From Cradle to Grave (6 page)

SIX

H
ey,’ an angry voice demanded.

Morgan found herself averting her eyes from another flashlight beam. When her eyes adjusted, she saw the outline of a uniformed police officer at the foot of the back steps. ‘Oh, God, you scared me,’ said Morgan.

The policeman frowned. He was young and had a wide girth and a double chin. ‘Who are you? And what are you doing in this house, miss?’

Morgan decided that the truth was best, and as little of it as possible. ‘I’m a friend. I’m feeding the cat,’ she said.

‘This is a crime scene. Didn’t you see the tape?’

‘What tape?’ Morgan asked innocently.

The cop frowned, and looked around, finding the broken end of the tape caught on a cedar shake. ‘This tape,’ he said. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t know what that means.’

Morgan lowered her head and hurried down the steps. ‘Sorry. I was just worried about the cat,’ she said. ‘The door was open.’

‘Is that your car parked out front?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ said Morgan. ‘I wasn’t sneaking in. I just didn’t realize I wasn’t supposed to come inside.’

The cop looked at her with narrowed eyes. ‘You’re a friend of the people who live here?’ he asked.

Morgan evaded the question. ‘Yes. I’m just taking care of their cat,’ she said.

‘Don’t you know what happened here today?’ he asked. It sounded almost like an accusation.

Morgan hesitated. Then she nodded. ‘Something terrible,’ she said.

The cop snorted. ‘You can say that again.’

‘Am I in trouble?’ Morgan asked.

The young cop thought it over, and then shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Just go.’ He turned his flashlight on to the driveway and Morgan hurried into the path of the beam, not waiting for him to change his mind.

It was more difficult to find Sandy Raymond’s house than Morgan had anticipated. Part of it was that her nerves were jangled from the trip to Claire’s cottage. But it was also because the driveways along that winding stretch bordering the sea were tucked between large trees, and there were no signs or lettered mailboxes to identify the occupants of these huge homes. After turning into several driveways, only to find an unfamiliar house when she emerged from the tree canopy into the clearing, she finally took the correct one. She recognized the house the moment she saw it. It was an imposing, gray stone house which would have fit perfectly into the English countryside.

Morgan pulled up into the graveled parking area beside which four expensive luxury vehicles, from a Mercedes convertible to the silver SUV, were already parked. She looked up at the symmetrical façade of the house with its tall multi-paned windows and surrounding patios. The carriage lights bracketing the front door were not illuminated, and Morgan immediately felt ill at ease. Sandy hadn’t even bothered to leave the lights on. This oversight seemed to say, louder than words, you are not really welcome here. Morgan hesitated. She remembered that Claire often said that Sandy didn’t like company. Or maybe, she thought, Sandy was playing some kind of mind game with her, to pay her back for Claire’s betrayal. Whatever the reason, it wasn’t too late to get a motel room somewhere. She didn’t need something nice like the Captain’s House. Anything would do. Morgan replaced the key in the ignition and turned it.

Suddenly, the front door of the mansion opened, and Sandy, dressed in a hoody and baggy sweatpants, came out and peered down at the circular drive. Then he ducked back into the house and the carriage lights were suddenly blazing.

Morgan frowned, and sat in the idling car. Sandy reappeared on the front patio.

‘Morgan,’ he called out. ‘Come on in.’

Morgan hesitated. Then, she removed the key from the ignition, and got out of the car. She went around and opened the trunk of her car. She still had the same rolling bag she had been planning to carry on the plane. When she arrived back in Brooklyn after leaving the airport, she did not want to waste time repacking. She had tossed the bag into the trunk of her car and took off. Now, she swung the bag out of the trunk, pulled up the handle and rolled it to the foot of the stone steps where he stood. ‘The lights were off,’ she said, ‘so I wasn’t sure . . .’

Sandy shook his head. ‘Sorry about that.’ He did not descend the steps to help her with her bag. Morgan jerked the densely packed, wheeled carry-on bag up the stone staircase. As she started to walk inside, Sandy turned and reached for the handle of her rolling bag.

