Better Homes and Corpses (15 page)

TWENTY-THREE

Weak dawn light came through the window. I’d spent the night on the sofa and, for a moment, I thought my make-out session with Cole had been part of my delirium. That wasn’t the case, because his scent lingered. Our romp was cut short at two
A.M.
with Officer Flinn’s arrival. I looked forward to more time with Cole, hoping it would be sooner, rather than later. Once again we hadn’t really talked—at least not in full sentences. I threw my legs to the side and attempted to rise. A sharp pain shot down from my neck to my right shoulder. I’d forgotten about my injuries. At least they hadn’t gotten in the way of last night’s passion.

I completed the arduous task of making coffee and brought the faxes I’d neglected the night before to the screened porch.

Original to the 1930s cottage, the porch faced the ocean and wrapped around to the east to overlook a perennial garden. I knew it was silly to plant perennials in a rented cottage, but I liked the thought that even if my money ran out and I couldn’t afford to stay, someone else could appreciate their
beauty. Plus, peonies reminded me of my mother’s garden—their soft, velvety petals and delicate scent transported me back in time like no other flower. Along the front of the porch, which faced the ocean, I’d added a vintage potter’s bench. On top of the bench were long, narrow trays filled with organic potting soil, waiting for my annual herb seedlings to be sown. Soon it would be time for my pansies. Blue pansies have a slight wintergreen flavor. Sometimes I added them to a salad, or on top of cream cheese and crackers, for a little extra palatable oomph—no cooking needed.

In the corner of the porch stood a wood-burning stove. I’d salvaged it from the Shipmaster’s Inn after reading a notice in the
East Hampton Chronicle
that said all the old fixtures and hardware were free to whoever could carry them out. Two words I could never resist: “free” and “old.”

Oil paintings hung on the beadboard walls. I’d found many in estate sale cellars and attics. Elle had taught me to clean the paintings by using a piece of white bread or a bagel like an eraser. The paintings were unframed, executed by unknown artists from the ’30s and ’40s. I enjoyed their amateur feel and chose palettes that complemented the sea: blue, green, and the color of sand.

The only furniture I’d taken from Michael’s was my bookcase. He’d hated the antique piece. There was no space in the tiny cottage, so I’d brought it out to the porch. The bookcase was filled with bits and pieces I’d found on the shore: perfect seashells, pastel sea glass, and even a 1918 Morgan silver dollar. I fantasized the dollar was lost by young lovers rolling around in the surf.

The morning was cool, but the sun valiantly tried to warm the shore. I removed a floral cushion from a trunk and placed it on the love seat. Then I sat to look at the faxes my father sent. The top page showed a crude black-and-white drawing
of a stick-figure policeman holding a little girl’s hand. I smiled; he must be getting nostalgic, digging through my old schoolwork. Below the stick figure was a recipe for stuffed chicken breasts, using only four ingredients: chicken breasts, ricotta cheese, buffalo mozzarella, and basil pesto. You couldn’t blame the guy for trying. He seemed to be lowering his expectations of me, adding pesto as a single ingredient. He wouldn’t be caught dead buying a store-bought pesto. Even one from a gourmet shop.

He’d sent the autopsy report, along with notes from Chief Pell. Caroline Spenser’s stab wounds measured two inches wide and in some places eight inches deep, caused by a double-edged weapon with a high residue of rust. Just as Doc had told me. A wound to the jugular was listed as the cause of death. There were a few strands of brown hair with no recoverable DNA. The hair color didn’t match Caroline’s or Jillian’s. Cole’s Swiss Army knife was definitely too small to be the murder weapon.

Crime computers held the hard facts, but they weren’t able to point a finger to Caroline’s killer any better than my sleuthing. Jillian refused to leave Seacliff. It was time for her to face the truth. Neither the police nor I could protect her now. Jillian would have to leave the Hamptons.

There was a scrawled note at the bottom of the last sheet:
What is Cole Spenser’s line of work?

Interesting question.

I filled a few index cards with the information my father had faxed about Caroline’s murder and went inside to fetch a blank corkboard. I tacked the cards onto the board and started a Caroline Spenser storyboard. The particulars of the autopsy went on two cards, including the estimated time of death, which was less than an hour before I’d arrived. When I finished, I looked at my handiwork. Lines of black
tape ran like the spokes of a wheel from the card with Caroline’s name on it. I couldn’t help but stare at the card with the information that Tara was selling a rare American clock in her shop of overpriced wannabes. I pulled the thumbtack from the card saying Jillian saw her mother’s killer. There was no proof, and I wanted to stick to the facts. The card slipped to the floor. As I bent to pick it up, the red light on my house phone started to blink.

