“So what’s up?” Autumn asks when she sees me.
“I need Carol to hate me about fifteen percent less so she’ll show me what’s on her security footage.”
Chapter 37
Carol lives at the top of Isle of Sicily Road, not exactly a far enough trip from Interlachen to come up with much of a plan. As we pull up her driveway, and I spot the fence Polly and I adorned with toilet paper a few weeks ago, an unwelcome guilty feeling floods my stomach.
Of course, the mess we left is long gone. I overheard someone say Carol had a yard crew out on the lawn before midmorning. While they did the heavy lifting, Carol followed behind with pruning shears, a pair of tweezers, and a damp washcloth to make sure her azaleas were in pristine condition.
“And so we’ve returned to the scene of the crime,” Nora narrates in her best crime podcast voice.
“We’re conflating trashing someone’s yard with murder now?” I glance over at her.
“It’s basically the same thing to Carol,” Nora says as she leads the way to the front door.
Carol’s at the door seconds after we ring the bell. Nora is strategically placed ahead of me—Carol doesn’t have a beef with Winter Park’s favorite widow, after all. And our plan sort of works, because I watch the smile on Carol’s face go from delighted when she sees Nora to a shriveled sort of grimace when she takes me in.
“Ladies,” she says primly. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Behind her, I can see news footage of Beau being escorted into the police precinct.
Fuck.
“Hi,” Nora starts. “Would it be all right if we came in?”
Carol seems to be having some sort of internal battle over the lesser of two evils—invite in the vandal slash wife of a presumed murderer or be impolite. But her better angels win as she holds the door open a little wider to let us enter.
I’ve only ever been to the Parker house during the holidays—when Carol hosts Carol’s Carols, a breathtaking tribute to her favorite Christmas songs complete with a professional pianist and the hostess’s pitchy warbles. But without the grandeur and sheen of Christmas cheer, Carol’s house is a tribute to late-ninetiesSouthern Living.Blue-checked drapes and complementary armchairs, wall sconces in nearly every nook, and a built-in shelving unit that houses family photos, Art’s books, and a television, which Art is watching from a chair in the corner.
He sees us come in, and we say hello a little too loudly.
Art gives a jolt at the sound but his expression quickly softens to a smile. “I’m gonna go to my study. Let you gals catch up.”
He kisses Carol on the cheek before he shuffles off, and then Carol grudgingly offers us a seat. We oblige, and discover that the upholstery of her sofa is so stiff I wonder if she scotchgards it on a quarterly basis. Still, the room paints an inviting picture, and if she were happy to see us, I suspect she would offer us an iced tea.
Then again, I’ll never know.
“We don’t want to take up too much of your afternoon, Carol,” Nora says, looking at me like she’s trying to tee me up. But I don’t speak—and Nora kicks at my foot.
“Sorry.” I jump, and then, looking at Carol, I say it again. “Sorry. I mean, thank you for not throwing us out on our asses. I know I’m not your favorite person. But you always did like Beau, as I recall?”
She doesn’t respond. She just pins me with that flat, unimpressed look of hers.
“Well,” I continue. “I need to ask a favor.”
Carol crosses her arms and sits back in her chair.
I don’t even deserve an iced tea in this house. What makes me think she’ll show me her security footage?
But I remember what Autumn said. Carol wants to be included. All of her posturing and rule mongering are nothing but a plea for a seat at the table.
“When she first moved here, no one would speak to her, because she didn’t know the etiquette for RSVPing properly,” Autumn had told us back in the ballroom. “So she studied Emily Post like it was the Bible, until they couldn’t ignore her anymore.”
Carol’s love of rules and decorum wasn’t about power, it was about survival. In a town that has rules for everything, she clawed her way into the conversation by being studious.
