The morning, along with the ratatatat of nailguns, brought
resolve. Meredith resolved to get the
yellow tape out of her flower beds so that she could get them in shape by the
time of the Garden Club Tour. Bobby resolved to try to make some money cabbing
that day before he was incarcerated. Joseph resolved to get the murder solved
by someone other than the officious mainlanders.
And Catherine
resolved to kill her husband.
Oh, damn. He was
already dead. “Fucker, fucker, fucker.”
She got out of
the shower and blow dried her hair. When your hair was this fine, it required
both product and blow drying. That took fifteen minutes. Then she pushed her
cuticles back with an orange stick. Then she couldn’t help it: She looked at
the iPhone to see if there was a message from Jerry. Nothing. Not yesterday
afternoon, not last night, not this morning. Didn’t he know what she was going
through? “Fucker,” she said aloud. “They’re all fuckers.”
She took the French manicure kit out of
the Restoration Hardware cabinet. No one would be likely to believe that
Catherine Adams did her own nails, but no one really knew the sum total of
Catherine Adams’s abilities. Even Catherine Adams. Besides, going off island to
a nail salon every three seconds was just impossible. She thought of her hasty
trip yesterday and shuddered.
The manicure
would have come out better if her hand hadn’t been shaking when she painted the
white crescents on the tips of her nails.
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