Who is Maud Dixon? Page 24

  Florence nodded. “Okay.”

  “Good girl.” She slipped out the door and pulled it shut behind her with a crisp click.

  * * *

  Florence drifted in and out of fitful sleep. The music from downstairs kept waking her up, then she’d remember that Helen was back and a whir of questions would start up in her head. Things she wished she’d asked but hadn’t.

  At one point she felt a presence in the room. She sat up. It was Helen, standing a few feet away, watching her. A shaft of moonlight illuminated half her body.

  “Helen? Are you okay?”

  “I couldn’t sleep. I thought maybe you’d be up too. But never mind. It’s late.”

  “It’s okay.” She pushed herself further up. “Come sit.”

  “No, no. Go back to sleep.” Helen left the room.

  A few minutes later, Florence wasn’t sure that it hadn’t been a dream.

  Then she woke up again. It was still dark. The air felt tense, like a shrill violin string had just been plucked.

  She put her feet on the cold floor and walked out into the hallway. It was quiet except for the fountain gurgling in the courtyard below.

  She went downstairs. The living room was a mess, but no one was there. Meg and the others must have left.

  There was a shuffling sound from out on the terrace. She opened the French doors at the back of the house and saw Helen silhouetted against the dark sky. She was standing by the pool.

  “Helen?”

  Helen jumped and spun around with her hand on her heart. “Florence, you scared me.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I couldn’t sleep. It’s so peaceful out here now that the heat has lifted.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “It’s been a long few days. Weeks. Months.”

  “Do you want company?”

  “No, go back to sleep. I’ll be in soon.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure. Good night.”

  Florence went back upstairs but she couldn’t get back to sleep. She picked up her book. A half hour later she heard Helen’s footsteps on the stairs. They paused briefly outside her room, then kept going down the hall. The door to Helen’s room shut quietly.

  43.

  Florence went downstairs shortly after dawn. She hadn’t been able to fall back asleep after finding Helen outside by the pool. She guessed that had been around four in the morning.

  Amira started when Florence walked into the kitchen.

  “It’s early,” she said.

  Florence nodded. “Is there coffee yet?”

  “I’m making it now.”

  Florence wondered what time Amira arrived in the morning. She was always already there.

  A few minutes later, Florence settled outside on the terrace with a mug and a brioche. The sky was brightening at a drowsy pace, the palm trees still just outlines against the sky.

  Florence considered the one question that had kept her awake far longer than any of the others: Should she turn Helen in?

  After all, Helen had killed someone. It had been in self-defense, but that didn’t change the fact that Jenny was dead. Was Florence really willing to risk being charged as an accessory after the fact?

  On the other hand, Florence gained nothing by sending Helen to jail. Helen had said she wanted to disappear in a way that left Florence safe and “compensated.” What, in practical terms, had she meant? Florence seemed to be in a position to name her price. Besides, she didn’t like the thought of Helen in prison. It would be like keeping an exotic bird in captivity. A waste.

  “You’re sunburned.”

  Florence jumped. Helen was standing in the doorway.

  Florence drew her hands up to her face.

  “You’re all red. I didn’t notice last night. You should take better care of yourself. There’s SPF in my toiletries kit.” Helen sat. “Did you end up getting any sleep?”

  “Not really. You?”

  “Some. I’m okay, though. Nothing a little coffee won’t cure.”

  As if on cue, Amira stepped out onto the terrace with the pot. She greeted Helen placidly, as if she’d always expected her to return. Maybe she had.

  When she’d gone back into the house, Helen asked, “What did you tell Amina?”

  “Nothing, really. I said you were in Marrakesh.” She realized how odd it was that she’d never explained her injuries or why she was driven back to the villa barefoot by a policeman. “Her name is Amira,” she added, for lack of any other explanation.

  “Is it?” Helen asked, uninterested, as she pulled apart a croissant and spread honey on it. “Listen, I have to run into town this morning. When I get back, let’s talk about next steps.”

  “What are you doing in town?”

  “It’s better that you don’t know.”

  “We don’t have a car anymore.”

  “I have one.” Helen took a sip of coffee. “By the way, what was the name of the guy from the embassy?”

  “Dan something. His card is on the table in the living room. Why?”

  “I have a plan. I’m going to take care of a few details, then I’ll tell you everything.” She drank the rest of her coffee in a single gulp and stood up.

  “You’re leaving now?” It wasn’t even seven yet.

  “The early bird etcetera, etcetera.”

  Helen disappeared into the house to get ready.

  Half an hour later, she was gone, and Florence was alone again.

  She was still sitting there when she heard the phone ring. Amira stuck her head out onto the terrace. “It is Madame Greta again, Madame.”

  “Can you tell her I’m not home, please?”

  Amira nodded, but reappeared a moment later. “She says if no one talks to her she will call the police.”

  Florence knew that if Helen came back to Villa des Grenades and found the police there, she’d never forgive her. And the truth was, Florence wasn’t ready to choose sides yet.

  She pushed herself up from the table and followed Amira into the house.

  “Hi, Greta,” she said tentatively into the phone.

