A Betrayal at Eastwick Read online

  Evan had hung up, frustrated and helpless. The papers were the only thing on his mind right then: it helped blot out other unfortunate details, like the fact that the police wanted to talk to him about the party, ask why he had invited Gina, ask who among the guests had a grudge against her, and blah blah blah. He had agreed to go down to the station, but the idea of it still gave him hives. The last time he had been down had been nearly ten years ago, in college, when an officer had hauled him in for trespassing and underage drinking and had him spend a night in jail, just to scare him. It had worked.

  Evan bit his fingernails and continued to trudge. So much could go wrong, he thought. Perhaps it was just because he was finally on the precipice of his dreams that Evan felt sick with worry. What had happened that night had been some sort of evil omen, a harbinger of terrible events to come. Evan had never believed people when they used to joke about St. Clair’s dark side, about the strangeness that could be found in its depths, but now? Now he had every reason to.

  Evan picked up the phone on a whim and dialed. Becks answered on the second ring.

  “Evan?”

  “Hey, man,” Evan said. “How you holding up?”

  “I’m fine.” Becks didn’t sound fine—in fact, he sounded more than a little hoarse. Evan wondered how the morning had gone for him, if Becks had suffered half as much as Evan did. “You?”

  “Great,” Evan lied, keeping his tone light. “Crazy, huh? That’ll be a memorable start to Becker & Miller.”

  A pause. Evan’s heart skipped a beat in his chest. What if Becks felt as superstitious as he did? What if he wanted to pull the funding? Evan just needed to get those blasted papers signed.

  “I wish I had just gone to business school,” Becks finally said. “Then we never would have had the party.”

  “The business is a good idea, Becks.”

  “The party wasn’t.”

  “It was. It’s just—something bad happened. We had no idea, and—”

  “Do you think I had something to do with it?”

  “What? Becks! No, of course not. Why would you even ask me that?”

  A pause. “I don’t know. Never mind.”

  “Don’t talk like that, man. Especially if the police come over, okay? What? You need a lawyer or something?”

  “No.” Becks sounded defeated.

  “Good. Then listen. About the papers—”

  “Whitney said we’d sign them Wednesday.”

  Little bright fireworks burst before Evan’s eyes. “That’s three days from now,” he said, massaging his throat. “Becks, we can’t delay this kind of thing.”

  Another pause. Evan wanted to strangle his friend through the phone. “You sure you want to go into business with me?” Becks said finally.

  “Of course I do. Becks, come on. Stop talking like this.”

  Becks sighed. “I’m not feeling that well,” he said. “I’m going to go.”

  Evan stared at his phone as Becks hung up. He resisted the urge to fling it across the room and start sobbing.

  It was all so close, Evan thought. But what was he supposed to do now that it was slipping away?

  Chapter 20

  Rick pulled up to the Beckers’ drive and shifted his car into park. He left his hands on the steering wheel, chewing his lower lip and thinking.

  The house itself was beautiful: a broad white manor with a stone foundation and an entryway flanked by large pillars. The landscaping was impeccable, with rows of hedges shaped into cones and spheres and a line of bright pink flowers standing guard in front. Not a mansion, nothing so gaudy as that, but a handsome home in the middle of an upscale neighborhood, walkable to downtown St. Clair.

  Of course, he could imagine the reception he would get. It had taken him long enough to find the address—a surprisingly long time, given the celebrity status of the Beckers. They obviously valued their privacy; they would presumably have a number of questions for him when he knocked on the door. He felt an unfamiliar stab of guilt at what he was about to do. Why? Surely he couldn’t pity rich folks like these—especially ones who might have had something to do with a woman’s death. Pity would cloud his judgment. It would make him hope that something else had happened, that Evan Miller or Sam O’Nally or Aaron Williamson or anyone else had hurt Gina Tiller—and then Rick would end up paying in the end.

  The truth, as always, could be his only friend.

  Rick climbed out of his car and walked up the drive to the house. He rang the buzzer and knocked on the door.

