Authors: Gillian Flynn
Curry doesn’t know a thing firsthand about ritualistic killings, but he plows through a few low-grade true-crimers a week, yellowed paperbacks with glossy covers he picks up at his used bookstore.
Two for a buck, Preaker, that’s what I call entertainment.
“So, Cubby, any theories on whether it’s a local?”
Curry seemed to like the nickname for me, his favorite cub reporter. His voice always tickled when he used it, as if the word itself was blushing. I could picture him in the living room, eyeing his puzzle, Eileen taking a quick drag on his cigarette while she stirred up tuna salad with sweet pickles for Curry’s lunch. He ate it three days a week.
“Off record, they say yes.”
“Well, dammit, get them to say it on record. We need that. That’s good.”
“Here’s something strange, Curry. I talked to a boy who says he was with Natalie when she was taken. He said it was a woman.”
“A woman? It’s not a woman. What do the police say?”
“No comment.”
“Who’s the kid?”
“Son of a hog worker. Sweet boy. He seems really scared, Curry.”
“The police don’t believe him, or you’d’ve heard about it. Right?”
“I honestly don’t know. They’re tight here.”
“Christ, Preaker, break those boys. Get something on record.”
“Easier said. I kind of feel it’s almost a detriment that I’m from here. They resent me carpetbagging back home for this.”
“Make them like you. You’re a likable person. Your mom will vouch for you.”
“My mom’s not so happy I’m here, either.”
Silence, then a sigh from Curry’s end of the line that buzzed my ears. My right arm was a road map of deep blue.
“You doing okay, Preaker? You taking care of yourself?”
I didn’t say anything. I suddenly felt like I might cry.
“I’m okay. This place does bad things to me. I feel…wrong.”
“You keep it together, girl. You’re doing real good. You’re going to be fine. And if you feel unfine, call me. I’ll get you out.”
“Okay, Curry.”
“Eileen says be careful. Hell, I say be careful.”
Chapter Six
S
mall towns usually cater to one kind of drinker. That kind may vary: There are the honky-tonk towns, which keep their bars on the outskirts, make their patrons feel a little bit outlaw. There are the upscale sipping-drink towns, with bars that overcharge for a gin ricky so the poor people have to drink at home. There are the middle-class strip-mall towns, where beers come with onion blossoms and cutely named sandwiches.
Luckily everyone drinks in Wind Gap, so we have all those bars and more. We may be small, but we can drink most towns under the table. The watering hole closest to my mother’s home was an expensive, glassy box that specialized in salads and wine spritzers, Wind Gap’s sole upscale eatery. It was brunch-time, and I couldn’t stand the idea of Alan and his soupy eggs, so I walked myself over to La Mère. My French goes only to eleventh grade, but judging from the restaurant’s aggressively nautical theme, I think the owners meant to name it La Mer, The Sea, and not La Mère, The Mother. Still, the name was appropriate, as The Mother, my mother, frequented this place, as did her friends. They all just love the chicken Caesar, which is neither French nor seafood, but I’m not going to be the one to press the point.
“Camille!” A blonde in a tennis outfit came trotting across the room, glowing with gold necklaces and chunky rings. It was Adora’s best friend, Annabelle Gasser, née Anderson, nicknamed Annie-B. It was commonly known that Annabelle absolutely hated her husband’s last name—she even crumpled up her nose when she said it. It never occurred to her that she didn’t have to take it.
“Hi sweetheart, your momma told me you were in town.” Unlike poor, Adora-ousted Jackie O’Neele, who I also spotted at the table, looking just as tipsy as she had at the funeral. Annabelle kissed both my cheeks and stepped back to assess me. “Still pretty-pretty. Come on, come sit with us. We’re just having a few bottles of wine and gabbing. You can lower the age ratio for us.”
Annabelle pulled me over to a table where Jackie sat chatting up two more blonde, tanned women. She didn’t even stop talking while Annabelle made introductions, she just continued droning about her new bedroom set, then knocked over a glass of water as she jerked back to me.