‘I’ve got it,’ said Morgan firmly.

‘Suit yourself,’ said Sandy. He led the way into the house. The front hallway, with its curving staircase, was flanked by two huge living rooms, each boasting large ultrasuede sofas and chairs in shades of beige, taupe and chocolate. The window treatments were silken and formal, but they were also of neutral shades and blended into the walls. The rugs were sisal, and the whole appearance of the rooms was pristine, bland and safe. Morgan could still remember how disappointing it had looked to her the first time she was here. The decor, which was probably tailored by an expensive interior designer to Sandy’s casual bachelor life, was a distinct let-down after the elegant façade of the house.

A computer with a mountain-range screen saver was set up on a blond-wood, ergonomic-looking station which stood beside the unlit fireplace. Sandy sat down in front of the screen, his back to her, and began to tap at the keyboard. He indicated with a vague gesture the armless, overstuffed chairs. Morgan sat down and looked around.

‘You want a beer?’ he asked, lifting a green bottle from the top of the computer desk, his eyes fixed on the screen.

‘Do you have any wine?’ Morgan asked.

‘Like, a whole cellar,’ he smirked. ‘Farah,’ he bellowed. ‘Bring a glass of wine.’

‘What kind?’ a faraway voice called back.

He turned to Morgan. ‘Red or white?’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Morgan.

‘Montepulciano,’ he called out.

Farah, Morgan thought? Was that his girlfriend, or the household help? Judging from his tone, Morgan figured it must be a housekeeper he was summoning.

Sandy turned his swivel chair around to face Morgan. ‘She’ll be here in a minute. It’s a big house,’ he said apologetically, but with unmistakable pride.

Morgan nodded. ‘It’s a beautiful house. It’s just so . . . impressive.’

‘Any trouble finding it?’

Morgan shook her head. ‘I remembered from the . . .’

‘Engagement party,’ Sandy said. He frowned and turned back to his computer. Then he brightened as a beautiful girl with glossy brown hair halfway to her elbows appeared. She wore a soft, form-fitting pink terrycloth hoody, half-zipped so that the tops of her breasts were visible, and gray leggings. She was barefoot, and carrying a glass of garnet-hued wine in either hand.

This is not a housekeeper, Morgan thought. This had to be the new girlfriend. Sandy had, indeed, moved on. And he wanted her to know it.

‘There you are,’ said Sandy, speaking to Farah. ‘This is Morgan. She’s an old friend.’

The girl brought one of the glasses to Morgan and handed it to her with a sweet smile. ‘Hi. I’m Farah,’ she said.

Morgan could not help comparing this girl to Claire. Where Claire was graceful and elegant, with her short, stylish haircut and sinewy model’s body, Farah had the body and hair of a centerfold. Where Claire was cool, this girl was hot. When Morgan looked in Claire’s eyes she saw humor and intelligence. When she looked into Farah’s eyes, she saw openness, sweetness. Each was a beauty in her own way, but they were nothing alike. ‘Thanks, Farah,’ said Morgan.

Farah glided over to the sofa and curled up on the cushion like a cat. ‘Sandy,’ she chided him gently, ‘can’t you tear yourself away from that screen? We have a guest.’ Sandy sighed and swiveled around, looking at Farah. She beckoned to him with one finger. He obediently rose from the desk chair, picked up his beer from the top of the computer desk and joined her on the sofa.

‘Move,’ he said, and Farah acquiesced, scooting over so he could have the corner seat. He draped his forearm around her narrow shoulders.

Morgan took a sip of her wine. It had a bold, rich taste. She hoped it would not make her dizzy. She hadn’t eaten in hours.

‘So, Morgan,’ said Sandy, without preamble. ‘What was the story with Claire and her husband? Was he beating her up or something?’

From under the shelter of his arm, Farah looked up at Sandy innocently. ‘Who are you talking about?’

‘My old girlfriend,’ said Sandy casually. ‘Claire. Morgan’s an old friend of hers. Claire was arrested today for killing her husband and baby. Don’t you ever watch the news?’

