Who is Maud Dixon? Page 19

  “Awesome.”

  “It’s been super awesome,” Whitney said.

  Florence glanced around. “Is she here?”

  “Amy? No, she’s passed out at the hotel. We had a very late night last night.”

  “Niiice,” said Nick.

  A silence settled on the three of them.

  “Well you should totally come hang out with us tonight,” Nick said, turning toward Florence. “Right, babe?”

  Florence frowned. This “babe” business had come on fast and strong. “Oh, it sounds like Whitney could use a quiet night,” she said.

  “I’d love to, actually,” Whitney said. “It’d be fun to catch up. I just need to check with Amy when she wakes up.” She pulled out her phone. “Do you still have your same number?”

  Florence shook her head. Getting a New York area code had been one of the first things she’d done after moving. She recited her 917 number as Whitney punched it in.

  “Wait, you don’t have your phone,” Nick interjected.

  “Oh. Right.” She turned to Whitney. “I lost it in the accident.”

  “Here, take mine,” Nick said, rattling off his number for Whitney.

  “Amazing. I’ll call you when I know our plans. I think Amy already made us dinner reservations, but if she’s up for it, we’ll come meet you after.” She took Florence’s hands again and looked her in the eye. “I can’t tell you how glad I am that I ran into you.”

  “Okay,” Florence said lamely.

  When she had gone, Nick turned and asked, “What’s up? You don’t like her?”

  “No, I do, I just—I don’t know. I was surprised to see her, that’s all.”

  Nick took his hand in hers as they walked out into the bright noonday light. Suddenly, Florence heard a now-familiar voice behind her: “Madame Weel-cock.”

  She spun around.

  Idrissi was planted just next to the entrance to the souk. Had he seen her go in? Had he been waiting for her? “I’m glad you’re feeling better,” he said.

  “Thanks,” she managed. She was still off-kilter from her run-in with Whitney. This was the last thing she needed.

  Nick looked back and forth from Florence to the policeman. “Hey man, I’m Nick,” he said to Idrissi, sticking out his hand.

  Idrissi glanced at it dismissively before turning back to Florence. “So have you heard from your friend?”

  Florence shielded her face from the sun. What was the smart move here? Saying yes was riskier—one more lie to build up and defend—but saying no would only heighten his suspicions about this mysterious, missing woman.

  She finally nodded. “Yes. She’s in Marrakesh. As I thought.”

  Idrissi stared at her for a beat. “Good,” he said crisply. “You know, it’s interesting: I’ve been having trouble finding the taxi that picked her up at Dar Amal that night.”

  “Does it matter?” Florence asked. “She’s back in Marrakesh. She’s fine.”

  “Just tying up loose ends. Policework isn’t all car chases and shootouts,” he said with an unpracticed smile. “Do you have her phone number? It would be helpful if I could speak with her.”

  “Her phone number? Um, not on me. It was in my phone, which was lost.”

  “Perhaps it is at the house, then? If you’ve spoken.”

  “Oh, maybe. But actually she called me. On the landline.”

  “Well, that makes it easier. I’ll check the phone records.”

  Florence paled. “Right.” She felt the sun scorching the top of her head. “I’m actually still not feeling a hundred percent,” she said abruptly. “I was just going home to rest.” She turned away from Idrissi and walked directly into the busy road, forcing a moped to veer around her while the driver shouted something unintelligible.

  Nick took her arm and guided her safely across the street. “What was that all about?” he asked when they reached the other side. “Who’s your friend?”

  “He’s not my friend!” Florence exclaimed.

  “No, the friend he was talking about.”

  “Oh. I was traveling with someone for a while but she went back to Marrakesh. Now this policeman investigating the car accident is totally fixated on her. I don’t know why. It was just an accident, but he won’t stop hounding me about it.” Her voice took on a hysterical edge. “I don’t know what else to tell him. I don’t remember anything!”

  Nick put his hand on her arm to slow her down. “Hey, hey, relax. Listen, the cops here are all notoriously corrupt. He’s probably just pissed you haven’t tried to bribe him yet.”

