The rain had stopped while she was upstairs. She left the bags by the front door and walked out onto the back terrace. Everything was dripping. A few brave birds were hopping around, seeing what items of interest the storm had turned up. They were rewarded: Dozens of drowned worms, their bodies swollen with rainwater, clung to the top of blades of grass. Florence took a deep breath. The heat had broken.
She turned to go inside and tell Amina she was leaving. She’d need her to call a taxi to the car rental agency. She’d be back in Marrakesh by nightfall. She’d have to make a reservation at a different hotel, because tonight she was checking in as Helen Wilcox.
Suddenly she froze. She could hear voices coming from inside the house. She poked her head in.
From the foyer, a man’s voice said, “There she is.”
Officer Idrissi stood in the doorway, along with a man in his thirties—American, by the look of him—in khaki pants and a light blue button-down.
Amina was holding the door for them, looking uncomfortable. They both strode toward Florence with wide, confident steps. Their shoes tracked mud on the floor, and she saw Amina eye the marks with dismay.
The man she didn’t know stuck out his hand and introduced himself. “Dan Massey. US State Department. I work at the embassy in Rabat.”
Florence looked back and forth between the two men. “What’s going on?” They found Helen’s body.
“Please, let’s sit,” Massey said, extending an arm toward the living room. As they walked past the foot of the stairs, Massey glanced at her luggage.
“Going somewhere?”
“Yes,” she answered without elaborating.
All three of them sat down. Massey placed his briefcase on the table in front of him and opened it. “So, Ms. Wilcox”—he glanced up—“you are Helen Adelaide Wilcox, of Cairo, New York, correct?” He pronounced it the wrong way.
Florence nodded. “Cay-ro, yes.”
“Alright, well, the Cairo Police Department has been trying to get in touch with you for a few days now.”
“I was in an accident.” She held up her cast. “I lost my phone.”
“Do you know what this might concern?”
“Not a clue.”
“A body has been discovered on your property.”
For a brief, dizzying moment Florence thought—Helen? But no, that didn’t make any sense.
“A body,” she said dumbly.
Massey nodded. “It was found in your compost pile”—he pulled a file from his briefcase and checked it—“nearly a week ago now.” He cleared his throat. “Apparently the corpse was quite far along in the decomposition process. Your neighbor’s dog found it.”
“Bentley?”
“What?”
“Is Bentley the name of the dog who found it?”
Massey frowned. “I don’t know the name of the dog, Ms. Wilcox.”
“Well, it’s not important, I guess.” She paused. “Whose body?”
“See, now that is the first question I’d have thought someone who’s just been told there’s a dead body on their property would ask. Not the name of the dog who found it.” He consulted his notes again. “It has been identified as the body of Jeanette Byrd.” He glanced up, watching her reaction. “That name mean anything to you?”
“No.”
“No?” He raised his eyebrows. His face was hard and bony, the pale, freckled skin stretched taut across it. There was hardly enough skin on his forehead to fold into wrinkles. It was not a face that would express mercy easily, she thought.
“No.”
Massey nodded his head. “According to Leslie Blackford of Jackson, Mississippi, the two of you had a conversation about Jeanette Byrd earlier this year.” He flipped through some papers on his lap. “On March first, to be precise. Does that ring a bell?”
Florence shook her head. She had no idea who Leslie Blackford was.
“You are also listed as the emergency contact on Jeanette Byrd’s release paperwork. Pretty odd to list someone you don’t know, isn’t it?”
“Release from what?”
“Ms. Byrd was granted parole from the Central Mississippi Correctional Facility on February twenty-fourth of this year.”
Amina chose that moment to carry in a tray with three cups of steaming tea on it. As if by agreement, nobody said anything while she placed them carefully down on the table one by one. The last one clattered lightly and she left the room with small, quick steps.
Massey continued: “Leslie Blackford is Ms. Byrd’s parole officer. Ms. Byrd apparently missed her first meeting with her. A few days later, Ms. Blackford received a phone message from Ms. Byrd from the landline in your house.”
Florence had been trying to hold an unperturbed smile on her face since Massey’s arrival, but here it began to falter.
Massey went on. “Ms. Blackford called you the next day. Yet you claimed you hadn’t seen or heard from Ms. Byrd.
“Mississippi issued an arrest warrant for Jeanette Byrd on March twenty-seventh, on the grounds that she had violated her parole agreement. She’d missed three meetings with Ms. Blackford by that point. It says here that Detective Michael Ledowski of the Cairo Police Department then met with you at your home to inquire about Ms. Byrd’s whereabouts. You claimed you hadn’t seen her.” He looked directly at Florence. “But you’re telling me you don’t remember your conversation with Leslie Blackford. And you don’t know Jeanette Byrd. The woman whose body was found decomposing on your property.”
Florence shook her head slowly. “I don’t know what to tell you,” she said. That, at least, was true.
Idrissi leaned forward onto his knees and spoke for the first time since they’d sat down. “It’s strange, this. So much bad luck in such a short period of time.”
Florence said nothing.
“I apologize for my English; is that the right word, Madame Weel-cock? The car accident. This…dead woman at your house. It’s called bad luck?”
Florence paled. “Bad luck, yes,” she whispered.
Idrissi continued staring at her. He obviously suspected her of something, but she could tell that he couldn’t quite put it all together. After all, how does one connect a car accident in Morocco with a dead body thousands of miles away? She certainly couldn’t.
She stared back at Idrissi, trying her best to appear unfazed.
Massey cut the tension. “Alright, listen,” he said, relaxing his posture. “I’m not here to interrogate you. I’m not a police officer. But obviously the police in both Mississippi and New York are very eager to speak with you. I’ve come to urge you to return home as soon as you can. Today, if possible. I can help you make arrangements.”
“Can’t I talk to them over the phone?”
“No, Ms. Wilcox. You need to go back.”
“I need to go back? Am I under arrest?”
“I don’t have the authority to arrest you, Ms. Wilcox. I am simply offering a very strong suggestion.”
“There is no extradition treaty between the United States and this country,” Idrissi interjected. “We are not required to send you back.”