It was Elle, calling to tell me an entire suite of rare eighteenth-century furniture listed on the inventory sheets was missing, including a Dominy tall clock that sounded very much like the one I’d spotted in Champagne and Caviar Antiques, along with the bookcase I’d seen in the Spenser’s attic. How had the clock ended up with Tara, and who had taken it? What had happened to the rest of the priceless furniture?

My head pounded and my neck was stiff, a reminder I should move on to a project that didn’t involve attempted murder. I took two fabric place mats I’d found on clearance, opened a few inches of the seams, and filled them with poly-fill batting. Then I hand-stitched them closed.
Presto change-o
, I had decorator pillows without the use of a sewing machine, at only a fraction of the cost. Next, I called Doc and asked him to give me a lift to Toby’s Service Station to pick up my Jeep. I felt a slight twinge of guilt for not checking up on Jillian but remembered Van’s words to take the day off. Besides, what if Cole answered and thought I was being clingy?

*   *   *

Doc pulled up on schedule. Metal fishing lures dangled from the mesh band on his hat.

“You look like something the cat dragged in,” he offered as a greeting.

“Thanks, you look like something a marlin dragged in.”

“Thought you’d love it. It’s vintage, got it at a garage sale.”

“Why not put it in the back window. You’ll put out an eye. Mine.”

“Okay—let’s hear it.” He took off the hat and tossed it onto the backseat, where it landed on a pile of fishing gear.

“Hear what?”

“The
whole
story about last night.”

“Nothing happened. How’d you find out? We just sat around and talked.” I crossed my fingers and hid them behind my back.

“What are you talking about? I want to know what happened with you and Jillian Spenser. I read it on the wire this morning. It said you went to Southampton Hospital.”

“Not much to tell. After we left you at McIrney’s, some truck followed us to East Hampton. When we got close to the turnoff that led to Seacliff, it started ramming us head-on. Someone was trying to silence Jillian, no doubt.”

“And you along with her. Any idea who was behind the wheel?”

“Not a clue.”

“Are you sure you’re up to walking around? You look kinda green. You should be the mascot for tomorrow’s parade.” He tossed a white paper bag onto my lap.

I glanced inside. “Oh, you shouldn’t have, but I’m glad you did.” Nestled in wax paper were two perfect, sugar-crusted Gleeson’s doughnuts. “You went all the way to East Hampton for little ole me?”

“Uh, not quite. The Main Street Market has a doughnut
machine from Gleeson’s. You didn’t know? You’ve been here longer than me.”

“Wow, this is big news. The first good news I’ve had in a while.” I pulled the visor down and looked in the mirror. My forehead had a bruise that hadn’t been there the night before, along with the start of a black eye. I hadn’t bothered to blow-dry my hair because it took too much effort. I admit, I didn’t look my best.

Toby’s Service Station was located between Amagansett and East Hampton on the northeast corner of a small intersection. On the southwest corner was a kayak rental. It wasn’t advertised, but if you discreetly asked, you could purchase a map for canoeing on Georgica Pond. Instead of grasslands and waterbird trails you could maneuver the pond via handwritten maps of famous celebrities’ homes, handwritten because the properties changed owners so often, just like the maps sold on the streets of Beverly Hills. If you were lucky enough, on any given August afternoon, you could spy a fresh young starlet topless on her bathing deck, or unlucky enough, an aging diva, well past her prime.

There were real estate offices on the two remaining corners of the intersection. The Hamptons area had a ratio of one real estate office per every house on the market. The same aerial photographs were displayed in each window—only with different angles and views to make each company’s listings look exclusive.

Toby’s was painted a baby blue. In some areas, peeled paint revealed spots of bright orange. An old gas station converted into a luxury automobile repair shop. Parked outside were twenty to thirty vehicles, a who’s who of status and opulence. Ferraris, Aston Martins, Lamborghinis, and even a few lowly Mercedes. No sign of my Jeep. I’m sure it was strategically hidden from view.

Doc pulled the Buick under the carport at the front of the station. He got out, went to the passenger door, and offered his hand. I stepped out as a middle-aged man walked toward us from an open service bay.

“Hello. What can I do for you?” He wiped his hands on a rag that hung from the pocket of his grease-stained work pants.

Before Doc could open his mouth, I said, “I’m Meg Barrett. I’m here to pick up my Jeep.”

