Hearse and Gardens (12 page)

I stepped on the gas.

The van did the same.

Before I had time to think, I took a sharp turn into the closest driveway. The back end of the Jeep fishtailed 180 degrees. After a few gulps of air, I followed the circular drive until I was facing the highway.

I stopped to look both ways. The van had made a U-turn and was hurtling back in my direction. It slowed as it passed. The sun reflected off the windshield, blocking the man's face. All I could make out was a neon orange baseball cap and a meaty forearm. I caught a glimpse of the last three digits of the license plate—123. Easy enough to remember. The bad news was, I knew by their color they weren't New York plates.

After I sat for a few minutes, composing myself, I continued on to Rebecca Crandle's cottage. The logical reason someone was stalking me had to do with Little Grey. I wasn't about to scare that easily. But I would be on my guard.

The key to Rebecca Crandle's cottage was stowed inside a fake rock near the back door. It took me about six rocks until I found the right one because I was in such a frenzy to get inside. Hither Hills was desolate in the off-season. Cottage owners sometimes returned for holiday weekends but that was about it.

I stepped inside and couldn't believe the difference a little paint could make. As soon as I got the job, I sent over my go-to guys, a local father-and-son team, Duke and
Duke Junior, to paint the interior. Now I realized if I broke down the walls, they'd have to come back, costing me more money. Tara's smug face flashed in front of me, and I immediately went to the walls I wanted to remove, tapping to make sure there weren't any support beams. At least something went right. A sledgehammer and Duke and Duke Junior and I'd be all set. I laid out my design plans on the floor. The bead-board wainscoting I planned to put halfway up the walls would give the space a warmer vibe, especially painted to look weathered and touchable. My goal was to make Rebecca's cottage airy and cozy at the same time. Easily done when you lived by the ocean. All I had to do was create a few nooks or alcoves with seating, ideal for daydreaming or reading.

I had the perfect vintage dresser at Elle's carriage house to make into a window seat. I'd get Elle to cut off the dresser's legs then I'd make a cushion for the top. Elle owned a buzz saw and jigsaw—which she wouldn't let me touch because she dreamt I cut off my right hand. I was left-handed, so I didn't know what the importance of the specific hand had to do with it, but I was happy to let her do the work and save a few fingers in the process.

When I'd asked Rebecca Crandle if she wanted me to place her writing desk in front of a window with an ocean view, she'd given me an emphatic “NO!” I remembered when I read Stephen King's autobiography,
On Writing
, how he started writing in the laundry room of his double-wide mobile home. The room hadn't any windows and was smaller than a jail cell. I supposed Rebecca didn't want the distraction. I felt differently. When my desk faced the ocean, it inspired me to create the perfect cottage interior.

There was a small closet under the staircase. I wanted to take off the door and make a storage area on one side and open the back of the closet and put a wine rack on the other. Double-duty storage.

The closet reminded me of Pierce Falks's book with the Harry Potter cupboard under the stairs. I wished I'd finished Pierce's storybook. I was curious as to what had been hidden and what the heroine had learned in the process.

I got back into town right before sunset. The local Montauk school kids were given the task of decorating downtown for Halloween. Every park bench had a stuffed pumpkin-head figure dressed in flannel and jeans. In the off-season, the town returned to its salt-of-the-earth roots, or should I say, salt-of-the-sea roots. People waved hello even if they didn't know you, and no one was in a rush when ordering takeout or picking up a prescription. Don't get me wrong, the business proprietors were always friendly to the influx of summer people, but sometimes I saw eyes roll when the limos pulled up.

When I put the key in the kitchen door, it hit me. I had a pet. A large pet. Possibly a lonely pet.

It took me two seconds to find Jo. She was curled up on my Sunday
Times
reading chair, fast asleep. She didn't even stir when I closed the door. I went over and touched
one of her long white whiskers to make sure she was alive. She opened her eye, looked at me, and closed it.

The temperature outside was in the upper forties, but I started a fire. Something about a cottage, a stone hearth, a roaring fire, and a cat seemed to go together. I went to the freezer and pulled out a meat loaf, green beans, and mashed-potato dinner and stuck it in the microwave. It was only four thirty, but I'd forgotten to eat lunch. I had to admit, having someone in the cottage, even a hostile feline, made me feel a little more secure.