“Camille? You’re here! I’m so happy to see you again, sweetie.” She seemed sincere. That Juicy Fruit smell wafted off her again.
“She’s been here for five minutes,” snapped another blonde, wiping the ice and water onto the floor with a swipe of her dark hand. Diamonds flashed from two fingers.
“Right, I remember. You’re here covering the murders, bad girl,” Jackie continued. “Adora must hate that. Sleeping in her house with your dirty little brain.” She smiled a smile that must have been saucy twenty years ago. Now it seemed slightly mad.
“Jackie!” said a blonde, aiming bright saucer eyes at her.
“’Course before Adora took it over, we all slept over at Joya’s house with our dirty little brains. Same house, different crazy lady running it,” she said to me, fingering the flesh behind her ears. Stitches from that facelift?
“You never knew your grandma Joya, did you, Camille?” purred Annabelle.
“Woo! She was a piece of work, sweetie,” said Jackie. “Scary, scary woman.”
“How so?” I asked. I’d never heard such detail about my grandmother. Adora allowed that she was strict, but said little else.
“Oh, Jackie’s exaggerating,” Annabelle said. “No one likes their mother when they’re in high school. And Joya was dead pretty soon after. They never really had time to establish an adult relationship.”
For a second I had a pitiful dash of hope, that this was why my mother and I were so distant: She had no practice. The idea was dead before Annabelle finished refilling my glass.
“Right, Annabelle,” Jackie said. “I’m sure if Joya were alive today, they’d have a grand old time. At least Joya would. She’d just love to tear at Camille. Remember those long, long nails of hers? Never painted them. I always thought that was weird.”
“Change of subject,” Annabelle smiled, each word like the tinkle of a silver dinner bell.
“I think Camille’s job must be so fascinating,” said one of the blondes dutifully.
“Especially this one,” said another.
“Yeah Camille, tell us who did it,” blurted Jackie. She smiled leeringly again and clicked her round brown eyes open and shut. She reminded me of a ventriloquist dummy come alive. With hard skin and broken capillaries.
I had a few calls to make, but decided this could be better. A quartet of drunk, bored, and bitchy housewives who knew all the gossip of Wind Gap? I could write it off as a business lunch.
“Actually I’d be interested to know what you all think.” A sentence they couldn’t hear very often.
Jackie dipped her bread into a side dish of ranch dressing, then dripped it down her front. “Well you all know what I think. Ann’s daddy, Bob Nash. He’s a pervert. He always stares at my chest when I see him at the store.”
“What chest there is,” said Annabelle, and nudged me jokingly.
“I’m serious, it’s out of line. I’ve been meaning to tell Steven about it.”
“I’ve got yummy news,” said the fourth blonde. Dana or Diana? I forgot it as soon as Annabelle introduced us.
“Oh, DeeAnna always has good scoop, Camille,” Annabelle said, squeezing my arm. DeeAnna paused for effect, licked her teeth, poured herself another glass of wine, and peeked over it at us.
“John Keene has moved out of his parents’ house,” she announced.
“What?” said a blonde.
“You are joooking,” said another.
“My word,” gushed a third.
“And…” said DeeAnna triumphantly, smiling like a game-show hostess about to bestow a prize. “Into Julie Wheeler’s home. The carriage house out back.”
“That is too good,” said Melissa or Melinda.
“Oh, you
know
they’re doing it now,” laughed Annabelle. “No way Meredith can keep her Little Miss Perfect thing going. See, Camille,” she turned to me, “John Keene is Natalie’s big brother, and when that family moved here, the whole town went loony for him. I mean, he’s gorgeous. He. Is. Gorgeous. Julie Wheeler, she’s a friend of your momma’s and ours. Didn’t have babies till she was, like, thirty, and when she did, she became just insufferable. One of those people whose kids can do no wrong. So when Meredith—her daughter—snagged John, oh my God. We thought we’d never hear the end of it. Meredith, this A-student little virgin girl gets the Big Man on Campus. But no way a boy like that, his age, goes with a girl who isn’t putting out. Just doesn’t work that way. And now, it’s so convenient for them. We should get Polaroids and stick them under Julie’s windshield wipers.”
