Hearse and Gardens (16 page)

I stepped in. “Those rooms over the garage look interesting. Is that where you stay?”

“Yes. Crazy, when there are a million open rooms at Sandringham.”

“It looks nice enough. My cottage is smaller.”

Richard had perfect features and his dark hair set off his blue eyes, but there was something hard about him. I don't think I ever saw him smile, except when he was making fun of Uncle Harry. I gave him the keys to my Jeep and he said he'd hide it behind one of the sheds.

I could have been insulted, but then I looked at the Jeep and thought it was for the best.

I didn't stop back at my rental because I was already late to meet Doc at Montauk Harbor, but I'd learned my lesson with Jo. Her litter box was clean and accessible in the bathroom closet. I'd left enough dry food to feed a troop of cats and most importantly, I planned to be home at four forty-five so I'd be on time to put a good meal on the table for my ball and chain.

Weather permitting, Doc and I were going on a short cruise of the harbor on his friend's fishing boat. “Short” because I lied and told him I got seasick after long periods on open water. In reality, I had no problem with boats. I just thought fishing seemed the most boring of pastimes.

Another reason I didn't like fishing was the torture factor when it came to fish too small to fry: ripping the hook out of its mouth as it looked at you with those unblinking eyes while doing the death flip-flop, gasping
for water—then throwing it back into the ocean wounded and scarred.

What was the point?

What I really wanted to do was see if I could find any orange buckets with a black
W
written in marker.

I pulled Elle's pickup into the parking lot at the wharf. Doc waited next to the kiosk that sold tickets for charter dinner cruises, fishing excursions, and the ferry that took you in-season to Block Island, Rhode Island. He looked different without his beard.

I got out of the truck and walked toward him. Hope bloomed when I got closer and saw white stubble on his chin. “Am I late?”

“No, I'm early. As usual.” He gave me a peck on the cheek and took my duffel bag. “Sully's all set to go, but I don't think there's time to do much fishing. Maybe drop a line or two.”

“Darn.”
Yes!

Doc asked why I had Elle's turquoise pickup and I explained about her fall down the stairs.

It was strange to walk the long dock in October. In the summer it was so busy you were in danger of getting tossed into the drink. There were only a few people working today, but each slip held a boat. The largest boats were for commercial fishing, with their raised hydraulic nets and sparse decks. I lagged behind Doc, trying to read the name on each boat.
Windward Shares
looked too pretentious, probably owned by some Wall Streeter without enough dough to moor at the East End Yacht Club. Based on the boat's newness, I doubted I'd find an orange plastic bucket.
Whale Watcher I
, probably one of those in every
port, looked promising, but there weren't any buckets, not even a clamp for a fishing pole.

A man about Doc's age, with noticeably dyed black hair, waved at us from
Fisher Tales
, a small cruiser.

Doc waved back.

When we reached
Fisher Tales
, Sully hoisted me on deck. Doc jumped on board with ease.

Captain Sully took the helm and we were off. Sully was the type of seaman I'd want on my side if I were on the
Titanic
or the
Andrea Gail
, which, thankfully, was impossible. Every move he made was fluid, from untying the ropes to navigating out of the harbor. He exuded poise and confidence in his crew, and he had a fishing pole in my hand before I even realized it. I hadn't even seen what bait was at the end of the line. Not that that was a bad thing.

We'd just left the harbor when there was a tug on my line. A major tug. “Guys. Guys. Help.”

With the assistance of three adults and a strong fishing line, we pulled in my fish—a beautiful striped bass. And she was big enough to keep.

I was the only one to catch anything, and I decided to add fishing to my bucket list of knitting, surfing, and horseback riding—as long as it was with Captain Sully.

Thinking about my
bucket
list reminded me of the reason for my trip to the harbor.

When we pulled into port, I'd insisted Sully divide the fish into three portions. Doc took the bag with our cleaned and filleted striped bass and went to his car to put it in the cooler.

