Chapter 15

15

My mother had a spare key to Cordelia's house, a key she'd given me on the night of Cordelia's murder. When Cordelia and Marlon were still alive, they liked to go on cruises. While they were gone, my mother would feed the cat, water their plants, and keep an eye on things.

Foley and Whitlock had confirmed they'd done a thorough search of the house. Any evidence they deemed relevant to the case had been taken. And given it wasn't where the murder had taken place, it wasn't a crime scene. I didn't feel an ounce of guilt about going inside and looking around.

When I entered the house, I found it to be in order. Whatever had been disturbed when the police searched the premises looked like it had been put back to its original location. I guessed it was Whitlock's doing. The two of us had bonded over many things as we'd worked together, cleanliness being one of them.

The first thing to catch my eye was the photo wall Claudette had told me about. She was right. It was filled with pictures of the two sisters, distant memories from a happier time. As I looked at each photo, I realized they had been arranged in chronological order, from the time they were kids until, what I guessed to be the last photo I guessed they'd taken together before their relationship imploded.

It was nice to see the sisters in earlier times, happier times where the two of them posed arm in arm for the camera, without so much as a worry between them. At least that's the story the pictures told. Whether there was any truth to it remained a mystery.

I thought of Phoebe, and how much light she brought into my life. I couldn't imagine a life without her in it. Thinking of her now, I took out my cell phone and sent her a text message, checking in with the hope she was doing better today than yesterday.

I stuck the phone back in my pocket and shifted my focus to the master bedroom. It was straight down the hallway at the end. I made my way there and flipped on the light.

The bed was made, the decorative pillows in perfect order. On the floor was a pair of red slippers, and on the nightstand, a dainty woman's bracelet. A poetry book rested next to it— The Love Poems of Lord Byron . A bookmark inserted into it showed it was halfway read.

I grabbed the book and opened it, reading the inscription on the inside:

To Cordelia,

The love of my life.

My days are full of an unexplainable bliss, and it's all because of you.

All my love, Marlon

I flipped through the poems, and then set the poetry book back where I'd found it.

It felt strange being here, like I was an intruder, roaming around inside a place I didn't belong, each room like a time capsule, gathering dust. And yet, it still had life, buzzing and vibrating from the tick of the clock on the wall to the sound the heater made as it kicked on. It gave me the feeling Cordelia might walk in the door any moment, even though she never would. She'd been laid to rest now, ashes to ashes, as they say.

I turned my attention to the right side of the room and the three oversized windows. The blinds on each were drawn. I walked to the one in the middle, turned the wand, and as the blind opened, I looked out.

I was shocked to see I had a perfect view into the Westwoods' living room. Their black, sheer curtains were halfway closed, but even so, I imagined with a little light, Cordelia would have been able to see right through them.

Had Cordelia stood where I was standing now, snooping through her neighbors' window to pass the time?

If she had, what had she seen and overheard?

I shifted my focus to the windowsill.

A pen rested on it.

I picked it up, noticing it was almost out of ink.

I closed the blinds and continued looking around the room. Nothing caught my eye. Nothing of significance, anyway. I moved through the house, opening drawers and cabinets, hoping to hit the jackpot, to find she'd left behind a series of journals, a note, or a clue, anything to explain why she'd been murdered.

The drawers and cabinets revealed no such thing. If she had left such items behind, there was no doubt the police would have found them already. From what I'd been told, their search of the house was a bust. They'd found nothing of interest.

I entered the sitting room, which looked a lot more like a dedicated library than a room one would sit and relax in. Except for a large rug and a curio cabinet, the room was devoid of furniture and had been outfitted with bookshelves. The shelves contained so many books, there wasn't a single empty space among them.

Serious book lovers with tidy library rooms tended to arrange books in a variety of ways, including:

Alphabetically.

Stacked.

By genre.

By height.

By author.

By color.

Upon closer inspection, Cordelia had first organized the books by genre, then by author, from A to Z. She preferred mysteries overall, with the genre accounting for over half the books in her library. The remaining books were a combination of classics, nonfiction, memoirs of famous people in history, a little poetry, and a handful of books on knitting.

