Chapter Two

On the morning after Molly Baker's murder, life on Wisteria Lane slowed down. Every once in a while, housewives would stop their morning chores and think of their murdered neighbour, and the vacuum cleaner, broom, feather duster, or cooking ladle would be put aside while Molly Baker was remembered by those who knew her.

Mina Hill, who didn't like to do chores at the best of times, had all but abandoned them at this worst time, and was trying to reach her husband. Molly and Mina had been friends, and the idea that Molly was no longer in this world made no sense for the bubbly blonde.

And as was her custom, whenever the world stopped making sense, she turned to her husband. Caleb was her rock, the centre of her world. Mina was not a stupid woman; talking to Caleb wouldn't bring Molly back, but it didn't seem right that something so monumental, so terrible had happened and Caleb didn't know. So Mina made herself a mug of tea (because that's what people always did in these situation, didn't they?), curled up in the armchair in her large walk-in closet and dialled her husband's number.

But again and again, her calls went to voicemail.
You have reached Caleb Hill's phone. I cannot take your call at the moment, but please leave a message after the tone.
Frustrated, she put the phone down. Where on earth was Caleb?

Jack Watson was sitting on the couch his fiancée had picked out, a plushy green thing that Molly had adorned with a plethora of throw cushions and crocheted afghans. Staring at the walls that held countless pictures of the two of them - Molly's parents, his father, places they'd visited - he felt completely empty.

The doorbell and the phone had been ringing non-stop all morning, but he just didn't have it in him to answer either. He had called Molly's parents, and he could still hear Mrs. Baker's choked sobs crackling through the line. They'd be here in time for the funeral, a funeral he had to organise.

But how was he supposed to do that when he still couldn't believe she was gone? Just last night, as he'd watched and consequently fallen asleep during the game, she'd left their house, walked through the park and entered the Crown Café after opening hours. It was there she'd met her murderer, and now she was in a morgue somewhere.

Molly didn't belong in a morgue. She belonged here, in this house she'd stuffed full of useless pretty things, and with him. She belonged in the small newsroom of the local paper where she wrote that useless advice column. She belonged with her parents, who loved her so much.

He rubbed a hand over his tired eyes. Maybe he should go to Darien, let him give him something to make him sleep. Wasn't that what people did? Take pills and go to sleep, and let friends and family handle the mean and menial tasks that came with losing a loved one?

Again, the phone rang. With a sudden surge of anger, Jack jumped up from the couch, crossed the living-room, and ripped the cord from the wall.

In the silence, he finally began to cry.

Caleb Hill rolled on his back, panting. His smirking companion stretched out on the bed. A small part of him noted she resembled a lioness in that moment, dangerous and wild, but he'd been steadfastly ignoring that voice for the better part of 18 months, ever since he'd been coming to this hotel room.

"I'd murder for some coffee and a croissant." Caleb couldn't quite tell if she was purring or growling and he found himself itching to have her again then and there. She always had that effect on him; her sex appeal had no off switch. With her, it didn't even matter whether she was dressed or clothed. Be it in lingerie or dirty old jeans, she exuded sex and sin. Not that he had ever seen her in dirty old jeans. The perks of having an affair were that he only saw her at her best.

When she reached over him to grasp at the room service menu, she very deliberately pressed her naked body to his, and remained on top of him as she flipped through the menu. The voice in his head stubbornly noted that it felt like she was marking her territory. The voice also noted that he should mind.

"I have to get back to work, B," Caleb finally answered and inhaled her musky perfume. Fittingly, it was called Opium. Dangerous and addictive, that's what she was.

She batted her long black lashes. "Really? But certainly only after you've taken a shower. You can't go home smelling of me, can you?"

It probably wouldn't do to have her perfume on his shirt. But then she'd never been shy about leaving lipstick on his collar. He swore she went out of her way to leave it there sometimes. If Mina were to catch them, well, Caleb wasn't sure B wouldn't like that just as much as whatever they did between the sheets.

Dropping the menu on his sweaty chest, she rolled herself out of bed and strutted to the adjoining bathroom. Giving him an inviting look over her shoulder, all that long red hair tumbling down like a fiery river, he knew his work and wife both would have to wait.

Unnoticed and switched off, his phone lay on the nightstand.

