Better Homes and Corpses (9 page)

ELEVEN

The evening crept in with the fog and the bouquet of gourmet food. Now I had an inkling of what Mrs. Arnold added to the household—she must be a darn good cook. But I knew if there was a cook-off between my father and Mrs. Arnold, Jeff Barrett would beat her hands down.

Elle had left the estate in the early afternoon. She was scheduled to inventory the contents of the Spensers’ Manhattan town house with the help of a crew from the insurance company. When Elle finished, she would oversee the loading of the moving van and follow it to East Hampton. The town house spoils, aka Adam’s inheritance, would be stored in the attic for the time being.

Cole had disappeared right after he pulled me out of the conservatory. In the late afternoon he’d walked with Tripod, looking despondent. The shadows under his eyes and cheekbones were exaggerated in the waning light.

At seven, I called it quits. I packed my briefcase and
glanced out the front window. Blurred zigzags of lightning lit up the murky sky.

My Jeep made it as far as the blacktop road in front of the estate, close to the entrance of Salvatore’s guesthouse. It chugged twice, sputtered, then died. I turned the key and pressed the gas pedal to the floor. Nothing. A dead battery, most likely—or—maybe not. Smoke was billowing from under the hood.

I got out, felt for the latch, and raised the hood. Thick black fumes wafted toward me. Defeated, I walked over to a tree stump, plopped down, and orated my favorite mantra, “You idiot, you stupid idiot!” It worked like a charm, because my superego chimed in,
You’re not an idiot, you’re not an idiot
. I didn’t need to look at the sticker on the windshield to know I was overdue for an oil change. In fact, I wasn’t sure I’d ever changed the oil. When I first moved to Montauk, I bought my Jeep Wrangler from an East End surfer dude called Curl. He was selling everything he owned to surf the circuit in Hawaii—a kindred spirit. I’d paid cash on the spot and felt proud of myself as Curl sauntered off into the sunset. It wasn’t until I climbed inside I realized the Wrangler was a stick shift. I’d felt like a circus clown, chugalugging down Montauk Highway, grinding gears.

I searched for the flashlight I kept in the emergency kit, next to the flares. Now, if I only had matches, or maybe I didn’t need matches to light a flare. The rain didn’t materialize, but the fog moved stealthily toward me. Pushed by the ocean, it filled the landscape with a blanket of chilly dampness. I’d forgotten my clothes at Seacliff and was still dressed in Cole’s sweats. My cell phone was also at Seacliff in my jeans pocket. Despair descended as thick as the mist. I yearned for the comfort of my cottage, my flannel pj’s, a cup of steaming brew, and a Victoria Holt novel.

I got up and turned in the direction of Seacliff. The dense wooded area that separated me from the estate would be hard to maneuver in the dark. And spooky as hell. I started toward the tree line, until I saw the hazy form of a figure in a hooded sweatshirt silhouetted against the pines. I raced back to the Jeep, jumped in, and locked both doors. Was this the same man Jillian had seen earlier?

There was a rap on my car window. I grabbed my flashlight and shone it on a fog-shrouded form.

“Meg, is that you? You okay?” Van shielded his eyes from my light. He was dressed in a red flannel shirt. He wasn’t the person I’d seen moments before.

A small measure of disappointment registered; maybe because I would have preferred another rescuer—a man with a three-legged dog, or a melancholy author who wrote poetry in the sand.

“I’m so glad you’re here. My car’s dead and I thought I saw someone in the woods.”

Van came next to me. “You stay here. I’ll go investigate. Which direction did he go?”

“No. Don’t leave. It’s possible with this fog it was my imagination.”

“You sure? Did you call anyone about the car?”

“No. I left my phone at Seacliff.”

“Look. Here comes someone.”

A car came to a halt at the back of the Jeep, and Adam stepped in front of the headlights’ frosty glow. “You okay?”

“I’m fine, but my car’s not.”

Van said to Adam, “She thought she saw someone in the woods. You should call the police. I’ll call Toby at the garage about her Jeep.”