  “Florence? What’s going on? I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for over twenty-four hours.”

  Florence looked at her watch. “What time is it there?”

  “Florence, I’m here. I’m in Marrakesh.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve been here since yesterday afternoon.”

  “Where?”

  “At La Mamounia.” Florence recognized the name of the hotel from the research she’d done before booking their trip. It cost over five hundred dollars a night. “Listen, where are you? I don’t know where to come meet you.”

  “I’m leaving. I’ll come to you.”

  “But what about Helen?”

  “I told you—Helen left. She’s not here anymore.” As soon as she told the lie, she realized that she was never going to turn Helen in. Her loyalty would never belong to rule-bound functionaries like Officer Idrissi and Dan Massey. Nor, even, to Greta Frost.

  “Do you think she came back here, to Marrakesh?”

  “Yes,” Florence said decisively. “Our return flight is on Wednesday. I have no reason to believe that she won’t be on it.”

  “Alright. Let’s meet here then. You’re leaving today?”

  “As soon as I take care of one or two things.”

  “Fine. Let’s plan on getting a drink at my hotel this evening. There’s a nice bar just behind the lobby. I’ll be there at six.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you then.”

  “Call my cell if anything comes up.”

  Florence hung up and wondered whether she would actually go through with the meeting. What would she tell her?

  She’d ask Helen. Helen would have a plan. She always did.

  44.

  Half an hour later, the high-pitched whine of a scooter grew in volume, then abruptly cut off. Florence looked out the window. Meg was climbing off her motorbike in the driv
eway. Florence went to open the front door.

  “Is Nick here?” Meg asked without preamble.

  “No, why?”

  “Have you heard from him?”

  “No. What’s going on?”

  “He was supposed to meet Liam and Jay to surf this morning, like two hours ago, but no one can get in touch with him. He’s not at their place either.”

  “Didn’t he go back with them last night?”

  “No, they said he stayed behind.” Meg looked uncomfortable. “He was talking with Florence? I mean, totally platonically or whatever.”

  Florence smiled. “That’s okay. He’s allowed to talk to other women.”

  “Well, if you hear from him will you let one of us know?”

  Florence nodded.

  After Meg had left, Florence sat down in the living room. There was an uneasy churning in her gut she could no longer ignore. The coffee had kicked in, and all the questions that she hadn’t been able to formulate the night before bombarded her with insistent clarity.

  How had Helen emerged unscathed from the accident? How, exactly, had she swum out of a sinking car? Had she even tried to save Florence? Why couldn’t Florence remember anything from that night? And, while she was at it, why had Helen hired her to transcribe pages from an already published novel?

  There had been something off about Helen’s confession. It had been too forthright. Helen was brilliant and engaging and thrilling, but transparent? Sincere? Never.

  Unless it wasn’t a confession at all.

  And if it was something else, then what was Helen still hiding? If she’d admit to killing her best friend, what deeds were too dark to name?

  Florence suddenly had an idea of where to look.

  Helen had left her laptop behind at Villa des Grenades after faking her death because nothing could be missing. But why had she brought it to Morocco at all? They already had a computer—the one Florence had been using to type up Helen’s drafts and send her emails.

  Florence used it now to Google: “Forgot my mac password.” Why hadn’t she thought of this before? The process for resetting a computer password couldn’t have been simpler.

  She ran up to her bedroom, taking the stairs two at a time, and took out Helen’s computer from the drawer she’d found it in three days ago. It was dead. She plugged it in and hit the Power button while holding down the Command and R keys. She consulted the instructions again on her own screen. Now Helen’s laptop was in recovery mode; all she had to do was type “resetpassword” into the terminal.

  Suddenly she froze; there was a noise coming from downstairs. She listened closer. It was Amira singing softly to herself. It was nothing.

  She turned back to the computer and reset Helen’s password to “zoodles.” Now there was no turning back. The next time Helen tried to use her laptop, she’d know that Florence had been tampering with it.

  Florence watched as Helen’s desktop filled the dark screen. Her excitement deflated quickly. There were no files or folders on the desktop. She clicked through the documents folder and the trash. They were both empty. She opened the Internet browser. The search history had been wiped.

  Florence tapped her fingers lightly on the keyboard. Then she Googled “recover deleted files on mac.” The top hits were ads for software that claimed to do just that. She downloaded the first one for $1.99, and watched as it searched the hard drive. A neon green status bar showed its progress; it hit 50 percent, then 80, and still nothing.

  Finally, at 87 percent, the computer emitted a bright ping. The program had found something: a folder called “Book2.” Florence opened it. Inside were several documents labeled “Draft1” through “Draft4.” She clicked on the most recent. It was not the Paul Bowles novel that she had been typing up for weeks. She had never read these words before.

  A cover page read:

  The Morocco Exchange

  A novel

  by Maud Dixon

  Florence picked a page at random and started reading.

  Lillian glanced over at Iris, who had gone pale in the heat as she watched the fisherman pound the limp octopus to death. Lillian knew that Iris’s usefulness lay precisely there, in her naivete, but still she found it abhorrent. Weakness disgusted her in the same way she imagined cruelty or bad manners appalled others.