When people die, a protocol is to be observed. First, everyone needs to be notified of the sad event. As far as Raye Smith knew, Serena and Mr. Melvin had already spread the word. Mr. Melvin had left Mina's porch to go talk to Beryl Britt, and when nobody opened the door, the old man had made his way down the street, probably heading to the Evans-Parkers at the end of the lane. Maggie had excused herself to call her husband, and then Mina had gone inside and upstairs to do the same. Quietly, Rei had cleaned away the mugs and put the chairs back into their correct position before returning to her own house.

Now she was standing in her kitchen, preparing a casserole for Jack Watson, next door neighbour, widower, and friend. It was the second step in the protocol: in times of duress, bring food. It was a good thing Raye had made some apple-pie just last night: it was supposed to go the church's bake sale, but Raye was a woman with her priorities firmly in place. So she checked the temperature of the oven, carefully wrapped the pie in aluminium foil, and then (since it was almost noon) poured herself a large glass of still water and took her daily dose of antidepressants. Two small white pills everyday at noon. She drank up (one glass of water, her doctor had said, and Raye liked to follow instructions to the letter), put the glass in the dishwasher and stored the pills in the cupboard where she kept her tea. They made her sleepy later in the afternoon, but they also made sure that she felt like getting up in the morning. With these kind of things, little sacrifices always had to be made.

The egg timer went off, and Rei turned back to the oven. Yes, the casserole was perfect. The cheese was baked golden, a perfect crisp cover. Slipping on her bright red kitchen gloves, she pulled the casserole out and the smell of garlic hit her nose. She'd sprinkle a few fresh leaves of basil over it before taking it next door, and perhaps a pitcher of home-made lemonade to wash it all down.

The Crown Café had a lot of regular customers, but none of them had appeared today. Instead, the police had sectioned the place off with bright yellow and the Crime Scene Unit was busy collecting any and every fingerprint ever left on the milk jugs, the coffee maker, the till, the chairs, the small tables, even on the flower pots that adorned the large shop windows.

In the small office in the back, Andrew and Zachary Crown were interviewed by two detectives.
"Who has a key to the café?" Detective Bilson asked, small green eyes squinting at the two brothers. White tufts of hair were sprouting from his head, out of his ears, and even out of his nose, where they mingled with his unruly white moustache.

Andrew, head buried in his hands, didn't answer. Ever since he'd found Molly Baker this morning, his brother had been a wreck. Zach sighed. "We told you four hours ago. We also told your colleagues three hours ago, and then all of you together. The answer is not going to change. My brother has a key, and so do I, but I lost mine last Wednesday. We ordered new locks the same day, they were supposed to be put in tomorrow."
The younger of the two detectives, Detective Cooper, checked something in his small black notebook. He was around 40, and as skinny as a skeleton. "Their story checks out. The locksmith down Main Street has corroborated the date of the order."
His partner nodded. "Fine. Where were you two last night?"
Andrew raised his head from his hands. At 35, he still looked youthful, even though his blond hair was slowly thinning out on top. The café was his whole world: he had opened it ten years ago with his wife Rosemary, and after her death in car accident, he operated it alone until his brother joined the business 18 months ago.

"We close at seven, and then I did the till, so I left around round 7.30 pm. I walked home through the park, where I met Beryl Britt. She goes running there. We talked, ummm...about... I don't remember what we talked about, sorry. But I went home after a little while and did some bookkeeping." Andrew's blue eyes were red-rimmed and pleading. He had offered to make the policemen coffee, but a crime scene technician had gently informed him that everything in the café was evidence for now, including the coffee machine, and thus not to be touched.

And now he was sitting in the tidy office, hearing people rustle and bustle, and tried to remember everything that could help solve this crime, give all the information as quickly as concisely as possible. Unfortunately, he failed. Whenever he closed his eyes, he was brought back to the moment he pushed the key in the lock, stepped inside, and slipped, falling right onto the dead Molly Baker. He'd slipped on her blood, smearing the perfect crimson puddle and splattering the red liquid all over himself and the floor.