  Florence stopped walking. “Really? Is that true?”

  “Yeah. Liam slipped like forty bucks to the one who caught him with a dime bag and the whole thing went away.”

  “Oh.”

  She looked back at where Idrissi was standing, watching her. Was this whole thing a misunderstanding? Could she make it go away right now?

  Florence checked her purse. She still had close to fifteen hundred dirhams of Helen’s. She took out two bills and crumpled them in her hand. Recrossing the street, she felt Idrissi scrutinizing her and smiled uncomfortably.

  “Hi, again,” she said when she reached him.

  He nodded at her.

  “I just wanted to say that I really appreciate all your help after the accident—driving me home and returning my scarf and everything. And all the work you’ve put into the investigation. Thank you.” She awkwardly held out the money, now crumpled in a soft, soggy ball in her palm. This must be how Helen’s lover felt, she thought, trying to tip the staff at the hotel under her judgmental gaze.

  Idrissi’s eyes traveled down to her hand then back up to her face. He didn’t move.

  “This is for you,” she said, thrusting her palm forward. “To say thank you.”

  “My English is still not as good as I’d like,” he said after a beat. “Is this what is called a bribe?” He smiled mirthlessly. “Is that the right word?”

  “No, not at all! It’s just a gift. Or…whatever you want it to be.”

  “So you must often give gifts like this to the police in America then?”

  “Sure. Sometimes.” Florence felt the blood rushing to her face.

  “Do you? I thought it was illegal there. As it is here, of course.”

  “Is it? I didn’t realize.” Florence shoved the money back into her bag. “Sorry. I just wanted…”

  “To say thank you?” Idrissi finished for her with a smirk.

  She nodded.

  “Or maybe you want me to stop investigating the accident.”

  “No, not at all. I mean, is there really anything else to investigate? It all seems pretty clear to me.” This was patently false. Nothing about that night made any sense to her.

  “Does it, Madame Weel-cock? Because it’s not clear to me why you and your friend left the restaurant separately; it’s not clear why I can’t find the taxi that took her back to the villa; it’s not clear why she disappeared the day after the accident; and it’s not clear why you can’t simply put me in touch with her, to clear up all these questions.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you,” Florence said quietly as she turned away.

  She hurried back to where Nick stood smiling encouragingly.

  “All good?” he asked.

  She forced herself to smile. “All good.”

  35.

  A few hours later, Florence lay in the bath, her cast resting on the lip of the tub. She slipped under the water briefly and let her hair float weightless around her before coming back up for air. She’d half-hoped that being submerged in water would trigger more memories from the crash. The few flashes she’d recovered—the hand grabbing her arm, the rush of cold water—were becoming less crisp, not more.

  Meanwhile, her problems continued to mount.

  The most immediate challenge would come to a head in just a few hours, when Whitney arrived at Nick’s apartment. Whitney hadn’t given her number to Nick or mentioned the name of her hote
l, so Florence had no way of getting in touch with her to cancel. She’d thought about asking Nick to tell Whitney that she wasn’t feeling well, but that would still require them to have a conversation about her, each using a different name. Nick would find out her real name was Florence Darrow, and Whitney would discover that she was calling herself Helen Wilcox.

  Florence had spent the afternoon considering the consequences of this. Would it really be the end of the world? She could come up with some plausible-enough explanation. Maybe she traveled under a made-up name to “leave everything behind.” It sounded pretty lame, but neither Nick nor Whitney had any reason to suspect anything more nefarious.

  The problem was that there were other people who did. Or who were at least starting to.

  Idrissi was slowly chipping away at her lies, and Greta was getting more and more impatient to speak with Helen. As long as she was facing threats on those two fronts, she couldn’t risk anyone—even someone as insignificant as Nick or Whitney—knowing that Florence Darrow and Helen Wilcox were now the same person.