I kissed Sully's rough cheek farewell, then walked to the end of the dock, perusing boat names in search of an
elusive orange bucket. I stopped at
Wrestling with the Wind
. On a messy deck littered with fish scraps, there was an orange bucket with a black
W
. Bingo! It was just like the bucket left on my gate filled with fish guts. I snapped a few pics with my cell phone and scurried to land, my knees shaking, but not from seasickness.

Doc said, “Are you okay?”

“Yep. Whattya say we go to Mickey's for a late lunch and celebrate my big catch. I bet Erin will cook them up for us.”

“Good idea. Would you even know how to pan braise a striped bass?”

“No, but I could always get my dad on video chat and he could lead me through it.”

“True. I could get him on my smartphone.”

“Marshall Heckler, you do amaze me. Let's go. It's freezing out here.”

Mickey's Chowder Shack was busy no matter what the season, and it didn't depend on summer tourists to turn a profit.

The shack was just that. In the summer months, the windows came out. Clear plastic flaps were rolled up in fair weather or down in rain. There was wood paneling, wood floors, and open wood rafters from which hung a large collection of pirate coconut heads. I was proud to say I'd donated a few from garage sale finds, and I was allowed a free cup of chowder every time I came in. Takeout included. After tasting Ingrid's chowder, I felt guilty it was one notch ahead of Mickey's.

There were shark jaws on the walls and signs like,
IN DOG BEERS I'VE ONL
Y HAD ONE
. A huge swordfish was stuffed and mounted above the fireplace. Ernest Hemingway would
probably have felt right at home in Mickey's. The bar was full of locals, all in plaid flannel shirts and caps, each with a different hue of beer in their heavy glass mugs.

Doc went over to give the fillets to Erin.

Mickey, Erin's grandfather, had taken ill last summer. Erin stood behind the counter, shouting out orders. She looked like a fish out of water in a sea of men. She was young and tiny with a great body and a stunning face. I knew from our past conversations she wanted to get out of Montauk. I also knew she felt strongly about family responsibility. The same couldn't be said for her sister, Tara Gayle. Erin told me once that Tara never came into Mickey's. She was too good for the place.

We sat at a table at the window. I looked out at the docked boats. Seagulls bobbed and dived for fish parts tossed overboard from a big commercial boat with two tall poles and a net on an hydraulic pulley. Doc was busy chatting with the table of men next to us. Each man telling a fishing yarn more outrageous than the next. I took out my cell phone and looked at the picture of the boat with the orange bucket. On the side of the wheelhouse of
Wrestling with the Wind
was a line of numbers. I'd let Morgana at the police outpost see if she could contact the harbormaster and get me more info on the boat. I felt close to finding the person who left the bucket of fish guts.

When Erin brought our food, I couldn't believe I was about to eat a fish I'd caught. I now had my own yarn to tell. I wished my father was here to witness it. My mother always laughed about the adoring glances her married girlfriends would send my father when they saw him in his red apron whipping up one of his
Top Chef
–worthy dishes.

That's what I needed, a man who could cook. Where did Byron Hughes stand in that department?

Of course, my father would've never let Mickey's cook his fish. He would have done it himself and it would have been delicious, but so was Mickey's simple panfried version: dusted with a little flour and secret spices.

Doc insisted on paying for the check, and I went over to Erin to thank her for cooking the fish. I thought I was hallucinating when I saw a familiar face through the opening to the kitchen.

Tara Gayle was standing at the sink with a pot in her hand. And she wore a hairnet. Could things get any better?

I didn't say a word to Erin about her sister. Even a lying, thieving cheat deserved a little dignity. I almost made it to the door before I burst out laughing.

Doc asked, “What's so funny? People are going to think you had something nasty to eat.”

A guy with a red nose beckoned Doc over to the bar. I told him I would meet him at the Buick.

I pushed at the screened door, and a guy in a blue flannel shirt and a neon orange cap slammed into me on his way out.

Neon orange cap! Just like the guy in the van that ran me off the road in Hither Hills.

I ran out the door after him, but he was already in his van backing out of a parking space. I couldn't catch the beginning letters of the license plate because they were covered in mud, but I did find out the state: First in Flight—North Carolina.