Bilson shook his head, affecting a pained expression. "Can't reach Ms Britt, she's not answering her phone. Her secretary said she wouldn't be back in before two, two-fifteen. Mr. Crown, can anyone verify you stayed home all night?"
"I made a call to my accountant," Andrew said slowly, and then rubbed his eyes.
"When?"
Zach bit down on his tongue. This detective was an asshole. Couldn't he see that Andrew was miserable?
"Maybe 'round nine forty-five? I don't know, I didn't look at the clock. But he'll know. Mr. Hickory, has his offices near the Mall."
"Cell or landline?"
Andrew blinked. "I- I don't remember. Landline, I think."
Both detectives made some notes before Detective Cooper focused on Zach. "And you?"
"I had the day off yesterday. I was in town till ten, and then drove home."

Andrew nodded. "We had some sandwiches together and watched a rerun of the game. Forgot that. Sorry."
Bilson and Cooper ignored him. Cooper leaned towards the younger crown brother, a glimmer of interest in his eyes. "What were you doing in town?"
Zach met the detective's look. "AA. The one near City Hall."
"Alcohol?"
"Prescription drugs."
"You don't have a criminal record," Bilson murmured, flipping around in his notebook, and finally settling for scratching his neck.
"No, just a weak personality."
"Don't get snarky. We'll check with AA."
"You might also want to check with my sponsor, Noel Brown. We went in together."

"How would you describe your relationship to the victim?"
Andrew and Zach exchanged a look, and Zach shrugged. "She was a regular customer and a neighbour. We play football with her fiancé."
"The other Mr. Crown, you got something to add?"
Andrew wrung his hands. "She was a nice girl. Everyone likes- liked her. Her parents come twice a month, and she always pre-ordered some cake and muffins. Said she couldn't bake. When I was sick last winter, she came over and brought some soup. A nice girl. I don't understand who would want to do something like that."
Bilson shook his head and rubbed a hand over his tired-looking face. "If you could understand it, I'd be out of a job. Give me the number of your accountant and your phone company, and I'll check your information."

"When can we open again?" Zach asked, earning himself a scandalised look from his brother.
"Zach, she's not even buried."
"We've got bills to pay. It'll be hard enough to get people to keep coming here now that this is a crime scene."
Detective Cooper snorted. "Son, you'll be surprised. The gossips and the onlookers will storm the place. Better stock up on some cheesecake."
"Cooper," his colleague snarled, and the younger cop had the decency to blush. "Sorry, Sir."

"Is she-" Andrew begin, and then had to clear his throat, "is she still here?"
For the first time since setting foot into the café, a look of pity crawled up on Detective Bilson. "No, she was taken to the coroner's office two hours ago. Must have been hard for you, finding her like this." As an afterthought, he offered: "Give me your key, and then you two can go home. One of my men will drop it off at your place when we leave here for the day." It was the most kindness Andrew had been shown since the moment the Crime Scene Unit's chief technician had asked him to hand over his blood-stained shoes and shirt for evidence and offered him some trainers and a police jumper instead.
Numbly, Andrew nodded and began to fumble with his key chain. His hands were shaking so much that it slid from his fingers and fell to the floor with a loud clank. "Sorry," Andrew murmured, and picked it up again, still trying to wrench the key loose.
Bilson's green eyes travelled back to Zach. "Quite impressive, how calm you are."
"All you can do when the shit hits the fan, isn't it? I learned it the hard way," Zach answered. He'd learned this particular lesson from his older brother the very day he moved onto Wisteria Lane eighteen months ago...

"Zach? What are you doing here? Come on in, you're soaking wet."
Letting his brother drag him inside the house, Zachary Crown knew that he had finally hit rock bottom. He'd lost his job, his girlfriend, and today, his landlord had capped his lease. Everything he still owned was in the suitcase he was clutching in his right hand, the backpack on his shoulder, and of course, his computer bag. That was all. All that was left.

"Is that a suitcase? Are you staying for a while?" His brother took the suitcase and computer bag from him, carefully stashing both next to the coat rack. It was one of those wrought-iron affairs, adorned with flowers and stuff. Without a doubt, Rosemary had picked it out before she died. The whole house spoke of the woman his brother had loved so deeply. The framed watercolour paintings on the wall, the rug he was standing and dripping on, even the small bowl of potpourri on the chest of drawers next to the clothes rack.
Andrew's life had been hard enough, he had no right to barge in and add to his worries, Zach realised. Coming here was egoistic. He needed to leave, get out before Andrew caught on.
"You know what, it's nothing. I was just.. on the way to the airport, and thought I'd pop in. For, you know, a beer. But then I must be off." He'd sleep under a bridge somewhere. There was one near the school. He'd be fine.

