She dipped the tip of the syringe into the cloudy mixture and pulled up the plunger. With the needle still in the glass, she tapped the syringe to draw any air bubbles to the top.
She went back into the bedroom. Greta’s mouth was slack and her breathing sounded thick and phlegmy.
Florence tentatively picked up Greta’s right arm and dropped it. No reaction. Florence tied the elastic tightly around Greta’s bicep until a purple vein popped out. Florence pushed the needle into it, but the vein scooted coquettishly to the side. She took a breath to steady her hand and tried again.
This time the needle found its mark. Greta moaned and fluttered her eyes. Florence pushed the plunger down slowly, watching the liquid descend. She stopped when the syringe was half empty and pulled the needle out. Then Florence moved to the other arm and repeated the process. She did this several times, refilling the syringe again and again, until there were nearly a dozen puncture wounds all over Greta’s body. She wanted them to tell a story of habitual drug use, though she hoped the investigation wouldn’t even get that far. She was counting on the hotel and the police sharing an interest in hushing up the incident. Tourism, after all, was important.
When Florence had the syringe between two toes, Greta’s body suddenly seized up. It started jerking wildly and a yellowish liquid oozed from her mouth. Greta’s eyes shot open and sought feverishly for something to gain purchase on. Florence instinctively ducked.
When Florence stood up, feeling sheepish, Greta’s eyes were still open, but her body was still.
Florence held two fingers to Greta’s wrist. She didn’t feel anything. Just in case, she brought the vanity mirror from the bathroom and held it in front of Greta’s mouth. It was an old-fashioned method, but Florence had to be sure. She couldn’t have Greta waking up and telling tales.
When she was confident that Greta was dead, she placed the mirror back in the bathroom. Then she pressed Greta’s fingertips onto the syringe and the glass of liquid. She found Greta’s phone and entered a phone number into the contacts list.
Finally, Florence inspected the room until she was confident that it looked just as it had when she’d entered it. Except for the dead body on the bed.
She hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the doorknob and slipped out. In the hallway, she peeled off the plastic gloves and shoved them in her back pocket.
It was done.
As she waited for the elevator, she looked at her watch. Ten minutes to seven. The dealer that Liam had connected her with would be arriving soon. She’d told him to ask for Greta Frost at the front desk. He’d wanted the room number, but Florence had been firm. He was an integral part of the story. His phone number would be found in Greta’s phone, but Florence also needed a hotel employee to register his arrival.
Florence passed quickly through the busy lobby into the dark, warm evening. On the street, the plastic gloves landed soundlessly in an overflowing trash can.
49.
Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve reached our cruising altitude of thirty thousand feet. It’s a beautiful evening, so just sit back, relax, and don’t hesitate to let us know if there’s anything we can do to make your journey more comfortable.”
Florence took another sip of Champagne and stretched out her legs.
“May I get you anything, Ms. Darrow?” A flight attendant with impeccable eyeliner smiled down at her.
Florence smiled back. “Another blanket, please.” Then she pressed a button and her seat reclined to a completely flat position. She pulled down the complimentary eye mask.
Now this was the way to travel. It didn’t even rankle her, being called Ms. Darrow. She’d had to take up her old name again, but the three million dollars she’d inherited—along with the house—did offer some consolation. Quite a bit, actually.
Technically, the money and the property wouldn’t be transferred into Florence’s name for a couple more months, but she’d leave the small print to small minds. Besides, she hadn’t even had to pay for the upgrade; she’d just switched Helen Wilcox’s and Florence Darrow’s seats when she got to the airport.
The flight attendant returned with a blanket and laid it gently over Florence’s body.
As she lay there listening to the drone of the engines, Florence prodded her conscience for any tender spots. She found none.
She knew she could have let Helen live. She’d only have had to wait another five minutes for Idrissi to arrive. But Florence suspected that Helen would prefer death to the indignities of prison. Plus, there was no point in her fortune going to waste.
And she certainly could have let Greta live—if she’d been willing to give up Maud Dixon’s name. She’d genuinely hoped that Greta would agree to her proposal and let her finish Helen’s manuscript. Killing Greta had been her plan B: unfortunate but necessary.
No, she had no regrets. She had been offered what she most wanted in life. Even if she came by it in the most bizarre, inscrutable way possible. To let it slip away would have been foolish.
She did feel badly about Nick. But that wasn’t her fault. Helen was the one who’d killed him. Besides, when it came down to it, she barely knew him. If their relationship had ended naturally, as most vacation flings eventually do, he would have already faded from memory.
The nasal-voiced man across from Florence cut into her thoughts as he called loudly down the aisle for another Pinot Noir.
Florence pushed off her eye mask and sat up abruptly. Her heart was pounding. The flight attendant scurried up the aisle with a bottle of wine.
Florence shook her head. It was nothing.
She lay back down, but when she closed her eyes she saw Greta looking at her with those startlingly blue eyes. “Foggy…Yes…”
Florence maneuvered her seat back into an upright position. She patted her cheeks lightly. Then she dug out a notebook and a pen from her bag.
She’d decided to leave the first half of Helen’s manuscript as she’d found it. Then, in the middle, the narrative would suddenly switch to Iris’s point of view.
She started writing.
Lillian was wrong: Iris wasn’t weak. She’d been hardened by a lifetime of disappointment, and by underestimating this uglier, scrappier version of fortitude, Lillian had made a crucial mistake. She’d used herself as bait, not realizing that Iris was too famished to be sated by mere proximity to greatness.
50.
The old house on Crestbill Road was cool inside, even though an early May heat wave was pressing on it from all sides. Florence shut the door behind her and took a deep breath. She walked through the silent rooms slowly, seeing them as if for the first time. Because this time they were hers. Everything here was hers.
Florence scooped coffee into the coffeemaker and turned it on. As it spluttered to life, she looked out into the backyard. The compost pile had been entirely dug up. Yellow caution tape flapped in the wind where it had come loose from its stakes. She had been assured by the Cairo Police Department that Helen’s death had effectively closed the investigation into the murder of Jeanette Byrd.
When the coffee was ready, Florence brought a mug back to the living room along with the portable phone and dialed her mother’s number.
Florence knew Vera would be sitting in her small yellow kitchenette, drinking a cup of overly sweet coffee, before heading to work.