I went back inside and tapped Doc on the shoulder.

“Did you see that guy in the bright orange cap?”

“What guy?”

Guess not.

Doc and I left Mickey's with a greasy paper bag of shrimp fritters and a container of spicy paprika and coarse mustard remoulade. All I needed was a salad and I had dinner. He dropped me at Elle's pickup and wanted to follow me home. I insisted I was fine. I needed to stop somewhere. And I didn't want him to know where.

*   *   *

Morgana had her coat on when I walked into the Montauk police post.

“I'm glad I caught you.”

“More stalking episodes?”

“No. Thank goodness. But I think I know who's stalking me.” I showed her the photo of the boat with the orange bucket. She told me to e-mail it to her. Then I went on to explain about the orange cap guy and the North Carolina license plate.

“Did you get a look at the guy? Old? Young? What did he smell like?”

Smell like?
“Young. Maybe early twenties. Ruddy complexion. And all I smelled in Mickey's was fish and beer.”

“Okay. I'll get on it in the morning. Momma is about to give birth.”

Morgana was in her fifties. Her mother giving birth would be a miracle.

She laughed. “My dog Sweetie Pie. I'll let you have a pick of the litter.”

“Thanks, but my plate is pretty full at the moment.”
Just what I needed: a chewing puppy that needed to be trained to go with my vindictive, oversized cat.

I arrived home in time to feed Jo on schedule. I even sat down with a glass of wine to join her. She really was a beautiful creature. I got up from the table a few seconds before she finished, grabbed a pen and some index cards, and took possession of her chair. She pretended she didn't mind. She took a seat on the sofa, but I could tell it was a one-time deal.

I went to work listing all the players involved with Pierce Falks's murder. Later, I'd tack them to one of the blank corkboards I used when working on a Cottages by the Sea project.

Pierce Falks
–Victim. Disappeared twenty years ago, the same time Helen, Nathan's wife, and the Warhol of Aqua Net hairspray vanished. Would be in his midforties. Sold fake Pollock when he was seventeen. Pen and ink artist. Idolized his mother, Tansy. Made storybooks for his daughter, Liv. Knew Celia and Nathan in high school.

Sonya Falks
–Pierce's wife and Liv's mother. Died in a boating accident a few years after Pierce and Helen's disappearance. Was pregnant when she married Pierce. Suicide? Or accident?

Liv Falks
–Early twenties. Pierce's daughter and Harrison's granddaughter. Loves old houses. Was three when her father disappeared. Her mother, Sonya, died in a boating accident after Pierce's disappearance. Not old enough to be a suspect in her father's murder, unless she slipped him a cyanide lollipop, but needs to be on the list because she has Pierce's
old journal and hears things. Gets most of Harrison's estate when he dies. Close to Nathan, Brandy, and Ingrid.

Harrison Falks
, Uncle Harry–Ninety-one. Pierce's father. Married to third wife, Celia, stepfather to Kate. His second wife, Tansy, now dead, was Pierce's mother. Keeps mentioning a baby. Like him. Good grandfather.

Tansy Falks
–Harrison's second wife. Pierce's mother and Liv's grandmother. Died when Pierce was ten. Former model for Aqua Net magazine ads and the muse for the missing Andy Warhol painting of Aqua Net. Harrison divorced her when Pierce was two.

Celia Falks
–Midforties. Harrison's third wife. Her daughter, Kate, is from first husband. Chummy with the chauffeur/houseman, Richard. Seems superficial. Expert in modern art. Used to work at MoMA. Oversaw the building of the modern addition at Sandringham. Tried to have Harrison deemed incompetent. Had relationship with Pierce in high school, then years later married Pierce's father. Doesn't get along with Brandy and Ingrid. Or her daughter. Liv doesn't like her.

Kate Jameson
–Early twenties. Celia's daughter and Uncle Harry's stepdaughter. Father disowned her and her mother. Into fashion. Calls her mother by her first name. Rough around the edges. Gets along with Liv and Ingrid. Also not old enough to have killed Pierce.