Better Homes and Corpses (21 page)

THIRTY-THREE

I trekked back to Montauk and stopped at Sand and Sun to pick up a snoozing Tripod. My head spun like a gyroscope, my stomach like a cement mixer.

“What did you do, slip him a Mickey?”

“My grandson was here. That kid could tire out Superman. How’d your errands go?” Barb asked.

“Fine.”

“Not talkin’, huh? That’s not a good sign. Finished at the Spenser estate so soon?”

“I hope so. I need to use your phone.”

I called my answering machine to retrieve my messages. True to his word, Detective Shoner had traced the number Jillian called from the lighthouse. I quickly dialed it.

“Toby’s Service Station.”

I hung up. Jillian had called Toby’s from the lighthouse? The same place the monster truck, Son of Satan, called home. Prickles of heat traveled up my neck then swathed my face. The Barrett curse also included excitement.

Barb looked at me. “You okay? Need a paper bag?”

“Fine. Better than fine.” I dialed another number. Doc’s. “I need you to do me a favor and not ask why.” I turned my back on Barb and whispered into the phone, “Can you go to Toby’s and see if Toby or Stu, the mechanic, was on duty Friday around five? Also, find out where they were on Thursday, the day Jillian was chased by her knife-wielding assailant in the woods. When you get the info, pick me up at Sand and Sun.”

“You’re not getting yourself into trouble, are you?” Barb asked.

“Nothing I can’t handle.” The heat of my face said otherwise. “Let’s talk about the Eberhardt cottage. What’s the history?”

Barb was easier to deal with when she wasn’t worrying. She launched into a history of the Eberhardt house and family, and I let her, even though I wasn’t able to listen to a word until she asked, “Is that your chariot I see outside? Doc’s kind of cute. He needs a woman. I think I have the perfect one: Georgia.”

“Hmm. You’re right. He’s quite the book addict. It couldn’t hurt to have the owner of The Old Man and the Sea Books as his supplier.” I attached Tripod’s leash and hurried toward the door. “Later, Babs.”

Tripod hopped on Doc’s backseat and nestled down in a pile of fishing gear.

“What did you find out?” I asked breathlessly.

“Thanks for keeping me in the loop. I heard about the whole staged suicide/attempted murder thing from someone else.” Doc reached back and gave Tripod a pat and the car veered sharply to the left.

I told Doc how Detective Shoner traced the number for me.

“Traced it from where?”

“Remember the night Jillian and I saw you in McIrney’s? Before that we were at the lighthouse. She disappeared and I found evidence she’d placed a phone call from the gift shop lobby. Right after McIrney’s, we were attacked by the monster truck.”

“Well, Toby has an alibi. I already checked it out after we found the truck at his station. But Stu, the truck’s owner, is another story. You think Jillian called Stu for a game of chicken?”

“During the whole episode with Son of Satan, Jillian was so calm, almost as if she knew what was coming. She kept checking the rearview mirror. I believe Jillian killed her mother, faked amnesia, and framed Cole.”

“Whoa. Does Detective Shoner agree with you?” He pulled the car to the curb and Tripod surfed across the backseat.

“He will.”

“What about the hundred-thousand-dollar transfer to Cole’s bank account?”

“It could’ve been Jillian, wanting to set it up to look like Cole killed Caroline because he needed money. I’m sure Jillian has access to her mother’s account. Cole didn’t need the money. I don’t think anyone in the family has a clue Cole is a self-made millionaire.”

“He is?”

“Cole said his mother called him to come to New York the day before she was murdered. I bet Jillian disguised herself as Caroline. I’ve heard her imitate her mother, accent and all. She’s a good parrot.”

“I still can’t picture that meek little thing stabbing her mother to death.”

“Me neither, but resentment’s a dangerous thing. Now that I think of it, I was surprised Caroline wanted me to dig
through her attic. She barely acknowledged me at the cocktail party. I’m sure Adam would’ve been able to get rid of any junk in the attic. I don’t think Caroline expected me because she was still dressed in her nightgown. The Queen Mother of the Hamptons would have been dressed and ready if she knew she had a morning appointment. Jillian wanted me there so I would hear her say ‘Cole.’ Unfortunately for her, I thought she said ‘cold.’ That’s why she had to plot further to frame Cole.”