Farah shrugged and smiled apologetically at Morgan. ‘Not really.’

‘So what was it?’ Sandy asked. ‘Was he cheating on her?’

Morgan frowned. ‘No. No, nothing like that. They were happy.’

‘They couldn’t have been that happy,’ Sandy observed bluntly.

‘I guess every marriage has its problems,’ Morgan conceded. She thought about Eden, but she didn’t want to mention the secrets Guy had kept from Claire. It seemed pointless, now that he was dead. ‘Claire has had a tough time since the baby came along.’

‘Don’t get me wrong,’ Sandy interrupted. ‘I’m not shedding any tears for Guy Bolton. I paid him a small fortune to come to my house and make an engagement party, and he ran off with my bride-to-be.’

Farah sat up straight and looked at him in amazement. ‘No way.’

‘Oh, yeah. I figured you knew. It was all over the Net. They thought it was a riot that the dot-com mogul got dumped the day after his engagement party,’ said Sandy. Then he caressed the young woman’s shiny mane. ‘That’s right. You don’t read.’

‘I read,’ Farah protested, punching him playfully before snuggling down next to him again.

Sandy took a pull on his beer bottle. ‘So, why did she do it?’ Sandy asked.

Morgan sighed. ‘I don’t know. It seems . . . unbelievable.’

‘But she confessed,’ said Sandy sharply.

‘She did.’

‘Jesus.’

‘I know.’

‘Who’s her attorney?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know. Some woman named Noreen Quick.’

‘I never heard of her.’

‘Claire seemed to like her.’

‘What does Claire know?’ Sandy demanded impatiently. ‘She can’t be trusted right now. She doesn’t know what the hell she’s doing. Obviously.’

Morgan felt a little put off by his abruptness, but there was truth in what he said. ‘Maybe not,’ said Morgan. ‘But it’s still her choice.’

Sandy shook his head and took another pull on his beer, wiping his upper lip on his sweatshirt sleeve. ‘Claire needs the best criminal attorney money can buy. Is money a problem? Cause I can pay for it,’ Sandy offered, waving his beer bottle expansively.

‘That’s so nice of you,’ said Farah. She looked at Morgan, wide-eyed. ‘Isn’t that nice of him?’ She lifted her head like a baby bird and kissed his cheek. He did not seem to notice.

‘Yes, it is nice of him. And I agree with you that she needs a really good attorney, but it’s not up to us,’ said Morgan. ‘Thank you, though. That’s so generous of you. Especially after . . . all that’s happened.’

Sandy held his hands wide apart, as if to say that he had nothing to hide. ‘The woman’s in big trouble,’ he said. ‘I’m just trying to help.’

‘I appreciate it,’ Morgan said. ‘I’m sure that Claire will too.’

Sandy shrugged. ‘It’s no problem for me.’

Morgan studied his coarse features, his small blue eyes. He tried to appear casual, expansive. But the tension in his shoulders and in his jaw told a different story. She thought about the fact that she had seen him at Drew’s christening, hiding in the shadows. She decided not to mention it. Morgan put her wine glass down on the cocktail table in front of the sofa. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘I am beat and I have a feeling tomorrow is going to be a long day.’

Sandy nodded. ‘Farah, take her up to the middle guest room.’ Farah immediately began to uncoil herself from the couch. ‘And get her something to eat if she’s hungry,’ Sandy ordered. Then Sandy looked at Morgan. ‘Are you hungry?’

Morgan stood up. She disliked the way he ordered his companion around. Had he treated Claire like this? She had spent almost no time with them as a couple, but Morgan couldn’t imagine Claire allowing any man to treat her that way. No wonder she left him, Morgan thought. What she could not understand was how Claire had gotten involved with him in the first place. Despite the generosity, the hospitality he offered, there was a deliberate lack of finesse about him. As if he wanted to emphasize the point that he had earned a fortune without bothering to be polite. Morgan did not want to defy his wishes, especially in his house, but no matter what he said, Morgan also did not want Farah to have to wait on her like a servant. ‘Just point me toward the kitchen. I’ll grab something myself.’