Better Homes and Corpses (11 page)

FIFTEEN

Tripod!

A pant turned to a whine then a few short barks. The dog’s shaggy brows couldn’t conceal the pleading in his eyes. I followed him down three staircases and out the open front door. The dog took off toward the woods. In the distance, I saw Jillian being chased by a figure in a dark hooded sweatshirt. The sun reflected a flash of silver in the pursuer’s left hand. It was a game of cat and mouse Jillian didn’t have a chance in hell of winning.

Where were all the officers assigned to the estate?

I dashed to the empty patrol car sitting at the front steps and tried the door. Unlocked. The keys were on the passenger seat. I didn’t have time to think of the stupidity behind an unlocked police car. I pushed every button, my hands shaking, until a siren blared. I jumped out and sprinted toward the area I’d last seen Jillian. I didn’t stop to think what I would use as a weapon to protect her, but I
knew Tripod had a big set of chompers and hoped he’d do some major damage.

Officer Bach, carrying a cup of coffee, ran toward me. Unable to stop, I pointed in the direction of the woods, guiding him and sputtering clues. “Jillian . . . Someone’s chasing her. No, to the right, toward the guesthouse.” He took off. He must’ve been a track star at some point in his life. I had no chance of catching up.

When I finally reached the woods, my lungs ached like they’d been ignited with a butane lighter. Branches slashed my forehead as I galloped into the area where the officer had disappeared. Unfortunately or fortunately, I tripped over a low branch and took a nosedive into a small clearing. I landed inches from Jillian’s sneakered foot.

I looked up as Van and Salvatore crashed through the foliage, both calling Jillian’s name.

Van ran to Jillian’s side and Salvatore said, “What’s going on? We heard the siren. Are you two okay?” Salvatore helped me up and plucked twigs from my hair. He removed his red bandana and tied it around my forehead, hippie-style. The small geyser of blood flowing from above my eyebrow ceased.

“Thanks.” I performed a quick body check. Everything accounted for. Jillian was wound-free but seemed whiter than a Cloroxed Casper. Tripod and the policeman were nowhere to be seen.

Van took Jillian by the shoulders and gave her a gentle shake. “Who was it, Jillian? The killer?”

“Took Tripod for a walk . . . felt someone behind me. He had a knife. Trying to get me. Just like Mother.”

I said, “It’s true. I saw someone too. With a knife. Do you know who it was, Jillian?”

Jillian swept her gaze toward me. “I’m . . . not sure . . .” She seemed to be signaling me, similar to the morning of the murder, and once again I was clueless as to what she wanted. I was about to press further when the clearing filled with extra bodies. One, short and husky, pushed his way through.

“Where’s Officer Bach?” Detective Shoner barked.

I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked up at Elle.

“Meg, are you okay? You’re bleeding.” My hearing felt imbalanced. I raised my hand to my left ear.
Crap!

“I’m fine.” Then I whispered to Elle, “I think I lost one of my hearing aids.”

We both got on our hands and knees to search.

“What are you doing?” Shoner asked.

Elle turned to me and I nodded. “She’s lost a hearing aid. Be careful; it’s the size of a large pea and the color of sand.”

Shoner motioned for two patrolmen to escort Jillian back to the house. Jillian took a few steps, staggered, then took another. Finally she was scooped up by one of the policemen.

Van and Salvatore seemed torn about following Jillian, so I said, “Go ahead. We’ll find it.”

Detective Shoner crouched next to us. He touched my shoulder and yelled, “Can you fill me in on what happened?”

“You don’t have to shout, Arthur,” Elle said. “Meg can read lips, and it’s only one ear.”

Arthur?
So Elle and Detective Shoner were on a first-name basis. I opened my mouth to tell the detective what I saw when Officer Bach and Tripod burst into the clearing.

Detective Shoner stood. “Hope you got a shot at him, Bach!”

“Sorry, Detective. Never had him in my sights. There was nothin’ to shoot at. The perp disappeared into thin air. That darned dog couldn’t even find him. I did pick up a
souvenir!” In his gloved hand he held out a pocketknife. It was the same Swiss Army knife that had fallen from Cole’s jacket in the attic.

As if on cue, Cole pulled up to the front of Seacliff on his Harley. He flipped up his visor and looked in bafflement at the oncoming procession. Detective Shoner scurried toward him. When the detective reached Cole, I saw him jab a finger into his chest.

Elle called out, “Found it!”

“You’re the best.” One less thing to worry about.

“Let’s get out of this evil place.” Elle grabbed my elbow and led me toward the house.

