A friend indeed, p.1
A Friend Indeed, page 1
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PRAISE FOR
A FRIEND INDEED
“Sensational . . . A Friend Indeed—like its writer—is devilishly smart with twists that are more delicious to unwrap than a box of chocolates.”
DEBORAH GOODRICH ROYCE,
nationally bestselling author of Reef Road
“With a plot that twists and turns yet is totally convincing, it enthralls to the very last line.”
A. D. SCOTT,
author of the 5-star Kirkus-reviewed Highland Gazette series
“A tale of deception and betrayal, this novel will leave you breathless until the last page.”
LIZ ALTERMAN
author of The Perfect Neighborhood
BOOKS BY ELKA RAY
the toby wong vancouver island mysteries
Divorce Is Murder
Killer Coin
standalone novels
A Friend Indeed
Saigon Dark
Hanoi Jane
short story collections
What You Don’t Know
Copyright © 2024 by Elke Katherine Ray
E-book published in 2024 by Blackstone Publishing
Cover design by Larissa Ezell
Author photograph by Eloise Nguyễn
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Trade e-book ISBN 979-8-200-96021-7
Library e-book ISBN 979-8-200-96020-0
Fiction / Thrillers / Psychological
Blackstone Publishing
31 Mistletoe Rd.
Ashland, OR 97520
www.BlackstonePublishing.com
For my childhood friends, C and JR—
whose husbands, like mine, remain very much alive.
It’s the friends you can call up at four a.m. that matter.
—Marlene Dietrich
CONTENTS
1. Jo: That night
2. Jo
3. Dana
4. Dana
5. Dana: The next morning
6. Jo
7. Dana
8. Jo
9. Jo
10. Dana
11. Jo: Two days since Stan died
12. Jo
13. Dana
14. Jo
15. Dana: Three nights after Stan’s death
16. Dana: Four days since Stan’s death
17. Jo
18. Dana: Six nights since Stan’s death
19. Dana: One week since Stan’s death
20. Jo
21. Jo: Nine days after Stan’s death
22. Jo
23. Dana
24. Jo: Ten days since Stan died
25. Jo: Eleven days since Stan died
26. Jo: Twelve days since Stan died
27. Dana: Thirteen days after Stan’s death
28. Jo
29. Jo
30. Dana
31. Jo
32. Dana: Two weeks since Stan’s death
33. Jo: Sixteen days since Stan died
34. Dana: Seventeen days after Stan’s death
35. Jo: Seventeen days since Stan died
36. Dana: Eighteen days after Stan’s death
37. Dana: Nineteen days since Stan’s death
38. Jo: Twenty-two days since Stan died
39. Dana
40. Jo
41. Dana: Twenty-four days since Stan’s death
42. Dana
43. Jo
44. Dana
45. Jo
46. Jo
47. Dana: Twenty-nine days since Stan’s death
48. Dana: Seven months later
49. Dana: Six days later
50. Jo: The night of the fall
51. Jo: Next summer
Acknowledgments
Author’s Note
About the Author
CHAPTER 1
JO: THAT NIGHT
The phone’s buzz jolts me awake. I hesitate. Good news never comes in the dead of night. Unless . . . I reach for it. For one stupid second, I’m convinced it’s my ex, Trevor.
“Hello?” It comes out a thick mumble.
“Jo? It’s me!” Not Trevor but Dana, my best and oldest friend. Her words are jerky. “Jo, I need your help! Can you come over?”
I find my glasses. The ’80s clock radio that came with my basement apartment blinks 12:09 a.m. “What? Now?” I say, incredulous. “But I have Ruby. And I have to teach in the morning. What’s happened?”
“I . . . Please!” says Dana. “I just . . .” She’s gulping too hard to get the words out.
I sit up. Holy shit. Something’s happened. The last time I heard Dana cry was well over a decade ago, when Owen started acting out as a toddler. I click the light on. “Dana? Are you okay?”
“Please, Jo.” A sob breaks free. “I really need you!”
I fight back a sigh and kick back the covers. Is saying no an option? She’s my best and oldest friend. She’s sobbing hysterically. Plus, I owe her.
And she needs me.
This last thought brings a tiny lift like I’ve been chosen first for softball. Pathetic, but there it is, even at my age. That’s a first in thirty years of friendship. Even as a young girl—no, especially as a young girl, Dana never needed me.
I stagger out of bed and head for the bathroom. “Okay,” I say. “I’ll be right over.”
At this time of night, the Oaks lies deserted. It’s the most exclusive part of town. Immense trees flank the road as if to keep me in line. High walls guard old mansions with spiky black rooftops.
It starts to drizzle. The ornate streetlamps are feeble. I fight back a yawn and click on my wipers. The left one’s wonky. It squeaks and smears the wetness. Yet one more thing that needs fixing.
I turn onto Elm and check my rearview: Ruby’s fast asleep in her booster seat. Poor kid, hauled out of bed past midnight. Tomorrow’s Monday. A school day. She’s in kindergarten. This had better not be some pointless drama.