“Toby McGuire. Not the actor.” He chuckled. As if we needed clarification. “At your service. Glad to meet ya.” He held out the same hand he’d wiped on the rag. “Everything’s fixed. Believe me, she’ll drive better than ever. Let me grab the key.”

Doc and I followed him inside. A young man in a gray jumpsuit worked on Cole’s Harley—it seemed apropos that Cole’s baby and mine had spent the night together. The man next to the bike held a blowtorch that spit red and blue sparks. The rhythmic drone of a rap song played from a boom box at his feet. All that was audible was the bass. No lyrics. What was rap without the lyrics? He looked at us from under a welding helmet with a clear Plexiglas shield. Three heavy gold chains with medallions swung like pendulums from his neck. Through an office window that overlooked the garage, a pretty blonde filed her nails. She bobbed her head to the beat.

Toby returned with my key and noticed us looking inside. “That’s my daughter Debbie.”

“Pretty girl,” I said.

“Takes after her momma, God rest her soul.”

Toby led us to the rear of the lot. Doc stopped at each car and drooled like a teen. My Jeep was behind a huge two-car garage, separated from the main service port. I opened the
door and slid onto the front seat. I felt every nuance of the lumpy upholstery. My fingers went for the automatic window control but didn’t find one. Back to reality.

I rolled down the window. “Yo, Doc. I’m leaving. Thanks for the lift.”

Doc waved from the garage, his attention centered on a Mustang convertible that had seen better days. Maybe automobiles were the same to him as ramshackle cottages and wounded furniture were to me.

I glanced to the right of the Mustang and almost upchucked my doughnuts.

TWENTY-FOUR

Sitting like Goliath, atop five-foot radial tires, was a huge red pickup truck.

Toby looked at me. I couldn’t speak. Then he shouted over to Doc, “Excuse me, sir, I think Ms. Barrett might be havin’ a fit or somethin’?”

Doc scurried over, opened the door, and pulled me out. “What’s wrong?”

I cupped my hand to his ear. “That truck. I think it’s the same one that tried to kill us last night.”

Toby whistled. “Ain’t she a beaut? It’s Stu’s—my mechanic. It won second place at the Nassau Coliseum Monster Mash.”

The truck’s twisted grille gave off a menacing sneer. On the hood,
Son of Satan
was printed in black bubble letters encircled with orange flames.

“Looks like she was in a bit of an accident,” Doc said.

“What ya talkin’ about?” Toby walked over to Doc.

Doc pointed to the damage.

“What the hell?”

I took off and, for a change, let Doc take charge. He contacted the East Hampton Town Police Department, including Detective Shoner, and had Son of Satan towed to a Riverhead lab for analysis. I hoped they would find something, but it would take time, and that was one thing I didn’t think Jillian had much of.

Young Stu, the mechanic, was majorly bummed to see his truck towed from the yard. Doc told me he almost had to restrain him from jumping onto the bumper. It wasn’t a coincidence the killer stole the monster truck from the same garage used by the Spensers. The key to the truck was attached to a key chain sporting a red, cartoonish devil. It hung inside the garage in plain sight. It wouldn’t take a genius to put two and two together that the key belonged to the monster truck.

Everyone had access, including Cole.

It felt good to head home in my own set of wheels. I felt like less of an imposter. Once in Montauk, I stopped at Paddy’s and ordered a tall cup of coffee. Barb’s Pathfinder was parked in the lot of Sand and Sun. It was the opportune time to use her computer for research.

“Hey, there you are. Your ears must’ve been burning. I was just talking about you on the phone,” Barb said, as I walked in.

“Oh yeah, and who were you talking to?”

“The church. They wanted to know if I was showing the Eberhardt cottage.”

“Pretty please, don’t show it to anyone. I need a few more days.” Who was I fooling? I didn’t have enough money for the down payment.

“Okay. I’ll stall them.”

“Thanks. Could I use your computer?”

“Sure. Use the hubby’s. His password is ‘beatIRS.’”

I wanted to research post-traumatic stress disorder and amnesia to see if what Dr. Greene said was true, that Jillian’s memory loss was only temporary. If she did regain her memory of the morning of her mother’s murder, she was obviously in danger of being silenced by the killer. On the other hand, if we could find a way for her to remember under close supervision of doctors and the police, then we could protect her. As I clicked away, I heard Barb chatting in the background with a young couple about renting a cottage for the season.

I was deep in medical mumbo jumbo when a male voice said, “Twenty thousand dollars for the month of August? It’s not even on the ocean!” Welcome to the Hamptons. Thank God Barb had negotiated my lease.