  He felt quick footsteps and then the subtle change in shadows that was the peering of a face through the eyehole. The door swung open a second later, and Rick could have sworn that, for just a moment, he saw a flash of relief on Whitney’s face.

  “What do you want?” she said. “Sorry—I mean—who are you?”

  “Rick Fales, ma’am. Good to see you again.”

  She ignored his hand, her face dropping. “Oh,” she said. “Oh—you’re the reporter, aren’t you? You were there last night.”

  Had she been expecting the police, Rick wondered? Or perhaps the police had already been there to question her, if they hadn’t the night before. “Yes, I was. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions. About Eliza Vorne,” he said, as Whitney stepped back from the door and sighed, beginning to shut it.

  At the mention of her friend’s name, Whitney hesitated, and Rick began talking rapidly. “I understand that she applied for a job working under Mr. Tiller a few months ago—Gina’s father. And then she pursued legal action against him when she did not get it—”

  “She didn’t,” Whitney said darkly.

  “Well, I’d love to have you clear that up for me. Maybe I’ve been misinformed. But it’s an odd grudge to have, given the circumstances—”

  “Rick, is it? Please. I’m exhausted. My husband is exhausted. There’s nothing I can possibly say to you, nor anything that I think I should. A woman was murdered. I have no comment for the papers.” She gave him a look of disdain mixed with pity, and Rick recoiled. Pity was always the worst.

  Whitney shut the door.

  Rick blinked, trying to recover. He could knock on the door again, try another angle. Perhaps state even wilder rumors about Eliza and see if Whitney bit. Perhaps insinuate things about her husband and see if she started defending him, or if she grew afraid.

  In the end, though, the look of pity kept him back. He needed to go home and recuperate—have a drink, regroup, try to wash some of that disgusting pity from his pores. He would be on his game these next few days, no matter what he had to do. He would deliver the story that he needed to and move on. As soon as he got his head on straight.

  Rick was almost back to his car when a voice called out to him. Rick blinked, shocked. The tall, broad-shouldered figure of Daniel Becker approached him in loping strides.

  “Can I ride with you?” Becks said, slipping into the passenger side without waiting for a response.

  “Your wife okay with this?” Rick asked, still bewildered. But he climbed into the car and dutifully started it.

  “She’s on the phone. She’ll be a while.” Becks shot Rick a quick smile. “Stop panicking. Didn’t you come to talk to me?”

  Rick hid his surprise by a dutiful focus on backing out of the drive. When he was on the road, he said, “I take it you’re feeling better today.”

  Becks shrugged, embarrassed. He leaned his forehead against his window. “A bit nauseous this morning, but yeah. Good today.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  An awkward silence fell over the car. Daniel Becker! Rick thought. He had Daniel Becker in his car!

  “Did you hear what I said to her?” Rick blurted, a few seconds later. “To your wife, I mean.”

  “About Eliza?” Becks shrugged. “Not sure why you care. Eliza didn’t do anything to Gina.”

  “Does that mean you know who did?”

  “No. Do you?”

  Rick considered bluffing, but ended up shaking h
is head. “But you have to admit,” he said, “it looks suspicious—the lawsuit.”

  “But Eliza didn’t sue Lyle Tiller,” Becks said. “That’s what I wanted to tell you.”

  Rick glanced over at Becks, intrigued. “That’s why you gave your wife the slip and wanted to talk to some lowly gossip reporter like me?”

  Becks shrugged sheepishly. “I don’t know who you write for. You seemed fine last night. I just—well, Eliza’s a friend. If Whitney doesn’t want to tell you, I will. Lyle Tiller was harassing Eliza.”

  Rick tried not to let the doubt show plainly on his face. He knew CTE didn’t cause outright delusions, at least, not that he knew of, but how far could he trust Becks’ words? His interpretations? “Harassing, like…?”

  “He knew Eliza was interested in working for him. So he dangled a job offer in front of her, but told her she’d have to go through the formal interview process. Kept setting up interviews privately with him at his office. On the second or third one he made a move on her, and then tried to grab her by the wrist when she left.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “She told Whitney. In front of me.”

