Chapter Twenty-Nine

John Flaherty parked his car again in front of Melanie Templeton’s enormous house. The grounds were quiet, only one white SUV in the driveway today. High-end. Looked like dark-gray leather seats, too. John inspected the tires, the mud packed in the treads. She must have driven somewhere after the recent snowmelt.

He looked up at the house, squinting in the sunlight. The snow had all melted now, except for a deep patch by the woodpile. The house seemed ominously empty, the black shutters on the windows gaping like dead eyes.

A big house for one person.

Katie wanted him home early tonight. She was making her famous lasagna. He wanted nothing more than to sit at their neat little dinette with an open bottle of wine and his fiancée’s home-cooked dinner.

But nope. Instead, here he was.

She didn’t answer at the first knock, nor the second. For his third attempt, he rang the doorbell and heard a terse “I’m coming!” in response.

Melanie looked slightly more composed today than at her last visit, though it would have been obvious to anyone with a pulse that she had been crying. She was, as last time, impeccably dressed in narrow, black ankle-length pants and a silky blue top that hung loosely over her too-thin body.

“Can I help you?”

“Deputy John Flaherty, Mrs. Templeton.” He smiled, and she nodded, clearly irritated.

“I remember who you are.” She over-enunciated each word.

“May I come in?”

She did not answer, simply stepped away and led him this time into the sitting room. She perched in the corner of the dark-gray designer sofa, tucking her legs underneath her. Next to her was a thin glass-topped side table holding her phone and an empty wine glass. “Have a seat.” She gestured him to the beige club chair opposite her seat.

John felt the kiss of the luxurious fabric even through his uniform. “Mrs. Templeton, thank you for speaking with me again. I just have a few more questions for you.”

“I’m really not in the mood, Deputy.” She ran her fingernails through her long hair and sighed dramatically.

“I notice you’re alone today.” She huffed and tapped her phone, looking to see if she had any notifications, no doubt. “Where’s your friend?”

“My friend?”

“Kim Smith, the woman who was here with you last time.”

Melanie sneered. “She’s not my friend.”

“She certainly seemed to be.”

“She hangs around, tries to be like me.” Melanie swatted a hand in the air as if swiping an offensive gnat. “She vanished a couple days ago. Probably off to Single White Female someone else.”

“Why do you let her hang around?”

Melanie didn’t look at him, but he could see tears in her eyes.

“Mrs. Templeton?”

She took a deep breath, and her voice cracked.

“Are you all right, Mrs. Templeton?” He reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and handed it to her. She stared at it for a moment, as if unsure what it contained, then took it. She held it in her hands for a moment.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice husky. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s come over me.”

“It’s all right.” Curiosity burned even down to his fingertips. “Mrs. Templeton, I need to ask. Have you perhaps been stalking Patrick O’Leary?”

She laughed suddenly, her entire face contorting, as she did not laugh kindly. “Are you insane, Deputy? Stalking Patrick?” Her eyes welled again with tears. “Is showing interest in a healthy, handsome man now called stalking?”

“Do you follow him on social media?”

She waved a hand nonchalantly. “Of course I do. He writes about places to be seen in Philly. And I know him personally, of course. But that isn’t a crime, liking someone’s posts.” She sniffed and stood. “I need a drink. Would you like anything?”

“I’m fine, thank you.” He followed her toward the kitchen. “Do you know who would be stalking him?”

She removed a liter bottle of French white wine from the fridge and poured a full glass. “No. I didn’t know he was being stalked. It happens, though, to those who live out in the public eye.” She took a large drink from the glass, and John could see her shoulders lower slightly, but her interest in him had clearly waned.

“Actually, may I have a glass of water?” He smiled broadly at her. “With ice, if you have it.” He sat on one of the bar stools at the island, watching her movements. “This is a beautiful house.”

“Yes, I suppose so.” She slid the frosty glass toward him. “My husband bought it as a wedding present for me. I would have rather had diamonds.”

“My fiancée loves houses like this.”

“Oh?” Like he had just told her how moss grows.