“I thought it was all in Jillian’s head when I found her flipping out in that storm. Now I believe her. What were you and Detective Shoner doing together?”

“Just talking. He’s not so bad once you get to know him.” Elle smiled.

“I’ll take your word for it.”

All the involved parties congregated in the library. Young Officer Bach, gun on his hip, stood at the door. Jillian reclined on her chaise as Dr. Greene fretted beside her. He must live nearby to have arrived so quickly. Van pulled a chair next to Jillian’s feet and absently twirled the fringe on the bottom of a pink throw. Salvatore was at the desk doodling on a pad of paper, while Detective Shoner talked into his phone. He kept repeating, “Yes, sir. Yes, sir.” By the bulging vein on his temple, I guessed he was talking to the Suffolk County police. Cole, as usual, faced the fireplace, incommunicado.

Elle and I sat on the leather sofa and Mr. Arnold happily passed out snifters of brandy, stealing sips for himself as he teetered along, while Mrs. Arnold reluctantly tended to my cuts. The woman seemed to take great pleasure in
applying more pressure than needed. When I looked at Jillian, I saw her in a new light, now knowing it wasn’t her imagination. She really had a stalker. I was frustrated. Who’d chased her? Of course it could have been Cole. But why? Cole and Jillian lived in the same house. He could get her alone any time he wanted. I wasn’t buying it. Caroline’s killer wasn’t Cole.

Detective Shoner went to the center of the room. “I have a few questions.”

Jillian recoiled. Van grabbed her foot in reassurance.

“First of all, I want to know if anyone’s seen this pocketknife before.”

I looked at Cole. He opened his mouth. “It’s . . .”

“Yours—the long-lost prodigal son,” Adam said in a deep baritone from the open doorway. His mother’s orange head showed over his left shoulder.

“I was just about to say that,” Cole said. “I must have lost it on one of my walks with Tripod.”

Shoner gave him a skeptical look. Cole brushed it off and his mask slipped back in place. Adam’s mother marched over to Mr. Arnold and wordlessly waited for him to pour her a brandy, remembering
not
to thank him when he did.

Van pulled his chair up to Jillian’s head and whispered into her ear. Two high spots of color flushed her face.

Adam said, “What’s wrong, Jillian?”

Jillian’s eyes traveled to Van’s. “Nothing. Everything’s fine.” She forced a smile on her thin blue lips.

“What is it, Jillian?” Adam asked again.

“Nothing. I’m . . .”

“Fine,” Van finished her sentence. “I told her she has to be more careful and ever vigilant and she shouldn’t be
afraid to tell us if she remembers anything. Isn’t that right, Jillian?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

Dr. Greene took her limp wrist in his seemingly capable hand. “I think Jillian should go to a safe place. She’s obviously in danger here.”

Detective Shoner cut in. “You said she had a better chance of remembering if she remained at the scene of the . . . uh, accident.”

“That’s true, but not if her life is at stake.”

“I’ll assign additional officers to the property.” Detective Shoner gave Officer Bach a chastising nod. “I would also like to have a female officer to stay with Ms. Spenser around the clock.”

“I don’t . . . want a stranger . . . following me . . . around,” Jillian said.

“Like it or not, I think it’s a good idea,” Van added.

Mrs. Arnold nudged Detective Shoner. She stood like a field commander ready for battle. “I can watch her. I won’t let her outta my sight.”

Cole said, “Or Jillian could come down to North Carolina with me.”

In a higher than usual pitch, bordering on hysteria, Jillian said, “Noooo . . . I can’t leave . . . This is . . . home . . .”

“I’ll stay with her. Now let’s bring her up to her room. This is too much for her,” Mrs. Arnold ordered.

Van said, “You can’t be with her twenty-four seven. What about running the house and cooking the meals?”

“We’ll hire a cook,” Mrs. Arnold countered.

“How about Meg? She can cover when you can’t,” Jillian added.

“No!” Mrs. Arnold said. “She doesn’t belong.”

Snap!

Detective Shoner dismissed the housekeeper’s comment with a wave. “I suppose that would work, if Meg will agree to give you some time off during the day.”

Mrs. Arnold didn’t look too thrilled with the proposal, but Cole managed a smile wide enough to melt my Tara-hating heart. When I saw Jillian’s shrinking form, I said, “Of course.”

Detective Shoner left and posted Officer Bach as a sentry at the front door. Jillian went up to her bedroom, followed by Adam, Cole, and Dr. Greene. It was decided I would be with Jillian from eleven to two each day. Jillian promised she’d stay in whatever room was being inventoried and work on her query letter to agents, reminding me I’d promised to read her novel.

