Until he invited her over for dinner that night.
It was a late meal, because she had to go home and take a nap to make it through dinner without falling asleep. Around nine o’clock, as she drove up to his house, he sent a text.
I’m in the backyard. Gate’s open.
Not unusual. Wes likes to grill outside when the weather is nice, and that night it was. Clear sky, not much of a breeze. She walked down the side of the house, and it hit her just as she entered the yard.
Red meat. The smell was unmistakable.
She thought it was coming from next door, that a neighbor was outside grilling. Because Wes wouldn’t even touch it, much less cook it.
The patio was lit up with strands of Christmas lights, the table set with candles and fresh flowers. Before she could speak, Wes took her hand and led her to the table, where a slab of steak was waiting.
He got down on one knee.
Over the years, she had imagined this moment a hundred times. A thousand. It never looked like this.
“I can’t promise I’ll never be an asshole,” he said. “But if you want to eat that disgusting steak, I promise never to complain.”
“Never?” she said.
“Probably never.”
“Fair.”
“So, then, Ivy Noelle Banks, will you marry me?”
“You know I can’t promise I’ll never be an asshole,” she said.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
55
Karen orders dinner from her favorite restaurant, which makes her feel a little better about tonight. It’s never easy when someone is as deeply entrenched as Ivy is.
Uber Eats drops off her chicken tetrazzini, and she brings it into her office. Now that the case is moving faster, she was forced to buy another corkboard for the Joey Fisher case. The new one is covered in sticky notes and stickers, all color-coded. Green on the right, indicating evidence she already has. Yellow in the middle, for things she’s waiting on or that need follow-up. Red on the left, for the things she needs but can’t find. The details are kept in the lists on her phone; the board gives her the big picture at a glance.
Tonight, she tackles all things red.
First, she makes her calls. The advantage of being a detective for so long is knowing a lot of people in a lot of different businesses. People she can count on when she needs information, always promising to help out on some future issue they may have. Amazing how many people will agree to it.
One of them is Vilma Naquil. Karen has to go through an operator and an assistant to get to her.
“Karen,” Vilma says. Her voice is deep and grainy. “What do the police want now?”
“What I need happened seven years ago. I assume your records go back that far?”
“My records are impeccable.”
Once upon a time, Vilma Naquil was known as the taxi queen. Before Uber and Lyft, she owned the largest taxicab company operating in Fair Valley and a few of the surrounding towns. She also had a way of putting other companies out of business by buying them.
Times have been hard in the past few years, forcing Vilma to diversify her businesses, but the cab company is still hanging on. Barely.
Karen gives Vilma the address of the old Fine Line club and the address of where Wes and Ivy used to live. “Any rides between those addresses, to or from, on the night of July sixteenth?”
“Seven years ago?” Vilma says.
“That’s right.”
Vilma promises to get back to her within twenty-four hours. In Karen’s experience, it will be less than that. One of the things that makes Vilma such a good businesswoman is underpromising and overdelivering.
Next, Karen pulls up the recording of her call with Uncle Bobby. She transcribes it, in preparation for a submission to her sergeant tomorrow.
Uncle Bobby had a lot of interesting things to say about the club. The stories spilled out like he had been itching to tell someone. Most were useless to Karen, having nothing to do with the night Ivy worked there.
But he did remember the new waitress who looked like apple pie and sunshine. Even better, he remembered Wes. Though Uncle Bobby claimed—strongly—that he wasn’t the one who called 911. Must’ve been a customer, he said, because no one who worked there would’ve called about an irate boyfriend unless he’d had a gun. No one saw Wes with one.
What Uncle Bobby saw was a man who was not happy about his girlfriend working at a strip club.
“Happened all the time,” he said. “Sometimes they stayed anyway, sometimes not. Little Miss Sunshine left, though. Her alias was Summer.”
Oddly enough, he remembered all of this because of one thing: She had to come back the following day to get her bag. “She left without it the night before,” he said. “Then she showed up at lunchtime the next day, right after we opened, to pick it up. That was weird. Who leaves their phone, wallet, and keys behind? Who doesn’t come back right away to get them?”
Good questions. And another piece of the puzzle. Karen adds it to her growing list of evidence, creating a picture that should be easy for the DA—or a jury—to see.
Just as she finishes transcribing the call, a new email pops up in her box.
From Bianca.
* * *
—
Ivy has spent two nights shopping for the perfect dress. Not a lot of time and not an easy thing to find, given that she’s going to be married in Vegas this weekend at a place called the Hitching Post, and the wedding will be officiated by a Dolly Parton impersonator. Elvis is so overdone.
After trying on so many different dresses, starting with traditional and working her way all the way down, she finally decided to go ridiculous. Silver sequins, spaghetti straps, draped neckline. At least she didn’t have to worry about jewelry. Just the ring.
She and Wes bought the bands last night. Plain platinum, no decoration, no diamond, just an engraving on the inside with their wedding date. She has already checked five times to make sure they’re packed, along with her shoes, bag, and the fancy clip she bought for her hair.
All with money she doesn’t have. All with money that has to be spent. They both know why they’re getting married so quickly, though they don’t talk about it.
In the back of her mind, it was always going to happen. Eventually. And if Karen is the woman who ended up pushing them over the edge and toward the altar, then so be it. But it’s not the reason they’re doing it. It’s the reason why it’s happening now.
The only person Ivy has told is her college roommate, Sabine, who lives in Arizona with her husband and two kids. They haven’t seen each other for a while, but she’s the only one Ivy knew would be happy for her. Sabine has been saying for years that Ivy and Wes need to separate for good or stop breaking up and get married. Preferably the latter, because she believed in fate.
“I knew there was a reason you two kept getting back together,” Sabine said when Ivy told her. “You’re soulmates.”
Heath would have a different reaction if she told him. Ivy has avoided talking to him for days. On purpose. Everyone else can wait until after they return.
She packs up her makeup and toiletries, pouring what she needs into those three-ounce bottles. She checks her list, which is actually on paper. Ivy stares at it, clicking her pen over and over. It always helps her think.