“Tell Toby to call the house after he looks the car over and, if you don’t mind, light some flares.” Then to me he
said, “Are you sure you saw someone? It’s pretty foggy out here. Get in. I’ll take you back to the house.”

I grabbed my purse from the Jeep and got in the front seat of Adam’s Mercedes SUV, the same car his mother used to cart away the mahogany clock from Champagne and Caviar Antiques. The backseat was still in its flat, folded-down position.

Adam led me up the front steps and back into the room Elle and I had spent the whole day inventorying.

“I’ll be right back. I have to let Mrs. Arnold know I’m taking you home so she can stay with Jillian.”

“That’s not necessary. I’ll call a taxi.”

“Wait until we hear from the mechanic. He’ll soon be at your car.”

Our eyes locked in the mirror over a $100,000 Hepplewhite credenza Elle had gushed about earlier.

“You look like a mermaid,” Adam said.

I wasn’t sure if he said it as a compliment or an insult; “sea hag” was a fairer description. “I’ve definitely had my share of water today, but I don’t think I’m sprouting a tail.” I twisted to view my rear; it was black from sitting on the tree stump. “Give me another hour in this weather and I might.”

The pungent smell of mothballs preceded Mrs. Arnold into the room. “I’ll be leaving for my meeting now. There’s rhubarb pie on the warming plate next to the stove.” She wasn’t the warmest toward Adam, but at least she offered him food. She wore a tweedy wool coat and a fedora topped with a lime-green feather, right off the pages of the 1946 Sears-Roebuck catalog. I’m sure Elle would love a crack at Mrs. Arnold’s wardrobe.

Adam said, “The fog’s pretty thick. Are you sure you should be driving?”

“The VFW hall isn’t far. I’m the secretary. I have to read the minutes.”

The front door closed.

I looked at Adam. “What kind of meeting?”

“It’s some kind of group. Nurses of Foreign Wars or something on that order.”

“Mrs. Arnold is a nurse?”

“Not a practicing one, but she was an army nurse in Vietnam. That’s where she met Mr. Arnold.”

“Do the Arnolds have any children?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Was Mrs. Arnold close to Caroline?”

“You are an inquisitive little thing, aren’t you? Do you suspect Mrs. Arnold of killing Caroline? I wouldn’t put it past her.”

“And Mr. Arnold? How did he and Caroline get along?”

“Hah! I never saw them talk once. Caroline gave her instructions to Mrs. Arnold via a daily to-do list.”

“Do you have any suspects at the top of your list?”

“If I did, do you think I’d hold back from telling the police? I want this solved as soon as possible.”

Adam went to check on Jillian, and I went into the foyer to retrieve the shopping bag filled with my storm clothes. Clothes nicely washed and folded by whom? Mrs. Arnold? My cell phone was on top, the battery dead.

I changed in the small powder room behind the grand staircase. The ceiling came to a steepled point and was papered in a chinoiserie design that featured exotic blooms and insects. The gold-plated faucet had crystal handles, and behind the sink was a procession of jewel-toned mosaic tiles. There was a fine line between ornate and gaudy. The creator of this room knew exactly where to draw that line.

I reached in my purse for a tube of lipstick to color my
lips and cheeks. I took out a hair clip and tamed the entire mess into a bun. I wasn’t stunning, but definitely passable.

I pushed open the bathroom door and smacked into something solid. A nose. A perfectly handsome nose.

“Owww!” Cole yelped.

“Oh my God. Are you all right?”

“No, I’m not all right. Geez!”

I went to touch his nose, but he pushed my hand away.

What else could go wrong?
As that thought flittered across my brain, a screech rang out from the top of the stairs.

Cole and I ran like we were in a relay race.

Cole won.

TWELVE

Adam held Jillian in his arms.

Jillian turned her head toward us. “Leave me alone. Leave me alone.”

Cole ran over and took her from Adam. “Jillian, look at me. It’s okay. You’re safe. We’re here for you.”