Given I didn't have anywhere pressing to be, I decided to pull some of the books off the shelves, just to see if there was anything inside them. I made my way from left to right, pulling out a stack of books and flipping through them before placing them back where they belonged. I did so with precision, though I supposed it didn't matter.

Marlon was dead.

Cordelia was dead.

And I didn't get the impression Claudette shared the same passion for books that her sister had.

An hour passed, and I was beginning to regret my decision.

I'd found nothing of significance, and I'd just started on the mound of mysteries, which I estimated might take another two hours to flip through.

I considered stopping, but I was no quitter, so I pressed on.

I'd gone through all the authors with A and B surnames and had just started on the C's when I noticed just how many of them there were. This was due in part to all the Agatha Christie books in her possession. Several of the titles had more than one copy, which confused me at first. Then I looked a bit closer, noticing the duplicate copies weren't the same. They were different editions, published in different years.

A couple dozen books later, I opened a copy of Agatha Christie's The Pale Horse . To my surprise, a few pieces of folded notebook paper slipped out, fluttering to the floor. I leaned down, grabbing the pages. The first thing I noticed was that in the center of the top of each page, it said:

From the Desk of Cordelia Bennett

I then noticed the pages had been numbered. I stacked them together in order and began reading.

JUNE 4, 2024

Argument 7:20 p.m.

Glass decoration is thrown, it shatters against wall and breaks, she cries 7:25 p.m.

JUNE 18, 2024

Yelling, I cannot hear what's being said 9:25 p.m.

She takes a shower 10:05 p.m.

They kiss and fall asleep 10:51 p.m.

JULY 24, 2024

Did someone scream??? 1:51 a.m.

I waited, but it's dark, I can't see anyone 1:55 a.m.

All quiet again 1:58 a.m.

AUGUST 21, 2024

Fighting 9:10 p.m.

He says, "You can't leave. I won't let you leave." 9:12 p.m.

He's crying 9:18 p.m.

She's crying 9:18 p.m.

They make up, go to bed 10:34 p.m.

SEPTEMBER 5, 2024

She's crying, holding her cheek … is she hurt??? 6:47 p.m.

He leaves room, returns with an ice pack, she applies to face 6:54 p.m.

They sit together on the bed, watch TV, everything seems fine now 8:55 p.m.

SEPTEMBER 29, 2024

He's packing a bag 10:41 p.m.

She's crying, taking things out of it 10:51 p.m.

He's angry, putting things back in bag again 10:53 p.m.

He slaps her, she's hurt, but how badly??? 10:55 p.m.

They walk out of the room 10:56 p.m.

He's yelling, I can hear his voice, but can't see anyone 10:58 p.m.

I hear a truck, and I go to living room window and look out, I see him pull out of the driveway 10:59 p.m.

He's gone, I think 11:02 p.m.

(Should I go over?? Should I talk to her???)

Is she hurt??? Yes, she's hurt, but I'm not sure what happened. Did he hit her??? I'm not sure what to do 11:03 p.m.

He hasn't returned home 12:30 a.m.

He still hasn't returned home 2.30 a.m.

I don't know if he's coming back 6:45 a.m

OCTOBER 1, 2024

He's back home 7:21 a.m.

OCTOBER 3, 2024

She's packing a bag, he's not home … is she leaving??? 8:02 a.m.

She's crying, zips up one suitcase, takes it somewhere 8:08 a.m.

(Should I go talk to her???)

More packing 8:15 a.m.

I hear a truck, he's home … did he forget something??? 8:19 a.m.

She looks scared, grabs bags, trying to find a place to hide them maybe. Hides one bag, comes back for the other. 8:19 a.m.

He's in the room, he sees the second bag, flips it open 8:20 a.m.

They fight, he hits her, and then he turns, squinting like he's looking at me

Does he see me???

Does he know I saw what he's done???

She needs help, I must help her, MUST HELP HER GET AWAY