“Well, you know how she’s playing it,” Jackie interrupted. “It’s going to be all about how good they are to take John in and give him a little breathing room while he mourns.”
“Why is he moving out, though?” asked Melissa/Melinda, who I was starting to think was the voice of reason. “I mean, shouldn’t he be with his folks at a time like this? Why would he need breathing room?”
“Because
he’s
the killer,” DeeAnna blurted, and the table began laughing.
“Oh, that would be so delicious if Meredith Wheeler were giving it to some serial killer,” Jackie said. Suddenly the table stopped laughing. Annabelle emitted a sneezy hiccup and looked at her watch. Jackie rested her chin on her hand, breathed out hard enough to bluster the bread crumbs on her plate.
“I can’t believe this is really happening,” said DeeAnna, looking down at her nails. “In our town, where we grew up. Those little girls. It makes me feel sick to my stomach. Just sick.”
“I’m so glad my girls are grown up,” Annabelle said. “I just don’t think I’d be able to take it. Poor Adora must be worried sick about Amma.”
I nabbed a piece of bread in the birdy, girlish way of my hostesses, and steered the conversation away from Adora. “Do people really think John Keene could have had anything to do with it? Or is that just mean gossip?” I could feel myself spitting out the last part. I’d forgotten how unlivable women like these could make Wind Gap for people they didn’t like. “I ask only because a group of girls, probably junior-high-schoolers, said the same thing to me yesterday.” I thought it best not to mention Amma was one of them.
“Let me guess, four little mouthy blonde things who think they’re prettier than they are,” Jackie said.
“Jackie, sweetheart, do you realize who you just said that to?” Melissa/Melinda said, slapping her hand on Jackie’s shoulder.
“Oh shit. I always forget Amma and Camille are even related—different lifetimes, you know?” Jackie smiled. A hearty pop sounded behind her and she lifted her wineglass without even looking at the waiter. “Camille, you might as well hear it here: Your little Amma is truuuuble.”
“I hear they come to all the high-school parties,” DeeAnna said. “And take all the boys. And do things we didn’t do till we were old married women—and then only after the transaction of a few nice pieces of jewelry.” She twirled a diamond tennis bracelet.
They all laughed; Jackie actually pounded the table with both fists like a toddler in a fit.
“But do…”
“I don’t know if people really think John did it. I know the police talked to him,” Annabelle said. “They’re definitely a strange family.”
“Oh, I thought you were close,” I said. “I saw you at their house after the funeral.”
You fucking cunts,
I added in my head.
“Everybody important in the town of Wind Gap was in that house after the funeral,” DeeAnna said. “Like we were going to miss a function like that.” She tried to start the laughter going again, but Jackie and Annabelle were nodding solemnly. Melissa/Melinda looked around the restaurant as if she could wish herself to another table.
“Where’s your momma?” Annabelle suddenly blurted. “She needs to come down here. Could do her good. She’s been acting so strange since this all started.”
“She was acting strange before this started, too,” Jackie said, working her jaw. I wondered if she was going to vomit.
“Oh please, Jackie.”
“I’m serious. Camille, let me say this: Right now, way things are with your mother, you’re better in Chicago. You should go back soon.” Her face had lost its manicness—she looked completely solemn. And genuinely concerned. I felt myself liking her again.
“Truly, Camille…”
“Jackie, shut up,” Annabelle said, and threw a roll, hard, at Jackie’s face. It bounced off her nose and thumped onto the table. A silly flash of violence, like when Dee threw his tennis ball at me—you’re less shocked by the impact than the fact it happened at all. Jackie registered the hit with a wave of her hand and kept talking.
“I’ll say what I please, and I’m saying, Adora can harm…”
Annabelle stood up and walked over to Jackie’s side, pulled her up by her arm.
“Jackie, you need to make yourself throw up,” she said. Her voice was a cross between a coo and a threat. “You’ve had too much to drink, and you’re going to feel real sick otherwise. Let me take you to the lady’s room and help make you feel better.”