Elle went up to the attic, and even though I offered to help her search for the Ficherelli, she insisted I take a well-deserved break.

My torn and blood-splattered clothing was exchanged for the extra set I’d packed in the Hummer. If Detective Shoner had his way, I’d move in and be his in-house Deep Throat. I stepped out of the powder room and was ambushed by Adam’s mother, Frances.

“I want to know when my son can collect his inheritance.”

“You’re asking the wrong person.” I tried to go around her, but she jumped in front of me and prodded a long-nailed finger at my chest.

“Then who should I ask? And don’t say that stubby little detective. My son has a right to collect his inheritance from that pretentious bitch Caroline Spenser. Adam’s worked hard for her, and now it’s his turn.”

There was a slight tremor in her hand when she waved it in front of my face. Could she be ill?

“Maybe you should ask the family attorney?” I walked backward toward the front door.

“Already did. Worthless piece of shit.”

“Sorry, but I can’t help you.”

She gave me a scowl. “I heard you were a big muckety-muck editor at
American Home and Garden.
Hard to believe. You don’t look the part. That’s probably why they fired your ass.”

“I wasn’t fired. I opted out. Excuse me.” I pushed her to the side. I was tempted to dropkick her butt across the marble floor and watch her spin like a top. It was a good thing my father taught me to respect my elders. I went out the door. It was time to go trawling for bottom-feeders—also something my father used to say. I was determined to find Caroline Spenser’s killer before Jillian, or someone else, died by proxy.

SIXTEEN

I took the path to Salvatore and Van’s guesthouse. I relaxed my shoulders when a state trooper passed by. Once again, the woods were alive with men and women in uniform. Up ahead a greenhouse looked surreal in the distance. Windowpanes were condensed with vapor and glowed amber in the pre-evening sky. I crept closer and used my sleeve to rub a spyhole. Under a bluish light, a myriad of unkempt plants came into view. A rumpled figure was bent over a potting table, trowel in hand. Mr. Arnold was unaware he was being observed. He conversed with a lavender-tipped orchid with exposed roots. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but I could read his lips. “They think they know what kind of people live in the big house. I don’t think they do, my little pet. We’re gonna miss her—our hothouse flower—aren’t we?”

If he was talking about Caroline Spenser, and I assumed he was, it sounded like he held her in high esteem. It was hard to imagine the Lady of the Manor and the dirty-nailed
handyman in a love affair. On the other hand, I couldn’t imagine Mrs. Arnold fulfilling Mr. Arnold’s needs either. Caroline Spenser was an enigma. I knew so little about her, and the more I learned, the more confused I became.

I moved closer to the greenhouse door to get in better lip-reading distance and stumbled over a rake. My body thudded against the glass and Mr. Arnold screeched like a little girl.

“Sorry I startled you,” I said, stepping inside. The air was moist, the scent intoxicating.

“I thought you was her!”

“Who? Caroline?”

“Uh, no. Her ghost, yes.”

“You’ve been with the family for years. Can you think of any reason someone would kill her?”

Mr. Arnold put his trowel down and nervously looked around. He leaned close, too close. “She really was an uppity bitch. Don’t let anyone tell you different. Her fire could scorch you raw if you got close enough. I’ve got the scars to prove it. But, for some reason, we all kept going back for more.”

I took a step back. “What did she do to you?”

“Ha! It’s what she wouldn’t do. You best get going. I don’t want the missus catching you here. She’s got a jealous streak from here to infinity.”

*   *   *

The path from the greenhouse opened onto a small yard with a side view of Salvatore’s guesthouse. Angry voices filtered out of an open casement window. Flattening my body against the rough stone wall, I listened.

Where there was smoke, there was fire, and this sounded like a five-alarmer. “I think you should head back to
California. It’s safer there. The surfing’s better. Finish med school. I don’t like what’s going on at the Spenser house. You don’t owe that family anything,” Salvatore shouted.

Van said, “I don’t owe them anything, but I think Jillian needs protecting. Obviously no one else is doing anything.”

“It’s not your choice. Stay out of that family’s troubles, especially that poor mixed-up girl’s. It’ll only hurt you in the long run. I don’t know why you’d want to work there. I didn’t raise you to be a servant of the Spensers.”

“What about
your
relationship with Caroline Spenser?”

“Don’t get involved in things you don’t understand. Our relationship was strictly business. It’s none of your concern. Take my advice and go back to California. Stay with your mother.”

“No way I’m going back to La-La Land to live with my mother the soap opera diva. I’m old enough to make my own decisions.”