  “And you believe her?”

  Becks snorted. “Yes. Entirely.”

  “But the lawsuit…”

  “There was no lawsuit. She threatened one, yeah, just to get him to stop trying to contact her after that. Obviously she wasn’t going to take any job. Lyle didn’t really take kindly to all of that. He threatened to have Wills pulled off the team if she tried to do anything like that.”

  “Wills?”

  “Aaron Williamson. They were dating at the time.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  Becks shrugged. “A month? Longer, maybe—a couple of months or so. I don’t know.”

  Rick was quiet, calculating. If that was true, then Eliza still had every reason to dislike Gina Tiller—though in any of these scenarios, it was hard to understand why, exactly, she would have a motivation to kill her. To get back at the father? That seemed a bit dramatic.

  “Did Eliza have any other personal feelings towards Gina?” Rick asked.

  Becks frowned. “This is all—what is it, deep background? Off the record? I don’t want to be quoted in any articles.”

  “You won’t be,” Rick assured him, not mentioning that it was mostly because Daniel Becker would not be considered a reliable source. Not now.

  “Well, the answer is no, anyway. I don’t know—I don’t think most people like Gina, from what Whit tells me. Why? Why do you think Eliza had something to do with it?”

  “Why is Aaron Williamson getting physical therapy?” Rick said, changing the subject. “I saw him leaving a center this morning.”

  Becks blinked, then shrugged. “I wouldn’t know,” he said, unable to keep the bitter note from his voice. “I don’t really keep up with that kind of stuff anymore.”

  They rode in silence for some time. Rick was doing a large loop around St. Clair, figuring Becks had a good twenty or thirty minutes at least before Whitney noticed he was missing. His mind kept whirring, trying to make sense of everything. He wanted to ask more about what Becks remembered that night, if anything had come back to him, but he couldn’t seem to find a way to broach the subject—not without sounding accusatory.

  “You seem cheerful this morning,” Rick said finally.

  “I’m okay.”

  Maybe relieved to have Gina Tiller out of the way, Rick thought darkly, and shoved the thought away. No. Of course that couldn’t be true. The man sitting in his passenger seat, looking down at his large hands, brow furrowed in intense thought—that man surely wasn’t a murderer.

  “Are you feeling nauseous?” Rick said nervously, noticing how still Becks had gone.

  “No. Not anymore. I’m fine.” Becks shook himself and straightened. “Whitney called the doctors, of course. She wanted to bring me in. They told her it was probably stress and told me to drink some ginger ale.” He laughed humorlessly. “They were right, though. That seemed to have done the trick.”

  He’s lonely, Rick realized, feeling another unwelcome wave of sympathy for the ex-footballer. His football friends probably rarely talked to him anymore, he had had an ugly and public falling-out with his family years ago, and his wife was probably more concerned with talking CTE symptoms and health details than actually having a human, normal conversation. Becks didn’t run out because he wanted to correct a point about Eliza. He ran out because he was desperate for some, for any, relief. For a human interaction that approximated normal.

  Slowly, Rick pulled back on the street that led to Becks’ house. He felt Becks noticeably stiffen as they did so.

  “Did you want to tell me anything else?” Rick finally ventured. “Anything before I drop you back off?”

  “About what?”

  It was like dealing with a child. “About last night. At the mansion. About Gina’s death.”

  “Eliza didn’t do anything.”

  “Mmhmm. I know, you told me as much. What about who did do it—anything you remember there?”

  Becks looked sideways at him. “You’re asking me if I remember doing anything to her.”

  “Well—yes. I guess so. Do you?”

  “No.”

  “Okay.”

  “But you still think that maybe I did.”

  Rick held up one hand in a who knows gesture. “You ever have gaps in your memory like that? Would be pretty odd, if you weren’t drinking.”

  Becks was silent, stewing. That’s a yes, Rick thought.