"You lost weight," his brother observed, and a look of comprehension was slowly dawning on his face. Zachary felt as if his stomach suddenly filled with a thousand bricks. "Listen, I really need to go- I'm already late. Shouldn't have walked here, should have taken a cab, my bad, I-"
"Where are you flying then?" Andrew asked, arms crossed in front of his chest and doubt written over his face.

The gesture and the look were eerily familiar. What Andrew wore... an unironed shirt, white stripes on blue ground. Brown belt with black shoes. Just like their dad. He had never been able to lie to their father, and just now, he realised he couldn't lie to his brother. He'd know anyway.
Zach swallowed. "I..." his voice broke, and he had to take a deep breath. "The university fired me."
Andrew's jaw dropped. "What? Why? You're the smartest person in the world! They wanted to make you junior professor. What happened? Did you drop some fancy telescope or something?"
"Or something."
"Zach..."
"You sound a lot like Dad, and your hairline looks like his too." Zach tried to joke, but couldn't even muster a smile. Their father had famously gone bald the day he turned 40. "I got fired because I fucked up an experiment. I was high."
"On what?"
"Everything the stolen receipt pad could get me."
Andrew took a breath. "What about Nora?"
"No more Nora. She left me months ago," Zach admitted, feeling smaller by the minute. Thank God his father wasn't alive to see him like this. Thank God. "Not that I blame her."
Squaring his shoulders, Andrew picked up the suitcase again. This was it, Zach knew. Like Nora, his brother would throw him out, get rid of him. It was better like this anyway. Junkie like him, he didn't deserve anything else.
"Grab your computer bag. You can have the guest room. Let's go."
Zach blinked.

"Bag, Zachary. Now."
"But-"
"There is an AA somewhere in town. You'll go once a day. You're not an alcoholic, but- wait, do you drink too?" Andrew, foot already on the first step of the staircase, turned around.
"Umm, no, but Andrew, you don't have to do thi-"
"You'll go once a day, they'll probably still let you participate even if you're not a drunkard. Wouldn't be fair otherwise," Andrew continued and turned back around. This was exactly like that time his big brother had marched down to the field hockey try outs and insisted his tiny, skinny, willowy brother was allowed to try out with all the kids twice his size just for the sake of justice. Trust Andrew to apply the same logic to AA.
Zach blinked again. "I am an addict, Andrew."
Not stopping, Andrew simply made his way upstairs, his voice carrying down the staircase, each word punctuated by the sound of another step. "And I am your brother. You can work in the café, go to AA, and get better. And if you want to stay beyond that, then that's fine with me too. If I catch you taking something, I will personally call the police. Are we clear?"
"I... yes?"
"Then grab your bag and follow me."
And he did.

Zach reached over and took the key chain out of his brother's shaking hands. With quick and nimble fingers, he pulled the key ring apart, slid the café keys off and handed them to Detective Bilson. Then he reached for his brother, gently pulling him up by the arm. "Come on, Andrew, let's go home."

When Caleb finally switched his phone back on, his voice mail registered four messages, each left by his wife, asking him to please call her back. But the morning with Beryl had wrecked havoc with his schedule, and he had to make up for lost time.
He turned to his secretary. "Judy, call my wife, please tell her I will have to work overtime, but should be home by no later than nine o'clock."

The house was too quiet. Glancing outside the window, Mina saw sunshine and a deep blue sky. Caleb had still not called her, and she didn't have it in herself to make his secretary put her through. He'd be mad, Judy would bear the brunt of his anger, and he had arranged for her to be informed that he would be home by nine. She could tell him then. Telling him now wouldn't change anything anyway: Molly would still be dead.

Dead. Molly was dead. How often had they had girly night outs together, had shared cocktails on the porch, gone to yoga, gone running together, their pace perfectly in sync-
Mina got up. She would go running. It was the last thing she and Molly had done together, just Saturday morning before Caleb and Jack even woke. That had been their tradition: a long run right after sunrise, and then a stop at Crown Café, where they'd always been the first customers of the day. Andrew never made them pay on Saturdays, he knew that carrying change while running was bothersome. Pay the next time you come for lunch, he'd always say, and Molly and Mina would giggle and smile and thank him.