“You dropped out of med school and now you’re hell-bent on wasting your time surfing and doing odd jobs. There’s nothing wrong with your mother. She’s had a good career.”

“If that’s the case, then how come you couldn’t live with her? Hell, you couldn’t even marry her.”

“Leave New York. There’s nothing here for you.” Salvatore’s tone was more defeated.

“I don’t want to leave, not now. I’m not going until they find the Dragon Lady’s killer.”

“Make your own life. No need to get involved.”

“I’m as good as anyone in that house. Adam is a freeloader and Cole disappears for seventeen years then comes back like it’s nothin’.”

“I know you looked up to him and he let you down.”

There was silence. I went to the front of the house and pulled a string attached to a brass bell.

Salvatore answered the door. “Meg, what a pleasure.”

“You said I should stop by. I felt like getting out of the house. Jillian is surrounded by caretakers.”

He held the door open and I stepped in. Van was nowhere to be seen.

“That’s fine. Come anytime.
Mi casa es su casa.
”

“I wish.” I glanced around the front room. Salvatore really had a flair for decorating. It was amazing he’d made those awful sculptures.

“Come in. How are you feeling?” He gingerly touched the scratches on my forehead.

“I feel fine, just a little shaky.” I walked over to a small oil painting on an easel by the front window. I’d wanted to inspect it the last time I’d been here. “This is lovely. Is it an original Ficherelli?” I was in awe, not only because of its worth, but because it was the missing painting on the inventory list from the Spenser town house.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, it is.” Salvatore gave me a familiar twinkle. He swung his long ponytail off of his shoulder and stood next to me then picked up the painting. “I never could come close to creating anything so beautiful. It’s a constant reminder of what I hoped to achieve in my art and also a blessing to be able to view each day.”

“It belongs in a museum. How did you get lucky enough to own it?”

“It’s a long, boring story. It was a gift from Caroline.”

“Hmm . . . quite a gift.”

“Yes. Adam was pretty upset. I think he wanted her to sell it at auction.”

Or leave it in her will as part of the town house spoils.

“Meg, please have a seat and tell me, what do you think of the goings-on over there?”

I took the bait—I’d look into the painting later; after all, it was in plain sight. I sat on the sofa. “I do feel sorry for Jillian, especially after what happened this afternoon. What was her life like with her mother?”

Salvatore gazed out the window like he was looking into the past. “I have to say, Caroline wasn’t the best of mothers. Cole was the only one who could make Jillian laugh. Then the accidents happened. Jillian fell overboard while sailing with Cole in their Sunfish. Cole jumped in, dragged her to shore, and performed CPR. The day after the boating accident Cole got into a motorcycle accident and a few days later left East Hampton. To top things off, Jillian and Cole’s father died that same fall.”

“How did the boating accident affect Jillian?” I wondered if perhaps this was the reason for her coming across a little wacky at times.

“Caroline thought she might have suffered brain damage, but Jillian passed all the developmental tests. She was sent to boarding school to finish high school and then on to college for less than a semester. But you know that. Jillian never mixed well with others—something Caroline used to make her do on too many occasions, taking her to important social functions and then leaving her to fend for herself. Caroline could be pretty tough on Jillian—actually on both Jillian and Cole. Mrs. Arnold took Caroline’s place in Jillian’s life. She’s looked after Jillian like she was her child.”

A jasmine plant in a basket sat on the table next to me. Its delicate scent reminded me of Jillian: sweet but sometimes cloying. “About Jillian’s medications. I happened to look in her medicine cabinet. That’s quite a collection.”

“I don’t go for all that pharmaceutical BS. Except for a few years in the seventies, when I dabbled in a couple experiments of my own.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“I had to explore. Remember, I’m an artist!”

“Has Dr. Greene always been Jillian’s doctor?”

“He’s been the family doctor almost as long as I’ve been here, a good thirty years I’d assume. He doesn’t just dole out prescriptions to Jillian. It was Caroline who insisted Jillian try each new drug she read about, all in hopes of making her ‘normal.’” He added quotation marks in the air around “normal.” He looked again at the painting and continued, “It was Dr. Greene’s idea to fill all Jillian’s pill bottles with placebos after I found Jillian walking in the woods half out of her mind.”

“Well, that’s a relief. Where does Adam fit in?”

