Page 96 of Heidi Lucy Loses Her Mind

APRIL 7

Carmina Hildegarde had never been thusly treated in her entire life, and she could feel the rage radiating from the roots of her perfectly coiffed hair down to the tips of her perfectly manicured toes.

Her date had been going beautifully. The food smelled delicious, the company was exquisite, and—she wouldn’t hesitate to admit—she’d looked positively stunning. Yes, she’d received some odd looks, sitting there and seemingly talking to herself, but she’d never minded that. Who were these people that she should care what they thought? They weren’t her family. They weren’t her lovers. Their opinions did not matter.

Her date had taken a turn for the worse, though, when she had begun to assemble a bite of vegetables and had discovered, to her disgust, one tiny, wriggling bug—tucked right between a carrot and a potato, coated in sauce but somehow still alive.

She’d demanded to see the chef, of course, and the manager—she’d demanded to see anyone and everyone she could.

And she’d been scorned.

She’d been accused of placing the bug there herself so that she could get a free meal—as if she would ever cart around any sort of insect for any purpose at all.

She sniffled now, hours later lying in bed, her aching body covered in a thin quilt. She inhaled deeply and then let her breath out again.

Their opinions did not matter. She would not cry. Such behavior was not worth her tears. She would not cry.

She would not.

But as she pulled the portrait of her darling husband out from under her pillow, she thought perhaps that she had never missed him more.

25

IN WHICH HEIDI ATTENDS A FUNERAL

Iattend the funeral of Carmina Hildegarde with Gemma, Eric, Mel, and Soren.

I’m a little plus-minus on being here. Now that I know Phil and Elsie bought rat poison a week before Carmina died, I’m hesitant to be in their vicinity. Soren’s right; they’ve always been the most likely suspects, and the receipt I saw is pretty damning.

It’s not a signed confession, but it’s not nothing, either. It runs around in my mind, playing games with the rest of my thoughts and questions.

Because there are parts of this that still don’t fit to me. It seemed so obvious the other night; Philpurchasedthe rat poison right before Carmina died, so Phil probablyusedthe rat poison. But the more I’ve thought about it, the more questions have popped up. Why would Phil and Elsie have allowed us to snoop around if they were hiding something? Why did they kill her now? Can we really discount all the other people Carmina had issues with?

And good grief—what about Stanley Riggs? How does he come into all of this?

I shake my head, taking a deep breath and trying to clear my head. Now’s probably not the time to be asking these questions. So I force myself onward, my footsteps firm despite my reluctance.

I’m not the only one of our group that’s hesitant today. Eric doesn’t want to be here at all; he came for me and Gemma, I can tell. He’s not callous or unfeeling, but he does shy away from emotionally intense situations. And he doesn’t even know about the receipt yet; Soren and I decided not to tell anyone until we could think it through more.

How will Phil Hildegarde behave at the funeral for the mother he doesn’t seem to miss—the mother I suspect he murdered? Is he going to be visibly grieving? Will he cry?

It’s a morbid train of thought, maybe, but I can’t stop the curious questions from nudging the corners of my mind as we make the walk from the car to the graveside.

It’s a rainy spring day, one of those where the world has turned muted gray and Technicolor green. Why is it that the grass always seems greener when it rains?

There are droplets of water dripping from the tree leaves overhead, and the ground is soft under our feet. I wince as I look over at Gemma, whose black heels are sinking several inches into the lawn we’re crossing. I’m glad I wore flats; Mel was smart too.

Soren is a steady presence behind me, never letting me get too far ahead before he hurries to catch up again.

“You walk so fast,” he says as we’re passing a large headstone with an angel on top. “Like you always have somewhere you need to be.”

“Idohave somewhere I need to be,” I say, looking blankly at him.

He rolls his eyes, which makes me smile.

“Come on, Man Bun,” I say. I’m struck with the sudden impulse to reach out and take his hand, and for a second my instinct is to suppress that—but I take a deep breath and then follow the desire. “Let’s go,” I say, holding my hand out to him.

He stares at it for a second before he takes it, his fingers weaving through mine. “I want to keep you close,” he admits, his voice a low murmur in my ear. “It makes me nervous now, being around Phil. Especially since he knows we’ve been digging around.”

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