Moving into the hallway, Mina pulled her muddy trainers from the shoe rack and slipped them on, tying the laces in a tight double knot. No iPod today. She normally listened to music if she went running without Molly, but Mina wanted to remember her friend without distraction. Stepping outside without bothering to lock the front door, she broke into a slow run just as Beryl Britt drove onto the lane in her bright red Porsche.

Beryl waved at her, and Mina slowly lifted her hand to return the greeting. Had Beryl heard already? Didn't seem likely. Except for herself, Molly, and Mr. Melvin, not many neighbours cared for the outrageous real-estate agent.

So instead of heading straight for the park, she crossed the street, and walked up on Beryl's driveway just as the other woman turned off the ignition.
"Hey, Mina! Going for a run?" Beryl manoeuvred herself out of the car, clutching a purse and a number of shopping bags. As always, the real estate agent was perfectly coiffed, her enviable red curls tumbling down her back, lipstick and nail polish without smudge or scratch, and the burgundy dress perfectly pressed. The only thing slightly out of place was the hickey just below her collarbone, the red even more pronounced by the paleness of Beryl's skin. But everyone on the lane knew that Beryl was a praying mantis, and as long as she hunted far away from husbands and fiancés, no one minded. Once divorced, Beryl had been single since and willingly shared her tales of sexual escapades with anyone who would listen. Mina usually did, and found Beryl's adventures rather enticing. So had Molly, who had always pressed Beryl to tell them more. Of course, Beryl never revealed the name of her lovers (which Raye theorised was due to the fact that she didn't bother learning them), but Mina and Molly had liked the gossip anyway. It was fun, a bit like watching Sex and the City. Beryl was not the neighbour you went to if your ran out of flour or eggs, but her garden parties were legendary and she had sold Mina and Caleb their home. She had also been the one who had sold Molly and Jack their house, the house that was now bereft of its owner and just like that, Mina felt the tears sneak up on her again.

"Beryl, have you heard?" Mina asked, wishing her voice wouldn't tremble.
"Heard what, darling?" Beryl put the bags down and stepped towards Mina. "Something wrong? Is it Caleb?"
"Oh God, no, he's fine, just working. It's... Molly is dead."
Beryl gasped. "That's terrible! How?"
Mina took a deep breath to will the tears away. "She was found in Crown's, her head... she was attacked. They don't know who did it."
Beryl covered her mouth with her hand. "I am so sorry, Mina. So sorry. Do you want to come inside until Caleb comes home? You can call him, tell him you're at my house, and he can pick you up once he finishes for the day."
Mina shook her head. "That's nice, but I wanted- I am going for a run."
"Of course. Poor Molly. Poor, poor Molly." Reassembling her bags, Beryl sighed. "This must be so hard on Jack."
"I haven't spoken to him," Mina admitted, shuffling her feet. She should have gone to Jack, extended some sympathy, offered condolences. Instead, she had been hiding inside her house all morning, as if it had been she who had been robbed of the love of her life. A guilty conscience crept up on her, and Mina felt deeply ashamed. Jack was alone right now, and here she was, chatting and preparing for a run.

Then she remembered that Raye had mentioned something about helping out. Raye was reliable, and a much better cook anyway. And her friend would never ignore protocol and piety. Mina offered Beryl a shaky smile. "Raye was going to over today, bring him some food."
"Ah, of course," Beryl said and smirked, "they are quite close, aren't they?"
The words hung in the fresh spring air, and somehow, Mina felt that they were tainting it. Despite the sunshine, she suddenly felt cold, and wrapped her arms around herself.
She frowned. "What are you saying?"
Beryl laughed. "Oh dear, you don't know? You really don't know?"
"Don't know what?"
"You probably don't want to hear this."
"Hear what?" Mina insisted.
Beryl shrugged, and tossed her glossy red curls over her shoulder. "Well, only that I saw Jack Watson kissing Raye Charles last Tuesday. But you know, so did half the street."

*** End of Chapter Two***