The Housewife(61)

It’s empty.

I close it again, then I go to the kitchen on legs wobbly like columns of foie gras. I slip on my apron, then get everything out to bake something. I’m going to make French macarons. Yes. That’s it. Roy loves macarons. I’m going to make macarons, and we’re going to pretend that everything is fine, and he is not going to think I was the one who rummaged through his safe, and maybe nobody will ever find Erin because maybe Erin has no friends, like me. If I lived alone in a house and died because I wore pumps with heels that were completely inappropriate, nobody would look for me. Nobody would miss me. Nobody would come and find me.

Maybe Erin is the same.

Meanwhile, I will remind Roy about the back door being open. I think someone has been in the house, I’ll say. Maybe I’ll say I’m missing something. Yes, my wedding band. I took it off because I burnt my hand and now it’s gone.

No, don’t say that. Just focus, Jodie. My hands are shaking as I beat the egg whites. I make a tray of macarons like an automaton, then once they’ve cooled, I put them in a tin which I store in the pantry. Then I make another batch.

And another batch .

And another batch.

Roy returns in the middle of the afternoon. I greet him at the door, kissing him on the lips. “I made macarons,” I say.

“Did you drive my car?” he asks.

My stomach lurches. “No, of course not.” But my mind is reeling. Did I forget to put the seat back? No. I was very careful. I put everything back the way it was.

I plaster on a smile. “I’ve got my own car, thanks to you. Why do you ask?”

He takes off his cap and scratches the back of his head. “I filled it up with gas, but I noticed it wasn’t full when I took it out this morning.”

“Huh! That’s interesting,” I say. “It must be a glitch.”

He walks toward his office, shaking his head.

He’s still in there, thirty minutes later, when the front doorbell rings.

And I know. Call it instinct, or maybe it’s because we’re not expecting anyone, but I just know.

It’s over.

I’m going to jail.

It’s Roy who opens the door while I stand a few feet behind him in the hall. Two men stand on the porch. One of them is fit and tall and bald. The other one is older, thinner, with ears that stick out and a long nose.

“Dr. Davies, I am Detective Bates,” the big one says. “And this is Detective Marcos. May we have a word?”

“Detectives?” Roy says in his deep professional voice. He makes it sound like a question. “What…what’s this about? ”

But I can tell from the tone in his voice that he has an idea what it’s about. After all, he’s been calling Veronica pretty much nonstop all day, I imagine, and she hasn’t replied.

“It would be easier if we could speak inside,” Detective Marcos says.

“Of course. Please. It’s this way.”





The detectives sit in the armchairs in the living room while I sit next to Roy on the couch. I study their faces. Do they recognize me from Veronica’s potential Ring camera? I can’t tell.

“Are you all right, Mrs. Davies?” Bates asks.

“Yes. Perfectly fine. Can I get you anything? Water?”

“Yes, please,” Detective Bates says. “Water would be just fine.”

I go into the kitchen and fill a pitcher with water and slices of lemon.

“Dr. Davies, do you know a woman named Veronica Greenwood?” one of the detectives asks as I return with the tray of glasses and lemon water, and it’s all I can do not to drop the whole thing.

Detective Bates, the older one, gets up from his seat. “Please, Mrs. Davies. Let me.” He points his chin to my bandaged hand.

Roy didn’t even get up to help. Once upon a time, and not that long ago, Roy would have been all over me, taking the tray from me. Or at the very least, he would have said, “Let Marie do it.”

I smile, let Detective Bates take the tray. He even starts pouring the water into the glasses, which is somewhat confusing. I wait for one of them to say it. “You’re under arrest, Mrs. Davies, for the murder of Veronica Greenwood,” but they don’t, so I stand there, holding my bad hand, my heart knocking around my chest.

“I made some macarons,” I blurt. “I’ll go and get them.”

In the kitchen, I grip the edge of the sink and drop my head. How could I have been so stupid to leave my wedding ring back there?

Take a breath, Jodie. Pull yourself together. I take out the macarons and set them down on a plate, then get out my pretty linen napkins, each a different, joyful color. I don’t use them often because you have to wash them individually or the color will run, but this, I think, qualifies as a special occasion.

I return with the plate of macarons and the napkins. And it’s still Detective Bates who gets up and takes it all from me.

I take a seat and glance at Roy. His face is like a mask, like he was chiseled out of stone. His lips are pressed together in a thin white line. Detective Bates and Detective Marcos both half-stand to reach for a macaron. Detective Bates takes a bite, then looks up sharply. “You made these?”

I nod. “Yes.”

“They’re wonderful.”

“Thank you.”