‘Whatever happened to topless sunbaking?’ Dennis had said gloomily at one of their last trips to the beach. Debbie, trying to be helpful, had pointed to a group of girls in G-string bikinis. ‘Nah, they just look silly,’ Dennis had said. He was a boob man. Joy had been wearing a low-cut top in that photo. Dennis hadn’t been admiring Joy’s pretty eyes, that’s for sure.
Debbie wouldn’t be cross with Joy if she had slept with Dennis. She wouldn’t send her a thankyou card. But she wouldn’t hold it against her.
It was all such a long time ago. It surely had nothing to do with Joy’s disappearance.
Unless it indicated that Joy was a serial cheater?
Had she run off with a paramour?
Who could be bothered at their age? Perhaps Joy could be bothered. She’d always been so energetic.
Sulin parked and Debbie’s back twanged as she got out of the car, just to remind her that she wasn’t actually thirty, no matter the freshness of her memories.
‘Steel yourself,’ said Sulin as she locked the car. ‘Mark Higbee approaches.’
Mark Higbee played the Monday night social comp with immense gravitas, bouncing the ball about four hundred times each time he served and stopping to mop his brow with a towel in between games as if it were the Australian Open. He also had that horrible habit of tweaking his poor wife’s nose, which made Debbie want to punch his.
‘Ah, this man is a stupid egg,’ said Sulin under her breath, and Debbie shot her a surprised look because Sulin never normally had a bad word to say about anyone.
He walked towards them, tall, thin and grey-bearded, a giant racquet bag slung over his shoulder. ‘Salutations, ladies!’ he said with an amused smile. He saw women as dear little inferior beings. ‘You heard the latest about Joy?’ His face was bloated with the pleasure of delicious, shocking gossip.
‘No,’ said Sulin in a chilly tone.
‘You do know she’s missing?’ said Mark.
‘For goodness sake, of course we do,’ snapped Sulin. ‘We both helped with the search yesterday.’
‘It’s obvious that Stan is their quote unquote chief suspect,’ said Mark, oblivious to her snappiness. He caressed his bearded chin with his thumb and index finger, as if he were parodying a professor deep in thought. ‘But without a body . . . they’re royally screwed.’
‘Without a body?’ said Debbie. ‘You don’t mean Joy’s body?’
‘Of course I do,’ said Mark, as if he’d never heard anything so stupid. ‘Who else’s body would I mean, Debbie?’
Debbie thought of Joy’s lovely tanned legs. The woman never stood still. She’d brought around a lasagne when Dennis died, in a baking tray, and then instantly confessed that she hadn’t baked it, she’d bought it from the Italian deli and tried to transfer it to the dish to make it look homemade. She’d looked so guilty it had made Debbie laugh.
‘You’ve got to face facts,’ said Mark paternally. ‘It’s unlikely she’s alive. Stan had scratch marks on his face. What does that tell you?’
‘There are many ways that could happen,’ said Sulin, but her voice faltered with the horror of it.
‘The police might be calling it a missing persons investigation,’ said Mark, ‘but anyone with a brain knows they’re treating it as a murder investigation.’
‘She texted all her children that she was going away,’ said Debbie.
‘It’s not exactly hard to send a text from someone else’s phone,’ said Mark. ‘The phone was still at the house. Barb McMahon found it hidden under their bed.’
‘Stan doesn’t know how to text,’ said Debbie. ‘If that’s what you’re implying.’
‘So he says,’ said Mark.
Debbie said, ‘Stan is our friend. You shouldn’t say things like this.’
‘I heard there was an affair,’ said Mark. His eyes sparkled. Debbie had never seen the man so cheerful. ‘They had an attractive twenty-something girl staying at their house last year, a quote unquote family friend, and I’m guessing that when Joy was in hospital the temptation was too much for Stan. You know, when the cat’s away, the mice do tend to play!’
‘Stop it,’ said Debbie. ‘Just stop talking. I do not believe a word of it.’
But it was hard now not to put that together with Sulin’s story of Stan, sitting in the gutter last year, crying.
Mark raised his palms. ‘Don’t shoot the messenger, Debbie! Keep this to yourselves, but I have a theory about where he’s buried the body.’