Jillian became frenetic. She pushed Cole away, got down on her hands and knees, and crawled to the closet. She opened the door, stood on a stool, and grabbed a doll from the shelf, then collapsed on the floor, cradling it in her arms. “It’s all right, darlin’. It’s only a nightmare. Think of good things, cotton candy . . . carousel rides . . . butterfly kisses . . .” Jillian’s voice had changed. She was talking with an aristocratic English accent. The only person I knew with an English accent was Caroline Spenser. I shivered. It felt like her ghost had entered the room.

I went to Jillian, secured her elbow, and led her and her dolly back toward the bed.

“Watching me . . . always watching me,” Jillian mumbled.

The sheets were turned down. Black satin, where there should have been white eyelet. Jillian got in and stared at me, her eyelashes sending some kind of weird Morse code. The bedside table was littered with loose pills. Cole went to the table and scooped the pills into both hands.

I blocked Jillian’s view of Cole. “Did you decorate this room yourself?” I looked around and knew it wasn’t Caroline’s influence.

She closed her eyes and mumbled, “Yes. And I will do as I please from now on. You can’t order me around anymore.”

Hmm, can’t remember ever telling her what to do, even in college, when I had to pick up all her clothing, which covered seven-eighths of the small dorm-room floor.

“Why don’t you two go downstairs. I’ll stay with her,” Adam offered.

The phone on Jillian’s desk rang.

Adam picked up the handset. “Okay, Stu. Take it away. No. We’ll be fine. Call in the morning.” He put down the receiver. “Meg, your car has engine problems. Stu the mechanic from Toby’s Service Station is going to tow it to the station.”

“Damn. I’ll call a cab.” Both men jerked their heads in my direction. Hadn’t they ever heard a woman swear before?

“No. I’ll give you a ride,” Cole said.

*   *   *

Adam looked torn. He glanced at me, then at Jillian.

Cole and I rode in silence, not that I could carry on much of a conversation on the back of a motorcycle. I was self-conscious of my hold on him. My arms were wrapped tightly around a waist that felt like forged steel. The wind lashed at my face, but at least I was free from a day of confinement, able to catch some insight into the personality of a man who would prefer a Harley to a Mercedes.

The roads were empty. Cole chose to take Old Montauk Highway, driving faster than the speed limit, up and down, leaning to the left then the right, into the fog, out of the fog. I was transported back to my teenage days of carnival rides—terror and ecstasy so intricately mixed.

When we reached my cottage, Cole grabbed my waist and helped me dismount. His presence offered security as I shakily turned the key in the door. Was I supposed to let him in?

In answer to my question, he marched ahead, entered the kitchen, and flipped on the light. He seemed large in my small kitchen. With the exception of Doc, Cole was the only male invited into my home since I’d moved in. Then again, he hadn’t been invited. We faced each other, awkward and mute. Cole’s nose was swollen, and he had the beginning of a black eye from the door-banging I’d given him earlier. I should offer him something, but I wasn’t the sultry femme fatale type who had the chutzpah to say in a raspy Lauren Bacall voice,
Would you care for a nightcap, handsome?

Instead, I said, “Would you like a glass of chocolate milk?”

“Sure.” No hesitation.

I turned on a few accent lamps with low-wattage bulbs. Cole took a match from an antique match safe on the mantel and lit the kindling. It was as if he’d done it a million times before. He stood with his back to me, his shoulders slumped, his posture without its usual rigid stance. I touched him gently on the back and presented the glass of cold milk mixed with Sanders fudge sauce. Sanders fudge had been a Detroit staple from my adolescence. My father religiously sent me a care package every two months. Also included were Vernors ginger ale and a crock of Win Schuler’s bar cheese.

Cole smiled as he took the glass. The tiny flecks of
amber in his blue eyes hypnotized me. There was enough electricity to light Yankee Stadium. I assumed I was the positive connector and he the negative.

Wrong.

He took me in his arms. It wasn’t hot and sexy—more like a friendly bear hug. He enveloped me, surrounded me and comforted me. I was consumed with a rush of emotions. What happened next wasn’t pretty.