I went to the French doors and looked out. No bucket of guts hung on the gate. Orange peeked out from the sea grass. The bucket must have gotten blown into the neighbor's yard from the nor'easter. I unlocked the door and went outside.

The color of the bucket was Halloween orange and made from plastic. Written on one side in thick black marker was a capital
W
. Evidence! Why hadn't I noticed it before? I wouldn't show it to Detective Shoner or Doc, but I would bring it in to the small police outpost in the center of Montauk.

I sat on the top step leading down to the beach and watched the last light of day being sopped up by the ocean. A heron was on the beach searching for food.
W.
What did that stand for? Why would someone write an initial on a plastic bucket? Logic dictated it had something to do with fishing. Was the person who left the bucket a fisherman? Surfcasting or deep sea? Doc always wanted to take me fishing at Montauk Harbor. Maybe it was time I took him up on it and maybe I'd find a clue regarding who left the bucket. If I ended up finding naught at the harbor, at
least Doc and I could score a meal at Mickey's Chowder Shack—my favorite Montauk eatery.

When I felt calm and centered, I grabbed the bucket and climbed up to my deck. I hid it behind the wrought iron stand I used to store kindling and went inside.

Once inside, I headed straight to the kitchen sink to wash my hands. The cat followed. I put another log on the fire. The cat followed. I went to the microwave, pressed the button for another minute, then took out my frozen dinner. The cat followed. After I added some fresh rosemary to the potatoes, I went to the sofa with my plate. The cat followed. I took a bite of potatoes. She stood as still as a sphinx. Her eye unblinking.

What was I missing here?

I got up for a glass of pinot noir. The cat didn't follow. Instead she jumped up on the banquette, put her paws on the table and looked at me.

I glanced at the clock. It was five on the button.

Dinnertime.

“You're one smart cat. But I'm warning you, Miss Josephine, I will not put up with this behavior if I have guests.” Not that I had much company except Elle and Doc. And they both wouldn't care about cats at the table—paws and all.

I washed off a saucer from one of my pots of herbs and opened a can of Purrfectly Organic cat food. This pet was going to cost me a bundle. I placed the dish in front of her. Just as Detective Shoner said, she started eating. Even with the loss of her eye, Jo must have led a charmed life.

After I cleaned Jo's plate and reheated my dinner
again
, I sat on the sofa. I ate while I read another section
about a tortured poet in Patrick Seaton's book. I would've preferred to sit on my Sunday
Times
reading chair but the fat cat was already fast asleep.

Percy Bysshe Shelley was born in a cushy enough environment, the son of a country squire, but was kicked out of Oxford for publishing a pamphlet on atheism. When Shelley married his second wife, Mary Godwin, the author of
Frankenstein
, his first wife's wedding gift to him was to commit suicide by drowning. After that, Percy Shelley lost two sons, one from each wife, and in 1822 he died in a shipwreck on the Mediterranean. He was only thirty-six.

Patrick Seaton had chosen a few select verses of Shelley's “Ode to the West Wind.” The poem was written in October almost two hundred years ago on another shore, but with yesterday's nor'easter, his poem couldn't have been timelier.

It was interesting Patrick Seaton didn't quote the final verse in the poem. Perhaps because it wasn't tragic enough, but one of my favorite Shelley lines:

The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,

If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

I woke Jo and had to half push her out the door to the litter box. It was pretty cold. Tomorrow, I'd rearrange the cottage to be more cat friendly.

Jo came back inside and went to her chair.
Her?
And I went up to bed.

I turned on the light by my bed and went to the closet to get hangers to hang my outfit for tomorrow's party. I was
down to the necklace before I realized my two-hundred-dollar top was missing. I searched the bedroom, which took about two seconds, and the bathroom, which took about one second, then I went back downstairs and searched every inch of the cottage. I stood in front of Jo with my arms crossed. She pretended not to notice.

“Where did you put it? Spill.”

She opened her eye, yawned, then went back to sleep.

