“No. But I was worried for her. And then I didn’t hear her come home last night. And I didn’t see her car parked in its space down in the lot outside, either. And this morning, Morbid was flapping around outside my window. He flew around to my balcony. It was like he was trying to tell me something. All fussed, he was, hopping about on his one leg. I had a few seeds and gave them to him. Then I came around and knocked on Kit’s door, and called out. But no one answered. Her friend Boon came by later in the afternoon, looking for her. Then Boon knocked on my door and asked if I’d seen Kit. He looked very concerned. Boon told me Kit wasn’t answering her phone. So we used my key to come inside together. We wanted to check she hadn’t fallen in the shower and hit her head or something terrible. But no one was here.”
Mal scans the apartment as he talks. It’s tiny. Cozy. Full of trinkets. Boho decor. Salt rock lamp. Candles. Cushion covers from Asia sewn with little mirrors. Macramé. Lots of plants. Posters from theater productions. Greek theater masks on the wall. Shelves packed with books.
Mal says, “Do you know if Kit has been doing anything differently recently, or seeing anyone out of the ordinary?”
Berkowitz shakes his head. “All I know is that she seemed distracted these past months. Maybe since July. That’s when she began keeping a journal. I suppose that’s something different? I hadn’t ever noticed her doing that before.”
“What kind of journal?” Mal asks. “You mean like a diary?”
“She said it was a therapy thing. Her therapist suggested it.”
“Kit Darling was seeing a therapist?”
“I honestly don’t know any more than this. I just saw her sitting on her balcony one day. She was writing in a book that was bright pink with purple polka dots on the cover. I asked her if she was writing the next great novel. She just laughed and said it was her therapy journal and that it was her therapist’s idea.”
Benoit says, “And you didn’t ask why she was in therapy?”
“Who asks people why they go to see a psychologist? It’s not right to ask such things.”
“Do you know where she keeps it?” Mal asks.
“Of course not. I expect she carries it with her, to jot things down as they come to her. That’s what I would do.”
Mal and Benoit finish questioning Sam Berkowitz, and Benoit escorts the old man back to his own apartment while Mal begins to look around, searching for the diary, or anything that could throw light on Kit Darling’s recent movements, plus something that can be used for a DNA sample.
In the bathroom Mal finds a hairbrush with fine blonde hairs. The hairs are dark at the roots. She bags the brush, along with a toothbrush.Since foul play is suspected, the paperwork for this has already been processed by her team.
Benoit returns. While Mal searches through Darling’s bedroom, Benoit tackles the living area.
“No laptop, no tablet, no phone here,” he calls out.
“Nothing like that here, either,” Mal says. “She must have taken those things with her.”
Benoit joins Mal in Darling’s bedroom. “Maybe they’re in her vehicle.”
Mal finds a cylindrical container on the floor next to the closet. She picks it up. It feels empty. She opens the top. “It’s a cremains urn,” she says with surprise. “What is Darling doing with an empty urn on her bedroom floor?”
“Can’t quite let a loved one go?” Benoit suggests as he opens the bedroom closet. He bends down, removes a sneaker. He checks inside. His gaze shoots up to Mal.
“Size seven,” he says. “Same size as the bloodied sneaker in the Glass House.”
DAISY
October 26, 2019. Saturday.
Five days before the murder.
The morning after Daisy found the tombstone Chucky note in her letter box, she has Rose Cottage to herself. It’s Saturday, and Jon is off playing golf with clients from out of town. After golf he’s got some big dinner with them. He told her it could be a late night—the clients are potentially major investors for the new resort, and he needs to woo them. Jon seems very preoccupied. Daisy is certain he’s up to something and that it’s tied to Ahmed Waheed. At least Jon found his missing shoes this morning. Right where they’d always been—at the back of the closet, next to his golf shoes. She, however, has not found her missing diamond pendant.
Daisy sinks into a chair in the living room and props her feet up on an ottoman. She sips her tea. She’s exhausted after a sleepless night tossing and turning, and her feet are even more swollen. All she can think about is the threat left in her mailbox and Charley Waters’s words:
This is about Kit, isn’t it?
And her neighbor’s words:
Just the maid. The usual one, same as always.
Daisy’s mind goes again to her missing diamond pendant. Surely the maid would not have taken that? However, the maid might haveseen someone suspicious on their property, or approaching the letter box, or lurking in the back lane behind the bushes.