“What do you like, Mrs. Templeton?” John sipped the water carefully, keeping his eyes locked on hers. Her posture changed, her shoulders slid back, a grin played along her lips. He needed to keep the desperation out of his voice. He had tried calling Kim Smith several times, but the numbers she had given him were all clearly fakes. He had also tried going to her house yesterday, but it was silent as a grave, the windows dark. No warrant, no entry. Melanie Templeton was his only link left.

All that time chasing down noise complaints that turned out to be unruly raccoons, and now this. Something real. A real case, a real challenge.

“I like lots of things, Deputy.” She simpered and sipped from her wine glass. “Lazy days by the pool, a cold glass of Chardonnay, a handsome man by my side…” She scrunched one eye, appraising him. “You’re not too bad yourself, by the way. Let me guess, a good Catholic Philly boy like you…I’ll bet you went to Villanova.”

“Navy for me. And you?” He bet Bryn Mawr.

“Bryn Mawr.” She sipped again at the wine, not breaking eye contact with him. “I wanted to go to Wellesley, but my parents didn’t want me to leave the state.”

“Family, right?” He paused. “Is that where you met Kim, at Bryn Mawr?”

She rolled her eyes, but this time in a playful manner. “God, no. Kim at Bryn Mawr? Please, she would have been eaten alive.” She ran her fingernails through her hair, combing it into gentle waves. “You know, I don’t know if she ever mentioned where she went to college.”

She probably did not pay attention. It was the Melanie show or bust. “I know they never would have let me anywhere near Bryn Mawr. So how did you meet Kim?” Keep it light, innocuous.

“I think it was at a wine bar, you know that new one that opened in Wayne? I was there one night, waiting for my husband, who was late as usual, and she sat next to me. One thing led to another. We had a couple of drinks.” Melanie shrugged. “Suddenly, she was everywhere. At the coffee shop, at Zumba, at yoga. I guess I got used to having her around.”

“Doesn’t she work?”

Melanie sighed. “Who knows? She said something at one point. I think she mentioned working in an office. She must have money, though. We’d go shopping, and she would buy whatever I advised.” She tossed her hair, pride shining through her. “I have a good eye for fashion.”

He felt like he was right at the cusp, like he was back on the submarine, and it was time for an emergency blow.

“I’m sure you do.”

Melanie had finished three quarters of her wine, but the alcohol sharpened the light in her eyes. “She’s just using me, like everyone else,” she muttered bitterly. John cocked his head, listening. “Always ‘yessing’ me and trying to kiss my ass. At first I thought she was gay, but then I found all these erotica novels in her car. Kim’s such a fucking packrat. It’s disgusting.” The bitterness changed her in a way that was more appealing that her faux veneer of self-confidence. A beautiful woman with an ugly soul.

“Sounds fucking exhausting.” He drank the last of his water.

She rolled her eyes, nodding. “Do you want a real drink? I need something stronger.”

“I’m all right. I’m on duty.”

She pushed her thumbs clumsily together, extended her pointer fingers into the sky in the shape of a W. John hadn’t seen that since the playground in elementary school.

Melanie turned to open the fridge again. John wondered if this was the right time, wished he had more experience so he would know he wouldn’t lose this interview thread if he pushed now.

But Katie was waiting at home. Katie, with her long reddish-brown braid that smelled like citrus and sunshine, and her homemade lasagna, and her gentle rolling laugh that couldn’t help but make him smile. He felt tarnished by entering this house a second time, like everything was just slightly mildewed. He had read Dickens in high school, a lifetime ago, but it was hard to get rid of the image of Miss Havisham’s environs. Was that what this place was? The designer living room set, the faux-vintage light fixtures. Maybe they were all something that once was beautiful, now past its sell-by date.

Or maybe not. That chair had felt like heaven. He’d talk to Katie about adding something like it to the wedding registry.

“Mrs. Templeton?” Keep it casual, he reminded himself, as she poured the last of the wine bottle into her glass. “Where is your husband?”

He did not hear a reply, just the sound of the bottle crashing to the polished kitchen, shattering into a thousand tiny shards of crystal. Melanie stood at the counter, her mouth slack, staring emptily at the mess, her posture now limp.

Bazinga. Now he was getting somewhere.