The top wasn't a deal-breaker, but it did fit me in all the right spots. And I didn't think I had anything else that would work. Had someone broken into the cottage and taken my top? It was such a low-profile crime, then again, the fish-gut bucket perpetrator wouldn't be charged with a felony when he or she was caught.

I stomped upstairs and went to bed.

When I woke, Jo was next to me. Her head was on the pillow on the man-side of my bed.

What had I done?

I wasn't lying when I told Byron Hughes I had an afternoon appointment—well, kind of, because my appointment hadn't been scheduled until after he asked me to the Barkers' party. Today I'd finally meet Gordon Miles. He'd been called to Washington, probably to see his buddy the president, and was coming to clarify his relationship with the former owner of my cottage.

Before leaving for the courthouse in East Hampton, I wanted to stop at the Montauk police outpost in the middle of town to show them the bucket and fill out an official report. Maybe they would send one of their bored-because-it-was-off-season officers to keep an eye on my rental and Little Grey.

Morgana Moss, my friend Barb's sister-in-law, was alone in the office. She only recently moved to Montauk. For twenty-two years she'd lived in the Bronx and had
been a 911 dispatcher for the NYPD. Now she was a gal Friday to the small East Hampton Town Police outpost in Montauk.

“Meg. How wonderful to see you. I just got a postcard from Barb from Florence.”

“I heard from her too. I miss her. Especially with all the stuff going on with my property.”

“She told me about that before she left. What can our little cop shop help you with, darlin'?” She chewed gum and talked at the same time.

Good thing I was wearing my hearing aids; I would never be able to read her lips.

I explained about the four incidents: dead seagull, fish guts, face in the folly, and menacing van. She took notes like she really cared. She suggested I stay with her until Barb came back. I told her I couldn't because I had a pet to take care of.

Morgana wasn't too keen on cats. She was more of a dog person. As a side job, she raised pups, Maltipoos—Maltese/poodle mixes. She showed me a million photos of Mom and Pop and different litters of pups. Mom was the Maltese. Pop the poodle. I had to ooh and aah over each one before she let me escape. It would take six Maltipoos lined up end to end to equal one Tripod. At the thought of Tripod, I thought of his master, Cole. Then I thought of Byron Hughes. Things didn't have to be complicated, unless you made them that way, as my mother used to say.

Before leaving the outpost, I promised Morgana I'd set my security alarm, even during the day. Then I headed to the courthouse in East Hampton.

The field between Amagansett and East Hampton was
covered with a couple hundred pumpkins in anticipation of Sunday's upcoming pick-your-own-pumpkin day. Obviously, the pumpkins had already been picked, but it was still fun to walk the cornfield looking for that perfect pumpkin while sipping your free hot cider.

I arrived at the courthouse half an hour ahead of time. I wanted to beat Gordon Miles into the courtroom so I could have a little chat with my attorney. I parked the Jeep, got out, and when I got to the courthouse steps I heard, “Hey, Meg!”

Liv Falks stood at the entrance of the courthouse, waving at me. Celia, Brandy, Richard, and Uncle Harry were also with her and Uncle Harry wasn't in his wheelchair. He had his walker and stood upright. He wore a suit and tie, and looked quite dapper. I could see what all his wives had seen in him—well, at least his first two. All Celia had seen was dollar signs.

Uncle Harry had a big smile on his face. His complexion was peachy-pink, instead of ashen-gray.

I walked up to the step next to the wheelchair ramp. “Uncle Harry, you look great. Is everything okay?”

“Better than okay. My third wife, soon to be ex-thirdwife, tried to have me sent to the funny farm, put out to pasture. She lost, thanks to my champions, Brandy and Liv.”

Celia's complexion was a mottled purple. “Harrison, don't be silly. We are soul mates. The only reason I'm here is because your doctor thought you were a danger to yourself. You know I care.”

“Phooey. That quack is no headshrinker of mine. You hired him.”

“We were all worried about you. Weren't we, Brandy?”

Brandy said, “You were? That's a joke.” She put her hand on top of Uncle Harry's.

Celia looked around for support, but no one gave any, including Richard. He knew where his bread was buttered.