“What else?”

“I didn’t think it was odd at the time because I was so worried about Jillian, but when she had one of her episodes in the middle of that storm, she wore a raincoat and held an umbrella. Yet, when I questioned her about what she was doing, she said she’d been out walking because it was such a beautiful day. I don’t know about you, but when I go for a walk on a beautiful day, I don’t wear a rain slicker and bring along an umbrella. The storm was a surprise.”

Doc turned right at the village green. “Digger the Shell Man is the only person I know who wears foul-weather gear on sunny days.”

“Jillian must have been waiting for me or Elle. She ran out into the storm on purpose. I think she was laying the groundwork to frame her brother.”

“Wha . . .”

“The day she was chased in the woods, the front door was open. She probably left it open so she could send Tripod in or she wanted someone to hear her screams. Cole’s motorcycle was gone. Who knows, she might have sent Cole out on some errand or something, one she could deny knowledge of.”

“I don’t know.” Doc shook his head. “This seems a little far-fetched to me. A dog as an accomplice?”

“Jillian didn’t have a scratch on her after the chase. I
wasn’t running for my life and look what happened to me.” As I talked, Tripod leaned forward and lapped at my earlobe with his suede tongue. “Tripod! Mr. Arnold just told me Jillian hates dogs. What was she doing walking him that day in the woods? I think it’s the only time I’ve ever seen her near the dog. Jillian also described the blade or weapon used to kill her mother as shiny. We both know the knight’s lance was anything but shiny. It was corroded with rust. She made the whole scene up—acting out a part like she was a character in her novel!”

“She would’ve had to have a partner. Someone chased her in the woods, and she was with you when the monster truck tried to ram you into the ocean. There’d also have to be someone who could make sure Cole didn’t have an alibi when these things happened.”

“Possibly someone Caroline disapproved of, someone not in Jillian’s class. Maybe Adam? Maybe he’s Jillian’s boyfriend? But then what was Adam doing making out with Tara Gayle?”

Doc swerved to avoid a seagull dining on roadkill. “It makes more sense that Stu, owner of Son of Satan, is her boyfriend. Stu could’ve chased her in the woods to make it look like Cole, and he definitely would’ve been able to scare you with his monster truck.”

“Stu could’ve sabotaged my Jeep so Jillian would give me the Hummer. She knew it could withstand a bashing or two from the truck. There are other things. Number one, I don’t think Jillian had a deep love for her mother, and number two, I think she resented Cole and blamed him for most of her problems.”

“Why would Jillian kill her mother to make it look like her brother did it?”

“Money, revenge. Who knows.”

“The box of coins found in Cole’s room had Jillian’s and Caroline’s blood and DNA.”

“Jillian could have hit herself with the box for a more realistic attempt to come off as a PTSD patient.”

“Or she had help.”

“You’re right. She’s so vulnerable and easily influenced. I’m sure her
boyfriend
could talk her into anything.”

“His full name is Stuart Polinski. I suppose that’s where we’re headed?” Doc asked.

Tripod barked in the affirmative.

Stu Polinski lived in Montauk, on the wrong side of the railroad tracks, off Navy Road and across from Fort Pond Bay. His one-room cabin had once been part of a small motel complex that had seen better days. We pulled next to a worn sign stenciled with the words
BREEZY BAY
under a hand-painted sailboat on choppy waves. The sign would look great in one of my cottages.

I stood a few paces behind Doc as he rapped on the flimsy screen door. “Stuart Polinski, it’s the police. Open up. We want to have a word with you.”

Go, Doc!

Behind a dingy curtain, a blue light flickered from a television. There was shuffling and the sound of furniture being rearranged. Stu eventually got around to opening the door. He wore a soiled wifebeater and jeans. His collection of gold chains had multiplied. I remembered three at the service station. Number four was a solid gold dollar sign that hung on a thick braided chain. “What do you want? Did you bring my truck?”