I went to exit the Internet, but my fingers took over and I located a photo of Michael at the Waldorf-Astoria for the National Magazine Awards. Who should be by his side, but none other than Paige Whitney. The photo had been taken around the same time we’d first met. How did I miss it? It was so clear by the way he looked at her that he still carried a torch. I pushed the button on the monitor and the screen went black. Suddenly, I felt blessed I didn’t own a computer.

“Barb, I’ve gotta run. I’ll call you about that little thing we were talking about.”

The couple seated across from Barb looked at me, their eyes glassy from sticker shock.

*   *   *

I took advantage of my day off and trekked out to the Riverhead outlet stores, where I found a club chair that converted to a single bed I could use in the Kittinger cottage.
I didn’t have an interior designer’s license, so I wasn’t allowed all the resources other designers in the area were, and I was persona non grata at wholesale interior design shops. Officially, I was a one-woman resale/antiques/collectibles shop without a storefront. I only charged my clients what I thought was fair markup on the merchandise I put in their cottages. My design services were free, which made me very popular, but not very wealthy.

I arrived back in Montauk in the late afternoon and, instead of returning home, I turned into the small community of Ditch Plains. Ditch Plains was world-renowned for its surfing. I parked at the end of Ditch Plains Road, climbed out, and grabbed a blanket from the backseat. The sky looked schizophrenic—par for the course for this time of year. Mother Nature had wreaked havoc with this stretch of shoreline. The previous summer had boasted a wide sandy beach. All that remained was a thin, rocky strip of land. Ditch Plains Beach had all the components one thought of as West Coast terrain. The cove shielded the wind, and its rock and reef bottom sculpted the waves into perfect swells. In the summer, the beach was packed with surfer chasers—young bikini-clad women who followed the surfers like they were rock stars. The girls used their surfboards as bait and once they made it into the water, they floundered around like they needed rescuing. Which they probably did, judging by the size of some of the waves I’ve seen. In all fairness, a select group of women could surf nose to nose with the males; they were easy to distinguish because they wore wetsuits, not thong-bottomed bikinis.

I sat on a boulder. A male surfer rode the waves with such ease. It was like watching a perfectly timed dance. After ten minutes had passed, the surfer exited the ocean and walked
steadily through the breaking waves. Once on shore, he peeled off his hood and shook his head. A young woman dressed in low-waisted jeans and a skintight blouse sashayed over and wordlessly slipped a piece of paper into the surfer’s palm then walked back toward the parking lot. When she came closer, I saw it was Debbie, Toby’s daughter, who was at the service station a few hours earlier. Debbie must be a member of the surfer-chaser club.

I looked back at the surfer. He grabbed a leather duffel and flashed me a hundred-watt smile.

Debbie’s surfer friend was Van.

“I didn’t know that was you. You were great,” I said.

“You caught me on a good day. It’s awesome out there.” He looked up. “A big weather pattern’s building. Are you a surfer?”

“Not a chance. I had a few lessons last summer and failed miserably.”

“Well, I’m available anytime.”

“I might take you up on that. Are you friends with Debbie?”

“Who?”

“The girl who handed you her number?”

Van blushed, or maybe it was the reflection of his cherry-red wetsuit. “Naw. Don’t know her.”

“Won’t a shark think you’re dinner, dressed in red?”

“There hasn’t been a shark out here in weeks.”

“Weeks?”

“I figure if I hit my head on a boulder, it’ll be easy to locate my body. Speaking of nasty bumps, are you sure you should be driving around?”

“I’m fine. How are things at the estate?”

“Mrs. Arnold won’t let anyone within five feet of Jillian.
Plus, they have a policewoman assigned to her, which is a great idea.”

“I agree.” I rubbed the egg on my forehead. “Did anyone happen to find my cell phone? I had it in the Hummer last night.”

“Sorry. Haven’t seen it. I’ll ask around when I get back to Seacliff.” Van sat on a rock next to me and unzipped the top of his wetsuit, exposing a hairless chest. He removed a black leather jacket from his bag and put it on his wet skin.

“Here. Take the blanket.”

“I’m okay.” The chattering of his teeth said otherwise.

I compromised by handing him my coffee. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.” He took a sip.

“How did your father come about living in the guesthouse?”

“I know what you’re thinking, but my father swears he didn’t have a fling with Her Majesty. He always said theirs was a business arrangement. What the arrangement was, I haven’t a clue. If anything, Caroline Spenser and my father barely tolerated each other. Caroline’s husband, Charles Spenser, thought my father was a no-talent gigolo, but Caroline wouldn’t get rid of Dad. In fact, she gifted him the guesthouse years ago.”

