As he disappears, my eyes drift toward the window, to the exact spot I saw the shadowy figure the other night. It feels like the person I saw—or at least, I thought I saw them—might still be standing there. But all I can see now is sunlight washing out the red-brick roads.
Nora and I sip in silence for a few more minutes. And I can’t stop thinking about the police tape Marcus mentioned, how close it was to where we’re sitting now.
Finally, I set my glass aside. “I’m going to run to the bathroom.”
There has to be something here that will make sense of what happened to Gemma. To put an end to whatever this is before it gets worse.
But what’s worse than your husband having bloody clothing the day after your friend is murdered?
As I slip through the hall that leads to the kitchen and a tiny break room, I’m checking over my shoulder. Marcus probably wouldn’t love to know I’m snooping around the employee areas for evidence.
I slink through the swinging door and find a small collection of shelves with a row of cabinets above them and an old-school time clock mounted on the wall. The dust on the clock suggestsyears of neglect, but I get the sense from the varying conditions of each cubby that they’re still in use.
Each one bears a label-maker sticker on its door, announcing its owner.
My breath catches when my eyes land on the locker in the top-right corner. The sticker on the bottom of the cubby:G.Klein.
The space is a little too deep to see inside, and my pulse quickens as I put my hand in the small compartment to search. But I come up empty.
With her name still on it, I’d bet this space was part of the search the police did after Gemma’s body was found, and they have probably already gathered her personal effects. The only things left are a few black smudges—residue from where detectives must have collected fingerprints—and little scraps of paper that look like the remains of paystubs.
Still, I crouch down to see all the way to the back. There’s nothing.
I straighten up and look around in the other cubbies. Some are vacant, but a few are stuffed with purses and sunglasses, car keys and a carton of cigarettes. I search to the right, and that’s when I see it. In the cabinets above, farther down the row, perched on top of a locker with a sticker labeledA. Mccarthy,is a Mason jar with a pack of hair elastics wrapped around the band at the jar’s lid.
I recognize the elastics. They look like the ones Gemma was always wearing. From where I’m standing, I can see that the jar is filled with something. I have to stand on tiptoes to reach it, and with trembling hands, I stretch to the highest cabinet shelf and pick up the jar. It gives a little jingle in my hand.
Through the glass of the jar, I can see golf tees piled together. There must be more than a hundred of them, and all of them are broken. Some have cracked at the top, others are split farther down the stem of the tee.
What?
I hear footsteps, and I jump about a mile and clutch the jar to my chest to keep myself from dropping it. My mind scrambles. I want to keep the jar, but where do I put it? I see a plasticshopping bag slumped on the counter, a few receipts still poking out, and before I can think better of it, I shove the jar inside, burying it beneath the receipts as Tori rounds the corner.
Her gaze drifts to the bag. “What’s that?”
“Vegetables,” I spit out, hoping it sounds smooth. “Marcus left them for me. From his garden.” I lift the bag from the handles like it’s proof and pray I’m the only one who hears a tee tink against the glass of the jar. “Too ripe to make it through the weekend.”
She nods, and I force a smile.
“I should get back to Nora,” I say.
“You won fifteen dollars the other night,” Tori calls after me. “There was a heated debate about the floral arrangements.”
“Keep it.” I never collect any winnings. I’m always “forgetting” or intentionally betting on a guaranteed loss. Even if that weren’t true, now collecting anything from the night Gemma died feels grotesque.
I retrace my steps toward the bar while my brain runs in circles about what a jar of tees could possibly mean. Luckily, Tippy’s taken up residence in the chair next to Nora and is talking her ear off, which gives me the perfect window to jam the grocery bag into my purse. I slide onto the stool on Nora’s other side around the same time Marcus is delivering a plate of roasted beet hummus for us.
“Hey, Tippy.” He nods, and then, as if he’s avoiding Tippy Schaeffer, he decides to make himself scarce again.
I shouldn’t be surprised to see her here. Tippy is a regular at Lemon & Fig these days. So is nearly everyone else in the country club set. Another by-product of Nora and me accidentally finding ourselves at the center of Winter Park’s social scene? We’ve become unwilling tastemakers.
Great for Lemon & Fig’s revenue. Slightly less convenient for my amateur sleuthing.
I’ve barely hit my seat when Tippy zeroes in on me. “There you are!” She beams. “We haven’t had the chance to catch up since the police station. I still can’t believe it. Can you?”
Does my friend Tippy have any new information to share?
Everyone knows what little filter Tippy has dissolves underthe influence of alcohol. So I offer her my flute in a friendly gesture. She takes it as I lean in and lower my voice. “How’s everyone holding up?” I ask, adding, “Have you heard anything new about what happened to Gemma?”