Doc put his hand on the door. “We have a few questions. May we come in?”

“I dunno? If it’s about my truck, Son of Satan, I told you, I never knew it was stolen.”

“No. This is about your relationship with Jillian Spenser,” I said.

Stu’s hand went to his neck, covering the dollar sign. “Who?”

“Come on. We know you know her. Let us in for a few minutes.” Doc opened the screen door and we stepped into the dreary cabin. It smelled of mildew and fried fish. Wilted avocado shag carpeting covered the floor. Even I couldn’t turn this place around. It was shabby, minus the chic.

Stu sat down on an old Barcalounger. He pulled the lever to extend the footrest. Stuffing the color of dirty city snow oozed from the pleather. “So, what do you wanna know?” He didn’t seem Jillian’s type. Perhaps Caroline Spenser had thought the same thing.

I rooted through my bag and excavated Doc’s mini–tape recorder. I flipped the tape and handed it to Doc.

“Do you mind if I tape our conversation?” Doc asked.

“Whatever turns you on. I got nothing to hide.”

“We want to know where you were on two separate occasions—the morning of March eighteenth and the evening of March nineteenth. Last Thursday and Friday.”

Stu shrugged. “I was probably here or at work.”

“We talked to Toby. You were off on March eighteenth and you ran out of the station early on Friday.” Doc grabbed one of two folding chairs at a card table near the kitchenette. He placed the chair next to the recliner and leaned in. I morphed into the knotty pine paneling.

“Yeah, so?”

“Nice Rolex. Is that the real deal?” Doc reached for Stu’s wrist.

Stu shoved his arm into the cushion. “Naw. Got it in Chinatown.”

While Doc grilled Stu with questions, I honed my radar on my surroundings. The place looked as it should: the home of a twentysomething mechanic. The thrift shop sofa, scarred tables, and even the large flat-panel TV didn’t seem out of place. There was a Bose sound system with two towers filled with CDs. They were mostly rap/hip hop titles. The TV and sound system were extravagant, but not unusual, for a single guy to blow his paycheck on. What I did find weird was a thick hardcover novel sandwiched between some issues of
Popular Mechanics
and
Monster Jam
. I slid over to the sofa and bent to retie my already-tied shoelaces and saw the title of the book:
The Corrections
by Jonathan Franzen. I’d read the novel years ago, after it received accolades from the literary world. It wasn’t an easy read. Franzen used long, complicated sentence structure and detailed prose. The only other book in sight was an illustrated novel called
Surf Clowns
.

Stu said, “As I told you, I only know the Spenser woman from seeing her at the station.”

It seemed unlikely to me that Jillian would make a trip to the service station. She’d send someone else, like she had when she loaned me the Hummer.

I pulled
The Corrections
from the pile and shook it. Something rattled inside. I cracked it open and pulled the tab of a faux-velvet cover. Inside was a wad of hundred-dollar bills and gold jewelry. I quickly replaced the cover, closed the book, and pushed it back into its original position. Then I stood. “Doc . . . I mean, Officer Heckler, I think we better get goin’. We’re late.”

It took a minute for Doc to catch on. “Okay, but this isn’t the last you’ll see of us, Stuart Polinski.”

Stu didn’t look too worried.

*   *   *

Before starting the Buick, Doc gave Tripod a good scratch behind the ears. “I was just getting started. He was ready to spill his guts.”

“Think about it. We don’t have a warrant. Anything we take from the place won’t be admissible in court.”

“What were ‘we’ planning on taking?”

“I found a pile of money and some gold chains hidden in the middle of a book safe. He was definitely being paid for something, and I would bet my life on the fact that Jillian Spenser has something to do with it. Also, did you notice he wore his watch on his right arm? That means he’s probably a lefty, like the person that chased Jillian in the woods.”

“What if he’s a drug dealer or something?”

“I guess that’s possible, but he doesn’t have an alibi, and at the lighthouse, Jillian called someone at Toby’s.”

“I hope you know Cole Spenser is left-handed too.”