Liv said, “Come on, Granddad, let's get home. This calls for a celebration. We'll go to the kitchen and see what goodies Mrs. Anderson has for us.”

“No more doctors,” he said.

Brandy said, “No more doctors, Harrison.” Then she followed him down the ramp.

Liv stayed behind as the rest of the crew headed toward the limo. Richard ran ahead and opened the back door—chauffeur-style.

I said to Liv, “You must be really happy about the outcome.”

“Oh, Meg, I am. I have to give most of the credit to Brandy. She stopped giving Granddad the medication prescribed by the psychiatrist, and he got back his appetite and his mind.”

I saw that everyone was seated in the limo. Richard was in the driver's seat. I guess it wasn't worth him standing near the limo door to wait for Liv.

“How wonderful. I couldn't be happier.”

Liv said, “Why don't you come back to Sandringham? Granddad would love it.”

“Wish I could. I have a little thingie to take care of inside, but I bet Elle would love to come. In fact, she's nearby in Bridgehampton, volunteering at the Pink Ribbon thrift shop. If you want, I could text her?”

“That would be great.”

The limo's horn honked and Liv started down the steps. When she reached the limo, she turned around and mouthed, “Good luck.”

From her lips to God's ears.

*   *   *

When I walked into the courtroom, Judge Ferry was in the middle of admonishing a teen for urinating on the flowerbeds in front of the library. The kid apparently spent the night in jail for being drunk and disorderly. His parents looked mortified. The judge let him go with a warning and assured his parents they'd done the right thing in not bailing him out at four in the morning. I knew what the jail cells were like in East Hampton. They were clean, usually empty, and the cops were compassionate and caring.

As unobtrusively as possible, I slithered onto the bench in the last row, behind an old guy with a gray beard and red nose. His head nodded over his right shoulder . . . TIMBER! He fell onto the bench, giving me a better view of Judge Ferry.

Judge Ferry spoke to the court clerk, then left the courtroom.

The clerk addressed the room. “Court will reconvene in ten minutes.”

Was Judge Ferry the same judge who deemed Uncle Harry competent? If she was, she moved up a notch on my likeability scale.

When the boy and his parents left the courtroom, a few spectators remained. Two men in plaid flannel shirts—one blue, one red—sat on opposite sides of the courtroom. I
got up and moved toward the front of the courtroom. My lawyer and the monsignor were talking to Justin Marguilles, Gordon's attorney. I scurried to join them.

“I'm sorry, folks,” Marguilles said. “Sergeant Miles has been detained. He honestly planned to be here but got stuck in Washington.”

I piped in, “And you just found this out now?”

“Ah. Ms. Barrett. Yes, I'm afraid so. He's a very busy man. But he did make the effort to come all the way out here for the hearing.”

“Can't you video his testimony or something, like they do on TV?”

“Well, that's not his style. He's a people person. His top priority is settling this issue so all sides are happy.”

“I don't see how that is possible,” I said.

“Oh ye of little faith. We're dealing with Sergeant Gordon Miles. An American hero.”

Like I'd forgotten.

Judge Ferry came out and took her seat behind the bench.

Justin Marguilles stood. “May I approach the bench?”

“Yes, you may. In fact, why don't all of you come up.”

We stood in front of her in order of height: Justin Marguilles, the monsignor, Neil Ruskin, and myself, but Judge Ferry looked only at Marguilles.

“Your Honor, my client has been detained in Washington, and I've only just learned about it or I would have contacted the court immediately.” He handed her a piece of paper with some kind of official seal on top.

She looked it over. “May I keep this?”

“Of course, Your Honor.”

Judge Ferry tore her eyes away and looked over at my attorney. “Mr. Ruskin, we'll have to reschedule. My clerk will contact your office when it's back on the docket.”

We left single file. Neil held the door for me, and one of the flannel shirt guys pushed past.

Neil said, “This might be a good thing. The longer it goes, the better chance we have of some kind of resolution.”

I went through the door. “I hope you're right. Maybe we're better off if the war hero doesn't show up.”

Neil gave me a weird look like I was an anti-American Commie. The furthest from the truth.