I should have refused. But how could I? Dana sounded desperate. And she’s done so much for me, especially after Chicago. No, I won’t think of that. Of course Dana helped me. That’s what friends do. We’re here for each other.
I slow at a stop sign. Now it’s my turn. She said she needed me. Might her twins be in trouble, or little Zoe, who’s the same age as Ruby?
I turn onto Beach Drive. By the water, the lots and mansions grow even bigger, the walls and gates more imposing. Those gates represent their owners’ egos. No one needs a gate as tall as a double-decker bus. No one needs a twelve-thousand-square-foot mansion.
A sigh escapes. What I need is sleep. And a new car, preferably one made this millennium. An ex who paid child support would be a bonus. Fucking Trevor. How idiotic to think he’d actually call me.
I slow and turn into Dana’s driveway. The wrought-iron gates rise before me. In the back seat, Ruby mumbles in her sleep. I pull up and type in the security code. The gates slide open. Modern magic.
I hesitate. Need. What an odd thing to say. And Dana’s tone. She sounded almost . . . scared. She’s normally cool and collected.
Is she in danger? Am I putting Ruby at risk? This thought shrinks my chest. But no. Dana would have called the cops instead of me, which means it’s some domestic drama—maybe an argument with Stanley.
I was a bridesmaid at their wedding, going on two decades ago. Even so, I don’t really know him. By the time Stan moved here, I’d left town. We’ve barely spoken since I moved back two months ago.
What I do know is that I don’t trust him. He runs a hedge fund and is utterly convinced he deserves his good fortune. He’s too rich, with all the confidence that breeds. Men like Stan lack imagination. Maybe Dana caught him cheating and that’s what prompted her hysterical call to me. Yes, Stan’s just the type to find someone younger and blonder.
I jolt forward, past the graceful hemlocks, our state tree. The gates glide shut behind me.
The driveway’s so long it’s got speed bumps. Oregon oaks, Douglas firs, and Pacific rhododendrons line the road, all native to the Pacific Northwest. The wiper’s squeak is increasingly shrill. I grit my teeth. It’s like nails on a blackboard.
Damn. I regret coming over. I shouldn’t have caved. I’m due in early tomorrow for a tutoring session. Ever since I lost my last job, I’ve had trouble sleeping. I wake at four like clockwork, debts and fears pressing in. I should have told Dana to take a sleeping pill and that I’d call her in the morning.
As I round the bend, Winderlea looms into view, dark and brutal over the treetops. The grounds are magical, overlooking the Strait of Juan de Fuca. But that house! Even by Scottish Baronial standards, it’s an eyesore. The porch is as dark and deep as a cavern. And its ominous chimneys look like watchtowers. You couldn’t pay me to live there—and I live in a basement.
I’m not sure how Dana stands it.
I reach in to undo Ruby’s seat belt. She smiles in her sleep. The sight softens my jaw. There’s nothing as precious as a sleeping child. Nothing as fragile.
She murmurs and twitches as I struggle to lift her out. “Shhhh, baby.” I balance her on my hip and slam the car door
At five, Ruby’s too big to comfortably carry. Her chin grinds my shoulder as I plod up the cobbled path. The air smells of cedar and the ocean.
As I approach the house, I stare at the huge blocky thing, its tall windows aglitter. Built in 1908, it’s the real deal, one of those grand old piles with a name, not some pseudo-aged plywood McMansion. Tonight it’s unlit, which is odd, albeit a blessing—it’s even uglier floodlit. Normally, come dusk, Winderlea lights up like the Titanic.
In my arms, Ruby startles, as if the house woke her. I shift her weight and stroke her hair. It’s silky in my fingers. Her breath’s warm on my neck. I keep stroking her hair. Her stiff body loosens.
I’m climbing the never-ending stairs to the front porch when Dana appears, a thin, ghostly blur. “Jo?” she calls. It’s too dark to see her clearly. “Oh, thank God!” she says. “Come inside!”
Thighs straining, I stagger on.
I’m at the lip of the porch when some faint light paints Dana’s face. Shock stops me. One eye’s puffed half shut. Her top lip’s busted. This wreckage is tear-stained.
My voice rings loud in the silence. “Jesus! Did someone hit you?”
Was it Stan? That bastard! Unless it was Owen? But no, he’s not had an outburst in years. I teach Owen tenth-grade English. He’s an odd kid but okay, with an underdog’s knack for ironic humor. He’d never hurt his mother. Nor would Chad, his golden boy twin brother.
“Shhhh,” hisses Dana. She steps back and inside. “Lock the door.”
I lean back to balance my sleeping daughter and push the heavy door shut. High overhead, a chandelier twinkles. Its glow doesn’t reach us. This house absorbs warmth and light.
I shiver. It’s colder inside than out. “Dana?” I say, alarmed. “What’s going on?”
Instead of answering, she retreats. Her voice floats free, a ragged stage whisper. “This way. I need to show you.”