  “Well,” Rick said, loudly, too cheerfully, as he pulled back into Becks’ drive. “It could have been anyone, really. I don’t mean to make you think that I just suspect you. It’s a puzzle, that’s all. A puzzle to figure out.”

  “Will you tell me? When you do figure it out?” Becks question was fervent and earnest as Rick killed his engine. The reporter glanced over at Becks, who was looking at him with a wide-eyed and hopeful expression. Rick felt suddenly uneasily. “You’re going to keep looking into what happened to Gina?”

  “Yes,” Rick said slowly. “I’m going to keep looking.”

  “You’ll keep me in the loop?”

  “I mean—yes, sure I will. I’ll give you my card, too? And that way, if you remember anything, you can get in touch with me.”

  Becks shrugged, but took the card when Rick offered it to him. “I really hope you figure out what happened,” Becks mumbled, turning the card over in his massive fingers. “I really hope you do.”

  And then he was out of the car and loping back towards his house.

  Chapter 21

  Monday morning dawned; Becks woke up feeling light and clearheaded, until he thought again of Gina, of the police, of his wild decision to run out and talk to the reporter. What had been the point of that? Perhaps CTE affects decision-making, that snake-like voice in his head whispered, and Becks pushed it away as he tossed off the rest of his covers.

  He made himself coffee and found a note in the kitchen from Whitney, telling him that she was running to the pharmacy and that she had left the cereal out on the counter for him. Becks felt a stab of resentment at the thought that perhaps Whitney felt he was just like a child, too much of a burden to take anywhere anymore. But he quickly suppressed it.

  The details of the day before played back to him, strong and distinct. He had run after Fales, and why? He had been worried that Fales would think poorly of Eliza, that Whitney’s refusal to correct the reporter’s false information would lead to a scandalous story with no basis in truth. But really, was that true? Or had Becks known that such threats were part of the journalist’s currency? Had Becks gone out there, in actuality, just because he was so desperate for someone else to think well of him? Because he wanted to manipulate the reporter, get him to like him?

  Because he was afraid, and didn’t quite trust himself?

  Becks shook his head and took his cereal over to the couch. He couldn’t think like that. Wouldn
’t, now that he had some space and time to think.

  He flipped through the channels and dug out the newspaper from recycling. He didn’t read much anymore—it tended to give him a headache—so Whitney had taken to trashing the papers after she read them. When he finally snapped the paper open, he wished he hadn’t: the death of Gina Tiller had made the front page, with the headline “Popular Socialite Found Dead at Disgraced Footballer’s Party.” The article itself seemed to imply that Gina Tiller had had too much to drink and had toppled off the balcony: the author did away with Gina’s murder in the first few paragraphs, before moving almost entirely to focus on Daniel Becker’s health and professional troubles, including a quote from the Gryphons’ former team doctor, a recounting of the infamous tackle, and a short blurb on Becks’ new company that “was formed together with one of Becker’s high school friends.”

  Becks dialed Evan.

  “Becks!” Evan said. “Was just thinking of giving you a call. How goes it?”

  “We got some publicity.”

  “How’s that?”

  “The paper.”

  “Local or national?”

  “National.”

  A pause as Evan digested this and swallowed. “Well,” Evan said, still trying to sound cheery, “I haven’t seen that one yet. Hold on.” Becks heard typing on the other end of the line. “Ah. Well. It’s ah—it’s to be expected, isn’t it?”

  Evan was doing a poor job of hiding his nervousness. “At least they’re not implying here that I killed her,” Becks said sourly. “At least not in so many words. I’m sure that will come later, though, won’t it?”

  “No, of course not,” Evan said unconvincingly. “You didn’t, so why would they? Never mind the papers. Dying business. They’re all just trying to keep circulation up.” It was the same thing that Evan had said to Becks when the first scandal hit, when Whitney and Evan had spent weeks trying to shield Becks from the worst of it.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry.”

  “I ruined the launch. If I hadn’t been there—”

  “Then what? Gina still would have taken a spill off the balcony. Don’t talk that way, okay, Becks?”