Chapter 4: Everything Shirley Knew
Patricia called at eight-fifteen.
I was already awake, already dressed, already sitting at the kitchen table with coffee I hadn't touched.
"Delia Marsh," Patricia said, "is thirty-one years old.
She's been living in a flat in Kensington for the past three years.
The lease is paid through a shell company registered in Delaware."
I set the coffee cup down.
"Everett's company is registered in Delaware."
"Yes," Patricia said.
"It is."
"The shell company — is it the same one?"
"Different name.
Same registered agent.
Same filing address."
The kitchen was very quiet.
From the hallway I could hear Shirley moving around, the particular rhythm of her slippers on the hardwood floor that I had already memorized without meaning to.
"Patricia," I said, keeping my voice low and even, "how long would it take to establish that he used marital assets to fund that company?"
"With what you've sent me?
I can have a preliminary finding by end of week."
"Do it."
I hung up.
Picked up my coffee.
It had gone cold.
Shirley appeared in the kitchen doorway in her housecoat, her silver hair pinned back, her expression carrying the particular disapproval she reserved for mornings when I hadn't yet offered her breakfast.
"You were on the phone early," she said.
"Work," I said.
She moved to the refrigerator, opened it, surveyed its contents with visible dissatisfaction.
"You're out of the good yogurt," she said.
"The Greek kind.
Everett always made sure we had it."
"I'll add it to the list."
She turned and looked at me.
The look lasted a beat too long.
"You seem very calm," she said.
"For someone whose husband just left the country."
"I'm fine, Shirley."
"Most wives would be upset."
"I'm sure they would."
She closed the refrigerator.
Folded her arms.
"Everett said you've been distant lately.
Before he left."
"Did he."
"He was worried about you."
I looked at her steadily.
"That's kind of him."
Something shifted in her expression then.
Not guilt — Shirley had never, in the nine years I had known her, shown anything resembling guilt.
It was something more calculating.
An assessment.
"He told me," she said carefully, "that if there were ever any problems with the accounts, I should let him know."
There it was.
"What kind of problems?" I asked.
"Any kind." Her chin lifted slightly.
"He said you sometimes make impulsive decisions when you're emotional."
I let that sit in the air between us for a moment.
"I'll keep that in mind," I said.
I rinsed my cup, set it in the rack, and walked out of the kitchen.
That afternoon I called Patricia back.
"I need to know one more thing," I said.
"The beneficiary designation on that account — when was it last updated?"
Keys clicked on her end.
A pause.
"Eight months ago," she said.
"Eight months ago, Everett and I attended his parents' anniversary dinner.
His mother gave a toast.
She talked about how family protects family." I paused.
"Is there any way to find out who witnessed the beneficiary update?"
More clicking.
A longer pause.
"Stella," Patricia said slowly.
"The witness signature on this form."
"Yes?"
"It's a Shirley Norris."
The line went quiet.
I stood at my bedroom window, looking out at the garden Everett had never once helped tend, and felt the last piece of something settle into place.
May you like
She hadn't just known.
She had signed her name to it.
