Page 25 of Saltwater Secrets
Hilary felt it like a bell in her skull. Did that mean Renée thought her mother killed her father? Did she believe Dorothy was a murderer?
That was when Hilary remembered Renée’s sister, Rachel. She crossed her ankles and glanced over at Aria, who remained captivated, her hand pressed against the doorway.
“What about your sister?” Hilary asked. “Where does she live?”And does she know about your mother’s death yet?she didn’t ask, sensing herself already in too deep.
Renée’s cheeks turned a pale shade of green. She got up and walked back to the kitchen, where she poured a bigger glass of wine. Hilary longed to say something, to tell her to treat herself better. But she didn’t think it was her place. More than that, she felt that bringing up Renée’s sister had, in some way, caused her to pour more wine. Was she not on speaking terms with her sister, either?
When she managed to answer, Renée’s words were just a whisper. “My sister’s dead.”
Chapter Twelve
Later that night, Aria found herself sitting at a Greenwich Village pizza place, perusing the menu while her mother checked her phone nervously, waiting for information from either Renée or Dorothy’s lawyer, whichever came first. Now that they’d learned that Aria was supposed to stick around the brownstone and fix it up, it was like Hilary’s trip to the Big Apple was for nothing. (And Hilary felt a pressing weight to head back to Nantucket and continue work on the estate.)
Renée had suggested Hilary stick around for a day or two. Aria speculated that Renée didn’t want to be alone in that brownstone, that the more people she had around her, the better she felt. But she still hadn’t told Aria and Hilary why she’d come there in the first place, not where she’d been the past thirty years.
Hilary sighed and set her phone back on the table, face down. “I keep hoping the internet will start to move on from Dorothy’s death. It feels crazy. All these people are trying to ‘own’ her story, in a way, when they never knew her.”
Aria winced. Although she often hated how fleeting the passion for anything online was before people moved on to something else, she understood what her mother meant.
“I saw someone posting about Dorothy’s supposed ‘crime,’” Aria said, reaching for her glass of red wine and raising it.
“Killing Philip, you mean?” Hilary asked in a low voice.
Aria nodded. There were probably fifty memes going around the internet right now, calling Dorothy a murderer. But if her mother was correct, those memes would wane soon.
“I can’t get over the fact that Renée thinks her mother killed her father,” Aria whispered, glancing around the packed and bustling restaurant, hoping that they wouldn’t be overheard. “I mean, she wasn’t there. She has as many facts about what happened as the rest of us.”
According to what Hilary and Aria had researched so far about the circumstances surrounding Philip’s death, they’d learned that Renée had been at the Nantucket estate when her parents left to go sailing, but that she’d been with friends on Martha’s Vineyard when her mother sailed home alone. After the incident, Renée had been questioned numerous times by the police, but she maintained that she didn’t know anything. When they asked her if she had any reason to suspect her mother of killing her father, Renée had simply said that there was a lot of bad blood in the Wagner family, that they’d been through a great deal, and that she’d really like it if the police left her family alone.
What they’d learned about Renée’s sister, Rachel, was negligible at best. But based on the few things Renée had said, drunkenly and wildly that afternoon, they’d gleaned that Rachel had died sometime in the early eighties.
It left Aria to speculate whether Rachel’s death pushed Dorothy and Philip apart.
Was that why he started having so many affairs?
Was Dorothy grieving at home alone in Nantucket?
“It’s funny,” Hilary remembered, clicking her nail against the tabletop. “Your grandmother talked about Rachel and Renée like they were both alive in the eighties. I’m thinking Dorothy andPhilip lied about where they were. I’m thinking they said both of their daughters were away at boarding school, rather than just the one.” Hilary’s cheeks were pale.
“Why would they lie about something like that?” Aria asked, mystified.
Hilary raised her shoulders. “That was when Philip was becoming really, really wealthy. Maybe he thought it would impact his career somehow. Maybe Dorothy couldn’t deal with the truth. I don’t know. Like it or not, we’re involved in a tremendous family drama. One that makes our Coleman drama look childish by comparison.”
Their pizzas came. They’d ordered two pan pizzas, one with meat and the other with feta cheese, black olives, and green peppers, and they shared everything, eating first with a fork and knife before switching to their hands. Aria’s thoughts raced, and her phone dinged with messages from Gina, who burned with curiosity about what was going to happen to Dorothy Wagner’s money. Aria didn’t answer them. She was considering blocking Gina for good.
“Do you want to walk me through your plan?” Hilary asked after a few minutes of silence.
Aria gave her what felt like a blank look.
“For the brownstone,” Hilary clarified, wiping her hands on a napkin. “I’d love to know your vision.”
Although Aria had been at the brownstone for less than twenty-four hours before the news had broken about Dorothy’s death, she had already sketched out several ideas and made lists for herself. Her plan had been to get organized during the first five days, call Dorothy for her opinions, and then get started on logistics. Things felt different now, but maybe they didn’t have to be. Dorothy wanted them to continue working. She’d set them up.
Back at the brownstone, their bellies full of pizza and wine, Aria and Hilary sat on the sofa discussing Aria’s strategy for the following months of work. Upstairs, they could hear Renée’s feet creaking across the floorboards, but neither of them mentioned it. It was a relief to throw themselves into a world they understood, at least for a little while.
But at around nine thirty that evening, the doorbell rang. Aria was at the kitchen counter, pouring glasses of water, and hurried to the foyer to get it, hoping that the sound hadn’t irritated Renée. The minute she opened the door, her eyes filled with painful flashes of light. She drew her hands up in front of her face. Her breathing was sharp and strange. It took a second for her to realize that photographers and journalists stood outside the door, screaming questions at her.
“Why did Dorothy kill Philip Wagner?”