I hesitate, then follow. With each step, Ruby feels heavier. Like the driveway, the hall is endless. I hurry to catch up. Dana’s barefoot, but my shoes clatter.
Far ahead, a door opens and pale bluish light paints the floor.
“In here,” calls Dana. Her voice echoes. “In my studio.” She disappears through the door.
Dana’s a florist—or, as the papers say, “a celebrity floral designer.” Her clients include politicians and pop stars. I step into her studio and stop. Along two walls stand blue-lit coolers full of flowers: pom poms of peonies, banks of blood-red roses, spiky birds of paradise, vicious as medieval weapons. Thanks to the coolers, the room is less dark than the hall.
My breathing has shallowed. The smell’s sweet and heavy, with an odd rusty tang.
Dana walks to a workbench and stops. Her back’s to me. In the eerie light, her fair hair shines blue. “There,” she says, her voice strangled.
A marble bench blocks my view.
I step closer and halt. Stan’s face down on the white marble floor. I bite back a gasp, mindful of waking Ruby.
He’s clad in boxer shorts and socks. His skin is raw-chicken pale. A Turkish towel’s slung over the back of his head and shoulders, like he just stepped from a sauna and collapsed. A black puddle, shiny as ink, surrounds his head and chest. A large broken vase rests nearby.
Absurdly, I focus on the towel. That stain! What a waste! Turkish towels cost a fortune. I twist to Dana. “Is he—?”
She looks my way. Horrified eyes drop to my sleeping child. Her swollen mouth stretches. “Oh my God! You’ve got Ruby!”
I blink, slow and stupefied. She’s right. I must get Ruby away from . . . that. Yet my feet feel part of the floor. Stan can’t be dead. Is this a bad prank? That spill could be oil. Or molasses. Or . . .
“He’s dead!” whispers Dana.
My lips are numb as I ask, “Are you sure?”
No response. I force my eyes back to Stan. His back . . . there’s no rise and fall.
I inch his way. “Stan?” He doesn’t move. I nudge his leg with my foot. My loafer leaves a smudge on his pale, meaty calf.
I should kneel down, try to find a pulse. But I can’t. Not with Ruby. I stare at his socks: red, with a print of tiny footballs. I was with Dana when she bought them. We were shopping with our daughters.
Zoe must be upstairs, asleep. She’s five, the same age as Ruby. I sway. Poor Zoe, losing her daddy. And Dana’s twins. They’re fifteen. A tough age.
To avoid looking at Stan, I step back and focus on the flowers in the closest cooler. White roses so perfect they look fake. Tiny wicked-faced orchids. And those Queen of Night hybrids, the darkest of all tulips, disgusting things, full and fleshy as internal organs. I feel dizzy.
Was it a heart attack? Stan had the type A personality I associate with coronaries. Is it too late to try CPR?
Dana gags. This rouses me. I spin to her: “Where’s the ambulance, Dana?”
She must be in shock. Instead of answering, she sobs.
“Dana?” I try the stern, slow voice I use with daydreaming students: “Dana, did you call 911?”
When she doesn’t respond, I thrust a hand into my coat pocket and extract my phone.
“No!” shrieks Dana.
I pull back in alarm. Dana never yells. She doesn’t need to. She’s got other ways to keep people in line: a look of ice, a jab of side-eye. Now her eyes are wild.
“What?” I snap. “Stan’s dead! We need help! Why didn’t you call?”
Her head shakes, eyes blazing blue in her lopsided face. “No!” she cries. “No police! You don’t get it! I killed Stan!”
CHAPTER 2
JO
I’m shaking so hard my legs are unsteady. I lurch from side to side down the dark tunnel of a hall.
Dana’s behind me. She calls out, beseeching. “Jo! Stop!”
I ignore her and stumble toward the den. My phone’s still clutched in one hand, pressed to my sleeping child. I’m scared I’ll drop Ruby. She’s increasingly heavy. I must put her down—now.
I shoulder the den’s mahogany door.
The room smells of cologne, sporty and manly. My throat clogs. It smells of Stan.
I swish the wall with tingling fingers until I find the switch. The sudden light is blinding. Ruby twitches in my arms. I hug her. “Shhhh,” I whisper.
The den’s very much Stan’s room, all chrome and black leather, with the world’s biggest flat-screen and a bookshelf full of golfing trophies. There’s a larger-than-life-sized closeup photo of Stan snowboarding: neon coat, flashing teeth, and shiny goggles hiding his eyes.
I stagger toward a massive sofa. Everything in this house seems made for giants, like some master race lives here. The ceilings are fourteen feet high.
Dana’s still behind me, still pleading: “Please, Jo! Please! Let me explain!”
My arms quiver as I release Ruby onto the couch. Her little face screws up, then smooths over. Thank God my daughter’s a deep sleeper.
Without Ruby’s weight, my arms feel floaty. I reach for a blanket neatly folded on one armrest. It’s printed with an image of Disney’s Little Mermaid. It must be Zoe’s. I want to cry. I shake out the blanket and allow it to settle gently over Ruby.