“What did you think of Caroline?”

“I didn’t hate her, but she was a crappy mother. She didn’t have time for anything or anyone not related to antiques or the arts. Once she forced Jillian to take a home study course in fine antiques from a curator from Boston. The guy came and set up camp. Jillian had to endure slide shows up the wazoo. She doesn’t care about objects the way her mother did. Jillian flunked the curator’s tests on purpose. As
payback, Jillian got rid of all her antique bedroom furniture and replaced it with cheesy catalog items. Things her mother would hate. It was the only time she ever went against her mother.”

“That explains a lot.” I didn’t mean to speak out loud, and he gave me a quizzical look. Now I knew why Jillian had gotten rid of the bedroom furniture listed in the insurance dossier. She did it to spite her mother. I couldn’t wait to tell Elle.

I brought my knees to my chin to avoid the tide. “What do you think the business arrangement was between your father and Caroline?”

“If I knew, I’d tell you, but he won’t discuss it with me.”

“Does your mother know?”

“Naw. She wasn’t here that long. Just long enough to get pregnant while on hiatus from her dopey soap opera.”

“It can’t be that bad to have a famous actress for a mother. Have I heard of her?”

“Her real name is Florence Saperstein, but her stage name is Flora Stevens. She’s been on the tube for forty years. My mother claims she started as a child, but only her plastic surgeon and I know for sure.”

“That’s quite an accomplishment.”

“Yeah. She hasn’t aged a day since I was twelve.”

“No.” I laughed. “I mean working that long in the business.”

“I guess . . . Hey, I’d better get back. I promised to help my father clean up the backyard.”

I winced.

“It’s not that bad. We just need to pick up those damned totems and anchor them back in the ground.” He smiled. “I’d hoped they were beyond repair. They give me the creeps.
They’re the first thing I see when I look out my bedroom window.” He stood and handed me the coffee cup. “Thanks. See you soon.”

I wondered if he’d call the number on the card Debbie, Toby’s daughter, had given him.

*   *   *

The tires of my Jeep made their familiar crunching-on-gravel sound when I pulled into my driveway. I parked behind Elle’s turquoise 1952 Ford pickup, it was the same color as my icebox. I bypassed the kitchen door and went straight to the deck. Elle sat on my wooden swing. She was bundled in a vintage ermine full-length coat with a matching headpiece. Her house overlooked Sag Harbor’s serene bay, the opposite of the rough Atlantic she now faced.

“Hey, what happened?” She pointed to the Band-Aid over my eyebrow. “I knew it! I had a bad feeling this morning. Let me guess. You didn’t have your amethyst?”

“It happened
last
night. Next time, try to have one of these feelings before the bad stuff happens.” I opened the door and ushered her inside. “I was in an accident with Jillian.”

Elle discarded her fur but kept on the headpiece. The upper left quadrant of her black T-shirt was plastered with a dozen pink-jeweled flamingos. If anyone tried to shoot her, the bullets would bounce off. I grabbed an open bottle of wine from the fridge, while Elle started a fire. I joined her on the sofa and explained about the previous night’s disaster. I started with my trip to Montauk with Jillian. I played down the monster truck incident and told her what I’d learned from Nurse Freeman and ended with finding the monster truck at Toby’s.

“It’s quite a coincidence the truck came from the same garage the Spensers use.”

“The keys to the truck were hanging on the wall. Anyone could have grabbed them.”

“The family?”

“It looks that way.”

“Cole Spenser?”

“I saw him at the bar when we left McIrney’s. He would have had to leave right after Jillian and I. He seemed too immersed in intimate conversation to even notice we left.”

“With who?” Sweat glistened near her hairline.

“Tara Gayle. Why don’t you take that pelt off your head? It’s plenty toasty in here.”

“Don’t change the subject. Did you read their lips? Find out where Cole and Tara stand?”

“No, I didn’t. It’s none of my business. Plus, I was with Jillian. Anyway, late last night Cole’s motorcycle broke down and one of Montauk’s finest dropped him here so Cole could borrow the Hummer. He couldn’t, because it was out of commission from the truck-bashing. Cole only stayed an hour and then the same officer took him home at two
A.M.
”

“If he came for the Hummer, then he must not have known about your and Jillian’s accident.”

“You’re right.” If he’d been the one behind the wheel of the truck, then he wouldn’t have come here to borrow the Hummer.