  She wished she could fast-forward through the next few weeks, or months—however long it took—to when everything was all worked out. When she was settled in Helen’s house, writing and gardening and cooking, and Florence Darrow was part of the past. But she had to figure out how to get from here to there.

  She dried off and wrapped herself in Helen’s robe. It never would have occurred to Florence to own—much less travel with—a silk robe. She stood in front of the closet and ran her fingers over the clothes hanging neatly in a row. She pulled out a cream-colored dress with red embroidery and held it up to her body. The red matched the color of Helen’s lipstick perfectly.

  She dressed and applied her makeup in the bathroom mirror with precision. While she was lacing up her sandals, the phone rang. A few moments later, Amina knocked on her bedroom door.

  “Yes?” Florence said warily.

  Amina poked her head around the door. “It is a Madame Greta Frost. On the telephone.”

  “Can you tell her I’m not home, please?” One problem at a time.

  “Yes, of course, Madame.” She closed the door gently and Florence listened to her shuffle down the stairs.

  Nick arrived to pick her up shortly afterward.

  Stepping into the villa’s foyer, his face registered for the first time the realization that he and Florence were traveling on very different budgets.

  “You’re staying here all by yourself? It’s massive.”

  Florence shrugged. “It wasn’t that much more than a hotel room. Look, there’s mold everywhere.”

  “Still. This is way nicer than our place.”

  Florence couldn’t argue with that. He asked for a tour, and she obliged, skipping only the bedroom she’d occupied before the accident. She’d gone back in there just once, to retrieve her toothbrush.

  “This place is sick,” Nick pronounced at the end of it.

  A thought occurred to Florence. “Do you want to just hang out here instead?”

  “Seriously? Yeah, totally. Should I text the others?”

  Florence shrugged. “Sure. Whatever you want.”

  “Oh and we should tell Whitney. She texted by the way. She and her friend are going to stop by around ten.”

  Florence smiled stiffly. “Great. Let’s just stick to the plan then. We can hang out here tomorrow night if you want.”

  Nick nodded. “Okay, cool. Yeah, Liam’s already ordered pizza anyway.”

  * * *

  The pizza was dry and inedible. Florence poked at her slice distractedly. Every time the intercom buzzed she whipped her head around to hear who it was. So far, no Whitney. She took a sip of her beer—it was warm and flat and at this point tasted more like the can than what it contained. She’d been nursing it for over an hour. Tonight, she needed to be sharp.

  Not just tonight. She’d need to be sharp for the rest of her life. As sharp as Helen. She couldn’t permit weakness or indecision anymore. Her slip-ups with Greta and Idrissi over the past few days had been a wakeup call. She could never let her guard down. Getting a new identity was like getting a new organ; she would have to take anti-rejection drugs for the rest of her life.

  At ten thirty, the intercom buzzed for what felt like the dozenth time, and Florence heard Whitney’s cheerful voice announce itself through the speaker. She jumped up and beelined for the kitchen. She poured vodka into two empty cups and topped them both off with Sprite. Then she took a piece of paper from her pocket and unfolded it carefully. Inside was a pile of white powder—three hydrocodones that she’d ground up earlier that evening at the villa, using the top of Helen’s face cream as a pestle.

  She hoped that drugging Whitney would cut the evening short and, in the meantime, make her entirely unreliable, so that any references to “Florence Darrow” would be disregarded as the confused babbling of a drunk. She knew she was being overly cautious, but she wanted to keep her new identity entirely uncontaminated. She was Helen Wilcox; there could be no confusion about that.

  She tapped the powder gently into one of the cups, then stirred it violently with a knife. She threw out the paper, tossed the knife in the sink, and carried the drinks out to the door. Nick was ushering Whitney and her friend into the apartment.

  “Chin-chin,” Florence called out loudly by way of greeting. She handed the cups to the two women. They both looked slightly startled, but took them anyway.

  “Alright,” Whitney said with a laugh. “I guess we’re not screwing around tonight.”

  “We’re on vacation!” Florence yelled, again too loudly.