  Florence stopped. She realized she’d been holding her breath and released it all at once. She scrolled to the end of the document.

  Lillian slipped six clonazepam into the pocket of her dress. The doctor had told her to take half a pill for the flight.

  She rechecked the route to the restaurant on her phone. Rue Badr was the only way to get there—or back.

  Suddenly she heard a soft tapping at her door. Even Iris’s knocks were tentative.

  Florence shut the laptop violently. She forced herself to take several deep breaths, then stood up and walked to the bathroom on unsteady feet. She braced herself over the toilet for a moment, but nothing came up. She moved to the sink and ran the hot water for several seconds. As soon as she felt the burning sensation on her skin, her breathing slowed. She watched herself in the mirror. When she felt steadier, she turned off the tap and went back to the laptop. She closed the document without reading any more of it and Googled the number for the Cairo, New York, police department.

  Downstairs, in the kitchen, she listened to the phone ring several times before someone picked up.

  “Cairo PD.”

  “Hi, can I speak to Detective Ledowski, please?”

  She was put on hold and then another voice came on the line. “Yeah?”

  “Detective Ledowski?”

  “Who’s asking?”

  “This is Florence Darrow. I’m Helen Wilcox’s assistant.”

  A brief pause. “I hope you’re calling to tell me what flight she’s on.”

  “She wants to know first if she’s a suspect in the Jeanette Byrd case.”

  “She wants to know if she’s a suspect?” He snorted. “She’s not a suspect. She’s the suspect. She’s it.”

  “And Jeanette Byrd was definitely murdered? It couldn’t have been self-defense?”

  “Two bullet wounds to the back of the head? Yeah, I’d say that’s a murder. An execution is what it is.”

  Florence hung up the phone. She reached out for the nearest chair and pulled it toward her.

  She heard Helen saying, “So I ran upstairs to get my gun.…”

  Florence tried to recall everything Helen had said the night before. What else was a lie? All of it? That seemed safe to assume.

  Suddenly she remembered finding Helen standing over the pool in the middle of the night. No, she thought. No. She shook her head violently to dislodge the ugly thought that had settled there.

  But still she stood up.

  She hurried out back, toward the edge of the scummed-over pool. She stared into its black-green depths. She could see nothing. She picked up a rock from the flowerbed and threw it in. Its path ripped a small hole in the surface that quickly healed itself. There was no trace of the stone.

  Florence glanced back at the house then started rolling up her pajama pants. They kept falling down so finally she just took them off.

  “You are swimming?”

  Florence jumped and spun around. Amira was standing on the terrace holding a watering can.

  Florence nodded. “I think I will,” she said with forced gaiety.

  “I’ll bring a towel.”

  “Thank you.”

  She stepped gingerly onto the first step of the pool with a grimace. It was colder than she’d expected. The algae on the surface was stringy and slippery. Dozens of long-legged bugs jumped across it.

  She climbed down the rest of the stairs with her teeth clenched, then waded around the shallow end in waist-deep water. Nothing.

  She trod deeper into the water, kicking out her legs in wide arcs. She’d covered almost the entire pool. She was starting to feel ridiculous.

  And then all of a sudden she felt som
ething. There. What was that?

  She moved her foot around. It was difficult to stay rooted in one place with the water up to her armpits. There! She felt it again.

  She took a deep breath and plunged under the surface. She opened her eyes, but she couldn’t see a thing. No light penetrated the scum overhead. She held out her hands in front of her. They landed on something soft—fabric. She moved her hands. Teeth. A nose. She moved her hands again. She felt a thick plait of dreadlocked hair.

  Florence struggled toward the shallow end, spluttering violently. “Fuck,” she said over and over.

  She climbed out of the pool and grabbed the towel Amira had left for her.

  “Fuck.”

  She wrapped the towel around herself and ran into the living room. Her wet feet slipped on the tiled floor; she had to grab a wall to steady herself. Where was it? Where was Dan Massey’s card? It wasn’t on the table. She checked under the table, under the chairs. It was gone.

  “Fuck.”

  She grabbed the laptop from the dining table and Googled the number for the embassy in Rabat. She carried it into the kitchen, startling Amira again. She dialed and shrieked “Dan Massey!” at the chipper voice that answered. A moment later, he was on the line.

  “Massey here.”

  “She killed him,” Florence said, her voice shrill and panicked. “She killed him.”

  “What? Who is this?”

  “It’s Florence Darrow.”

  “Ah. I was about to call you.”

  “Helen came back. The real Helen. She was here. She killed a friend of mine. She killed Nick. Please, you have to help me.”

  “Slow down, slow down. Start again.”

  Florence took a breath. “Helen came back last night. My boss, Helen Wilcox, the one whose passport you have. And she killed someone. She killed Nick.” Florence’s voice broke. She remembered him in the kaftan and turban in the souk, smiling and blushing. He was only twenty-four. What had she done? Florence didn’t even know whether she meant Helen or herself.

  “Nick who?”

  “Nick. Nick.” She didn’t even know his last name. “He’s in the pool.”