Salvatore turned toward me. “Adam is the son of Stephen Prescott, who was Jillian and Cole’s father’s friend from Oxford. Oxford is where Charles Spenser met Caroline. Adam’s father, Stephen, was a permanent fixture at the Spenser house. He was Caroline’s trusted antiques and art advisor, and they both shared the status of being British upper-crustians, although Caroline’s family was much more prestigious in the Old Country than the Prescotts. After Adam’s parents divorced, Stephen brought Adam to the estate to play with Jillian and Cole. Stephen and Adam spent more time on the estate than Charles Spenser. Charles, on the other hand, spent most of his time at the New York town house and only came to Seacliff on the occasional weekend. Adam’s father was on shore with Caroline at the time of the boating accident.”

“Was Charles Spenser here at the time of the boating accident?”

“No. He was in the city.”

“How did Adam get the job with Caroline?”

“Adam’s father died about five years ago. Adam had always shared his father’s and Caroline’s passion for collecting. Jillian’s never showed any interest in the business or the antiques . . .”

“How about Adam’s mother, Frances? Did she get along with Caroline?”

“Hah! They got along as good as two lions fighting over an antelope carcass. Frances was never an invited guest at the estate, even when she was married to Stephen Prescott. Adam spent most of his summers here.”

“Did Caroline have any enemies? Do you have any idea who could have killed her?” I held my breath.

“Caroline was Caroline. I’m sure she ruffled a few feathers in her time, but she could also be quite charming and easy to forgive. I have no idea who killed her, and, for the life of me, I can’t think of a motive. She liked to stir things up. Maybe she got in over her head.” Salvatore put the painting back on the desktop easel. “It’s amazing how Ficherelli used the reflection of light to highlight the objects usually hidden in a room. See, in the corner, on the floor, there’s a small bracelet under that dark chair. It’s almost glowing. It takes your eyes away from the main subject, the serving girl with her voluptuous bosom. She should be the most important, but she’s not. I want to know why the bracelet is under the chair, who it belongs to, and where it came from.”

Salvatore looked at his watch. Not too subtle. I’d have to wait to ask him about his relationship with Caroline Spenser. Either that, or find out for myself.

Instead of returning to Seacliff via the woods, I passed through the totem graveyard and followed a trail that led
to the beach. The sculptures seemed even creepier in the twilight. Beyond the fenced-in area was a shed overgrown with leafless vines. Adjacent to the shed was a mountain of garbage.

I was never one to resist a good junk pile, though this one didn’t look too promising. Old buoys, lobster traps, rusty cans, barbed wire, and even an old harpoon pointing up to the heavens. It was Dr. Frankenstein’s laboratory. I was the first to defend the repurposing of nonorganic matter, and I had to give Salvatore credit. Not for making the ugly creatures but for getting the trash off the beach. At the end of the trail there was an untamed stretch of dunes. The sun was about to set, but it didn’t hold any rosy hues promising tomorrow would be a sun-filled day. I stumbled over rocks and sea-littered odds and ends waiting to be harvested. It was easy to see where Salvatore’s beach ended and the Spensers’ began. The sand in front of Seacliff was clean of debris and sprinkled with seashells and driftwood, as if a landscaper had strategically placed them there.

In order to find seashells in front of my cottage, you had to get up before dawn or old Digger the Shell Man would steal them. Digger owned a small souvenir shop in Montauk. He collected shells before sunrise and never missed a day of shelling, even in hurricane season. No one knew his real name. Barb told me everyone called him Digger for obvious reasons. He was easy to spot because he wore a yellow rain slicker and hat regardless of the weather.

I stopped in front of a covered structure centered between two sets of steps. It had open sides and a wet bar—a sturdy cabana with thick wooden supports and a faux thatched roof, very Caribbean/Reggae. I peeled back a canvas tarp and uncovered a stack of lounge chairs. A heavy metal chain was loosely linked through the chairs and anchored to the
base of the bar. I turned the top chair upright and sat down. The sun was ten minutes from disappearing. I didn’t want to be on this particular beach after dark, but I needed at least five minutes to process the day’s happenings. The skin on my forehead tightened around my wounds and the salty breeze caused them to pulse with individual heartbeats.

My mind went to Jillian and Caroline’s relationship. What was it like to have a child you were disappointed in? I’d always felt wanted. Being an only child, especially after the death of my mother, could be suffocating, but my father taught me to be independent and never let me feel sorry for myself because of my hearing loss. It wasn’t that I didn’t get bullied and teased the first time I wore my hearing aids, but my father supported me when I told him I wouldn’t wear them at school. He knew it was my decision, and a few years later I did make the decision to wear them and felt empowered instead of forced. Maybe that was the difference: I had enough self-confidence to make choices, while Jillian had none because of her overbearing mother.