  “Amen to that! This is my friend Amy, by the way.” Whitney gestured at the athletic-looking brunette next to her. Then she turned to Amy and said, holding out her arm toward Florence, “And this—”

  “Oh, let’s skip all the small talk!” Florence interrupted. “It’s dull. Call me Cleopatra! Call me Queen Elizabeth!”

  Nick, Whitney, and Amy all looked at her with unconcealed concern. No one said anything. At last Nick broke the silence.

  “You okay, babe?” he asked, leaning in close.

  “I’m fine, babe! It’s a party! Drink up!” She gestured at their drinks with her beer can and took another sip of warm beer. The rest of them dutifully raised their cups.

  Whitney grimaced. Florence hoped it was vodka, not the taste of the pills. But Whitney just said, “Florence, I’ve never seen you like this!”

  “It’s been a long time, Whit. I’m a whole new woman.”

  “Apparently.”

  Florence lowered her voice and leaned in. “Actually, do you think I can talk to you in private for a sec?”

  “Um…sure.” Whitney glanced at Amy. “Are you going to be okay?”

  “Don’t worry, Whit, I like vodka waaay more than I like you.”

  “Oh, thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Florence pulled Whitney into Nick’s bedroom and closed the door. She eyed the mattress that she and Nick had shared the night before. It looked even more gruesome with the lights on. She sat on it anyway and patted the space next to her. Whitney crouched down awkwardly.

  Florence was dreading this conversation, but she had decided she had no choice. She’d determined that she would need to keep Whitney away from the group for at least ten minutes to let the painkillers kick in. She wanted Whitney to be fairly incapacitated by the time she left the room.

  “So, I know I said earlier that I didn’t care that you were dating Trevor, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it all afternoon. And actually I’m really upset.”

  Whitney covered her face and shook her head. “I knew it.”

  Florence bit the inside of her cheek and fought the dueling impulses to laugh in Whitney’s face or to slap it. Trevor had always smelled like Totino’s pizza rolls. He had cried when he took her virginity; not a tear or two, but great, big, heaving sobs. He’d told her that majoring in English would be a “a total waste.” No, she had not spent th
e last eight years pining for Trevor Gilpin.

  “Can you tell me how it happened?” Florence prodded.

  Whitney took a sip of her drink. “Well, he works at Verizon too, did you know that?”

  “I think my mother mentioned it.”

  “He’s a systems engineer.” Whitney looked up to see how that had landed.

  “Okay.” Florence didn’t know what a systems engineer was and she didn’t particularly want to find out.

  “It’s a super competitive field.”

  “I’m sure.”

  Whitney nodded and took another sip. She proceeded to recount the story of their relationship: The run-in at the on-site fitness center. How much they had in common. How they were thinking of adopting a cat together.

  Florence hated cats.

  “I’m so sorry,” Whitney concluded. “I broke the number one rule of friendship.”

  Florence suspected that she was the one who’d broken the number one rule of friendship, by unilaterally ending said friendship, but she stayed silent. She rubbed at her eyes and wrinkled her forehead and looked out the window.

  “Oh my god, I’m the worst,” Whitney said. “What can I do to fix this?” She was chewing on the rim of her cup. Florence peeked inside—half-empty.

  “Are you going to marry him?” Florence asked, for lack of any other ideas for continuing the conversation.

  Whitney’s large mouth twitched. She was trying not to smile, Florence realized. “I don’t know,” she said. “I hope so? I’m sorry, is that awful to say?”

  Florence didn’t know how much longer she could stand this.

  “You know what? I’m happy for you guys. Truly. Let’s toast to you and Trevor.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course, we’re all adults now.”

  Florence raised her beer and tapped it to Whitney’s cup. Whitney took another sip. Florence waved her hand to tell Whitney to keep drinking. “Now this is a celebration! Drink, drink!”

  Whitney took a giant gulp, then laughed and spluttered. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

  “You’re a good friend, Florence.” Whitney’s speech had taken on a sludge-like quality. Florence came out sounding like Florsch.