“Do you?” Mal asks.
Her face turns red.
“Look, Mrs. Rittenberg, you’re not in trouble. We’re simply trying to gather information at this point. We do know that you purchased a blueberry-blackberry pie from the Pi Bistro in Point Grey yesterday afternoon. You also purchased a bouquet of”—she glances at her notebook, flips to the page—“dendrobium orchids, baby’s breath, Japanese anemones, spider mums, and white calla lilies from a florist called Bea’s Blooms.” She meets Daisy’s gaze. “Both the pie and the flowers were left at the Northview property sometime after six fourteen p.m. yesterday. Tucked into the bouquet was a card that came from you.” Mal gets up, goes over to Daisy, and shows her a photo of the card on her phone.
Good luck before autonomy dies, friend. It’s been a ride.
Thanks for the support.
Daisy
X
“Who is this note intended for, Mrs. Rittenberg?”
The woman doesn’t blink. Or speak.
Mal reseats herself. “What happened at Northview? Why were you and your husband there? Why did you drop the pie and flowers outside the front door?”
Daisy Rittenberg moistens her lips and says, very slowly, “My husband, Jon, and I were invited to dinner at our friends’ place.”
“Who are your friends?”
She breaks eye contact, smooths her pants. “Vanessa North—she’s a pregnant friend of mine. And her husband, Haruto.”
“Are they good friends?”
She hesitates. “I . . . met Vanessa in August at a prenatal yoga class.” Her eyes begin to water. “Like I said, she was also pregnant.”
“Was? As in past tense? Did something happen?”
“I—no, I mean, she is pregnant. I’d only met Haruto once before. Jon had yet to meet either of them. We picked up the flowers and the pie on the way over.”
“Can you explain why you dropped the flowers and pie outside the front door?”
Without hesitation she says, “I got a bad cramp. I thought I was going into labor or something. It spooked me. I dropped what I was holding to grab hold of my belly.”
Mal inhales slowly. “And how was dinner with your friends?”
“We didn’t actually stay. Because of my cramps we went straight home. Jon was worried I might need to see my doctor.”
“And how did the Norths seem last night?”
“Fine.”
“Have you spoken to them since?”
“No.”
“So your friends didn’t call to find out how you are after the cramps?”
She says nothing.
“Mrs. Rittenberg, was anyone else apart from Vanessa and Haruto North at the Glass House that evening?”
“I didn’t see anyone else.”
“Did you see any other car parked outside?”
She pales. Her breathing quickens. She glances again at the french doors.
Mal shifts tack. “Your home—it’s named Rose Cottage, right?”
“What does my house have to do with this?”
“Who cleans Rose Cottage, Mrs. Rittenberg?” Mal asks.
“I don’t see what relevance th—”
“We can do this at the station, ma’am,” Benoit says. “Or you can help us here.”
Daisy Rittenberg’s mouth flattens. When she speaks again, her voice is tight and thin. “We have a cleaning service. Holly’s Help. The service started three days after we moved into the house in July.”
“Do you know the name of the specific individual who cleans your home?”
“No.” Her answer is quick. Firm. Too quick.
Mal nods slowly. “Did you notice a yellow Subaru with the Holly’s Help logo parked outside the Norths’ residence when you and your husband arrived in the Audi?”
“No. I told you. I didn’t see anyone else, or any other car.”
“Are you certain?”
“There was no other vehicle in the driveway.” Her gaze darts back toward the doors. The woman is getting flighty, looking increasingly cornered. Mal senses their window for obtaining information from Daisy Rittenberg is closing fast.
“What if I told you that we have a witness who saw both you and your husband pulling into the Northview driveway in a dark-gray Audi S6 sedan at six fourteen p.m.? You parked the Audi right behind a yellow Subaru. And our witness saw your Audi and the yellow Subaru were still in that driveway until just before midnight. After which both the Audi and the Subaru were driven away together. At speed.”
“I’d say your witness is lying. Or seeing things. And that we’re done here.”
Benoit says, “Someone was seriously hurt inside that house, Mrs. Rittenberg, and your cooperation would—”
“What?”
“I said, someone was hurt—”
“Who? Who was hurt?” Panic brightens her eyes. Red spots form on her cheeks.
“If you could just answer our questions,” Mal says.
“Dad!” She pushes to her feet and waddles toward the french doors, her hand pressing on the small of her back. The doors swing open before she reaches them.
Her father steps into the room. He takes one look at his daughter and says, “Okay, officers, you need to leave. Now.”
Mal surges to her feet. “Just one more question. Please. A woman’s life could depend on it.”
Labden Wentworth wavers, then glances at his daughter. Mal uses the moment to reach for her phone. Hurriedly, she pulls up the image of Kit Darling provided by Holly McGuire. She holds her phone toward Daisy.
“Do you recognize this person?”
Daisy leans forward, swallows hard. “No.”
“Are you certain? Take a good look.”
“Of course I’m certain. Who is she?”
“Your maid. Up until October 27.”
Daisy goes sheet white. “What?”
“Her name is Kit Darling. She cleaned Rose Cottage for Holly’s Help until October 27, after which you got a new maid.”
Daisy keeps her gaze fixed on the photo as though afraid to meet Mal’s eyes again. “I’m always out of the house when the maid comes. I’ve never laid eyes on this person. If Holly sent someone different at the end of October, I don’t know that, either. All I know is my house gets cleaned.” Her hands start to tremble. “Dad, I—I think I’m going to faint. I need to lie down. Tell these people to get out of here. Now.”
As Annabelle Wentworth hurriedly ushers Mal and Benoit toward the front door, Mal hears Daisy Rittenberg’s voice going shrill as she says to her father, “I don’t know! I have no idea what happened at the house. Of course I’m telling you the truth.”
THE MAID’S DIARY
I’m hot and edgy with anxiety as I insert Daisy’s flash drive into my laptop. I do it as soon as I am back in my apartment. I’m besieged with a sharp urgency. What I saw—what I now know, the evidence I have in my phone—it makes me dangerous to both Jon and Daisy, which in turn makes them dangerous to me. I need to return this drive ASAP.
I open the flash drive folder. There is just one file inside. A video. I click on it and hit PLAY.
At first the footage is confusing. Bad angles, jerky camera, lots of moving people, grainy, low light. Music, loud voices, laughing. But as the footage unspools on my laptop monitor, I realize with horror what I am seeing.