I started to weep. Not simple tears. Lots of sobbing, snorting, and nose-running. My embarrassment wasn’t complete until there was the sting of red-hot blotches. Alas, a Barrett curse. All the females in my family broke into scarlet welts when they cried, gave speeches, or got excited. I mumbled a lame excuse, ran upstairs to the bathroom, removed my hearing aids, and threw torrents of icy water on my face. The red welts remained. I tried saturating a cotton ball with Visine because I’d read in a magazine that it took the red out of date-night blemishes. I looked in the mirror and couldn’t help but laugh at myself. Here I was in the most perfect situation with a man—a man to whom I was more than attracted—a man who’d made the first move, and I’d blown it. The wall I’d so carefully built, brick by brick, crumbled around me. I was Humpty Dumpty and I refused to let any of the king’s men put me back together again. Maybe my breakdown was a warning. What did I know about Cole? He was rude, condescending, and a possible murderer. With that thought, the welts traveled to my navel.

I crept downstairs. Cole was stretched out on my Sunday
New York Times
–reading chair, his eyes shut, his boots resting on a needlepoint piano stool.

Were killers this peaceful when they slept? Every murderer had once been an innocent child, someone’s son or
daughter. What made them cross that line between right and wrong? My father didn’t have the answer, even though he’d had enough experience dealing with them. As a city cop, Jeff Barrett’s high expectations continuously let him down. He’d arrest someone for petty larceny, the next time armed robbery, and then murder. Detectives in the Detroit Police Department were required to take classes on the psychology of the criminal mind. He told me the only knowledge he’d gained was that you had to think like a criminal in order to catch one. A person’s morals and ethics were as unique as their fingerprints. One day he told me, “I can’t do it anymore—see the good in these people. I don’t know how to rationalize someone who murders a pregnant woman for twelve dollars or wipes out an entire family because the ex-wife has a new boyfriend.” Even though he said this, he was given awards and accolades for the volunteer work he did with inner-city children at an East Side outreach program.

My father’s drinking in the early part of his career was more than likely a result of his disappointment in the human race, but his lifelong volunteer work was also a testament to his never-ending faith in that same slice of mankind. After my mother’s death, he stopped his wild ways and found something else to keep him busy—one I benefited from. He got an associate’s degree in the culinary arts.

I left Cole and stepped onto the deck. At the east end of the beach, a light, slightly brighter than a firefly’s, blinked.

The scent of Cole’s musky aftershave let me know he was standing behind me.

I leaned back and spoke softly. “Sorry for that little display. I guess I’ve been holding on to a lot of things and the dam just broke.”

Cognizant I wasn’t wearing my hearing aids, he turned
me around to face him. “No need to apologize. It’s beautiful here. A slice of paradise. Once you live by the ocean, it’s impossible to live anywhere else.”

We stood silent, the waves like our collective breaths—steady, rhythmic. Why didn’t he ask me about the day I found his mother? I wanted to ask him about North Carolina and his life there but didn’t want to break the spell.

“Let’s go down.” He grabbed my hand.

We maneuvered the steps side by side. The moon offered enough light to cause sprinkles of white to dance on gently rolling waves. We walked toward the lighthouse and faced the ocean as icy sand swirled at our feet.

“I suppose I should go. Jillian might need me,” he said.

I didn’t want him to go. Yet I didn’t know what to do with him if he stayed. There was no need for words as he drew me close. It was too dark to make out his features, but when our lips fused, an urgency shot down to the tips of my toes. The kiss was more than I’d expected. It brought us both to our knees on the frigid ground. We stayed until a gust of wind smacked us from behind like an arctic big brother. Cole took heed and pulled me to my feet and we turned to walk back.

If the moon hadn’t come out from beneath a cloud, we would have missed the large words written in script on the sand in front of Patrick Seaton’s cottage:

I love to sail forbidden seas,

And land on barbarous coasts.

“Melville,” Cole said. Then walked on as if quotations in the sand were an everyday occurrence.