Margot Hunt: Best Friends Forever

“No, it’s not,” Demer agreed. He handed me a bottle of water and sat down next to Oliver. The detective placed a folder on the table and flipped it open. “Thank you for taking time out of your schedule to come talk with us.”

“Of course. Although I’m still not sure how I can help you.”

“Why don’t you let us worry about that?” Oliver interjected.

I pressed my lips together and folded my hands in my lap. Demer’s eyes flitted in the direction of his partner. I sensed that he wasn’t on board with her interview technique. Maybe he didn’t like the good cop–bad cop dynamic any more than I did. Or maybe this was part of their act, too.

“As you know, we’re investigating the death of Howard Grant...” Demer began.

I nodded.

“As I’m sure you know, the cause of his death was unusual,” the detective continued. He glanced up at me. “I’m assuming you know how he died.”

“Yes.” I couldn’t help but shiver. “It was pretty awful.”

“How well did you know Mr. Grant?” Demer asked.

I paused, not quite sure how to answer this. I had actually spent very little time with Howard over the years. But Kat had confided so much to me about her husband and their marriage that in some ways I knew him intimately.

“I knew Howard, of course, and we would occasionally be at social events together,” I said carefully. “But Kat was the one I was friends with—is the one I’m friends with. I knew Howard only because he was married to Kat.”

“So you consider yourself and Mr. Grant to be, what—social acquaintances?” Demer asked.

I nodded. “I suppose that’s the best description.”

“Were you ever alone with him?” Demer continued.

“No.” Then I hesitated, realizing this wasn’t quite true. “I mean, there were a few times when I was at their house and Kat would leave the room for one reason or another. But we never spent any significant time alone together.”

“Would you say that Howard Grant was a heavy drinker?” the detective asked.

“Yes.”

“How would you define that? What a heavy drinker is, I mean,” he qualified.

“I’m not an expert on the subject, but from what I observed, I’d say that Howard was an alcoholic,” I told the detective. “Almost every time I saw him, he was drinking.”

“But you just said that you saw Mr. Grant only at social events,” Oliver cut in. “Times when drinking alcoholic beverages wouldn’t be unusual.”

“That’s true. But even then, he drank quite a bit more than I would consider a normal amount. And Kat and I are close. She was concerned about how much he drank.” It felt odd disclosing this confidence—Kat and I had always guarded each other’s secrets—but I didn’t see any way around it. “Wasn’t he drinking the night he died?”

“At the time of his death, Mr. Grant had a blood alcohol level of .30. Do you know what that means?” Demer folded his hands on the table and looked steadily at me.

“That sounds high.”

“It is. For a man his height and weight, he would have consumed around eleven drinks in a three-hour period. Most people would have passed out by that point.”

I nodded. “I guess that’s how he fell off the balcony.”

“But, see, that’s the thing we keep going back to. Why was he even out on his balcony? If he’d had that much to drink, so much that he should have passed out, why was he outside in the first place? Did he suddenly get the urge to go look at the stars?” Demer said.

“And more to the point, how did he fall over the railing?” Oliver chimed in.

I frowned. “You just said he was so drunk, it was surprising he was even conscious. Maybe he leaned over the railing and blacked out.”

I shifted in my seat. I might not have liked Howard, or been close to him, but I certainly didn’t enjoy conjuring up the gruesome image of him toppling off the second-story balcony of his and Kat’s lavish Mediterranean-style house. The thought of his body falling heavily to the patio below, smashing against the Italian travertine, and the ambient lights around the pool illuminating his blood as it spread outward from his broken body made me queasy.

“Have you ever leaned over a railing?” Oliver stood. “The automatic tendency would be to brace yourself like this.” She demonstrated falling forward and splayed her hands out in front of her, catching them on the table. “It would actually take some effort to go over the railing. Even if you were drunk.” She shrugged. “Especially if you were drunk, since your coordination would be impaired.”

“So, what...you think Howard jumped?” I asked, arching my eyebrows. “You think he committed suicide?”

“No.” Demer leaned forward slightly, his brown bloodshot eyes fixed on me more intensely than I was comfortable with. “We definitely don’t think Howard Grant committed suicide.”

This stark statement hung between us. I felt a frisson of fear.

“Let’s start from the beginning,” Demer said. “How long have you known Katherine Grant?”

3

Three Years Earlier

“Attention, passengers on Flight 523 to West Palm Beach. We are experiencing mechanical difficulties with the aircraft that will cause a delay in our departure time. We will update you as soon as we get additional information. Thank you for your patience.”

I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply through my nose. It was the third time a delay had been announced over the crackling airport intercom.

“How much longer are we going to be stuck here?” Liam whined.

“Forever,” Bridget moaned.

I privately agreed with my daughter that it certainly did feel like we would be stuck there forever in airport purgatory. The terminal at JFK was crowded with holiday travelers. Everyone looked grumpy as they slumped on uncomfortable seats, their luggage and possessions scattered around them. When the announcement had begun, the herd had raised their heads hopefully, ears pricking up. At the news of another delay, shoulders sagged and groans rang out all around.

“Mom, my tablet is almost out of power,” Liam said, waving the device at me for emphasis.

Like most modern mothers, I firmly believed that my children should spend less time on electronics, staring at screens, and more time in the real, nondigital world. Looking at the scenery, interacting with real people, reading actual books. I was, however, willing to abandon these scruples completely when we were in crowded airports, only halfway through our journey, with no hope of being home before—I checked my watch and stifled another groan—midnight.

“Let’s find a place to charge up.” I looked around.

Liam nodded toward a bank of high stools in front of a counter equipped with touch screens and electrical outlets. Most of the spots were occupied, but miraculously one of the screens was free.

“Hurry. Let’s grab those stools.” I moved swiftly, pulling my small wheeled suitcase behind me. The kids took longer to gather up their belongings, so by the time they joined me, I had already claimed three stools, by sitting on one and putting bags down on the other two.

“Are you, like, using all of those?” a twentysomething girl asked, her voice a contemptuous squawk. She had squinty eyes ringed with black eyeliner and long, straight hair in an odd shade of pink-streaked blond.

“Yes, I am.” I nodded toward my approaching children. “My children are sitting here.”

The girl let out an exasperated snort, rolled her eyes and turned away. I felt a surge of petty pleasure at this small victory.

Once seated, Liam and Bridget were keenly interested in the touch screen. After they each plugged in their devices, they started tapping and discovered the screens offered very slow internet access as well as the ability to order food and drinks from a nearby restaurant in the terminal.