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Prosecution: Like an anniversary set of utensils? As previously mentioned, Mrs. Wilkes testified that she found several items in your apartment that didn’t belong to you. A photo you’d taken from her house. A knife and spoon with Eliza’s and Roman Tate’s initials on it. How did those artifacts end up in your care?
Penny Sands: The picture was stupid. I was babysitting Anne’s kids and saw Roman, and I just… I don’t know. I took it. There’s no real monetary value to a photograph.
Prosecution: And the utensils? That’s what we’re interested in, Ms. Sands. The knife.
Penny Sands: It was the day I told Anne and Eliza that I was pregnant back in October. I was just so mad at Roman. So upset with him that I wanted to hurt him, just a little. Plus, it’s not like he needed an anniversary set anymore. He had an affair and got me pregnant. Eliza would never have stayed with him once she found out.
Prosecution: When were you planning to tell Mrs. Tate that her husband was the father of your child?
Penny Sands: I wasn’t.
Prosecution: Why not?
Penny Sands: Because I’m not entirely sure he is.
Prosecution: We’ll come back to that later. For now, I want to focus on the knife. How did you acquire it?
Penny Sands: How does anyone acquire anything? I picked it up and put it in my purse. Not exactly rocket science. It was in their kitchen drawer, just sitting there.
Prosecution: Interesting, Ms. Sands. Interesting how the murder weapon ended up in your apartment just a few months before Mr. Tate ended up dead.
Penny Sands: I didn’t have it when he was murdered.
Prosecution: Who did?
Penny Sands: I don’t know, but it was stolen from me.
Prosecution: When did you realize it was stolen?
Penny Sands: When it was entered into evidence as a murder weapon.
THIRTY
The Day Of
February 14, 2019
Eliza shuffled appetizers and finger foods onto platters. For the first time in many months, she had splurged. Instead of warming frozen appetizers and pretending the food was homemade, she’d had food catered for the evening. She was expecting over twenty industry guests at the book club event, so it was easy to justify as a business expense.
While Eliza hadn’t yet repaid the loan from Roman’s parents, she was finally starting to see promise in her company thanks to the imminent launch of Marguerite’s new book and the paychecks coming in from her client. If all continued as projected, Eliza would be free and clear of debt within six months. It wouldn’t make her life perfect, but it would be a step in the right direction.
Eliza popped a delicious gruyere-and-spinach quiche into her mouth and glanced at the clock. The ambiance was set with half an hour to spare. The attendees would be here soon enough, along with Marguerite Hill—guest of honor. Eliza studied the wine, the appetizers, the hint of elegant décor and was pleased with how everything had come together.
All that was left was for Eliza to shower and change into something nicer. Marguerite was thoroughly prepared for the event, thanks to the afternoon’s trial run in which Eliza, Anne, and Penny had grilled her on the content of Be Free. She had acceptably answered all their questions…until their discussion had turned to the subject of murder. That one had stumped the author.
It had stumped Eliza, too. And Penny and Anne. It must have been the wine Eliza had served or the fact that most of the men in their lives were acting unreasonably at the moment. Something had been in the air, and a little vent session had been in order.
That’s all it was, Eliza reminded herself, shaking off the creeping feeling of guilt. It was healthy actually. Good to air out their problems in the trusted company of friends. It was only the four of them after all. Who would they tell?
Anne and Penny had long since gone home but would be back shortly. Their task for the evening ahead was to pepper Marguerite with softball questions she could hit out of the park to impress the social media influencers in the audience. Also in attendance would be several booksellers and a few librarians—whoever Eliza could lure into her home with the promise of a meet and greet with the author and a complimentary glass of wine. And a photographer of course. Marguerite’s choice.
The author had left Eliza’s home after their earlier session to spend her day at a nearby salon getting her hair touched up, her mani and pedi refreshed, and a facial that would leave her natural complexion glowing. It’d cost as much as the catering.
Eliza headed upstairs to shower, but when she reached the landing, she paused. Something was wrong; she just couldn’t put her finger on what. A sizzle in the air? Her closed bedroom door? She couldn’t remember the last time she’d closed her door. Eliza and Roman lived alone. They had no need for privacy.
She moved closer, listening. Her shoulders tensed at a shuffle from inside.
Eliza had just raised a hand to turn the knob when she heard it—distinct, this time. A low groan, then a female voice. Nothing muffled about it. There was a woman in Eliza’s bedroom, and she wasn’t alone.
