Riptide (12 page)

“Things aren’t that bad.” Biz grinned.

This simple fact warmed Frank’s heart.

“He sleeps downstairs in a crate by the back door. Kind of like a backup to my alarm system.”

“Good,” Frank said, realizing he had known her for all of twenty minutes, and he was already concerned about her.

“You sound just like my husband,” Biz remarked.

Something about this statement pleased Frank, though he didn’t want to admit it. He cleared his throat. “So, you see the cars, and after a while, you go up to bed. Scottie goes down to bed, and that’s it till morning?”

“Not exactly,” Biz said. “I heard engines again later. Much later. There were cars headed back out Jonah’s Path to Dunemere.”

Jackson looked up from his pad. “What time?”

Biz shook her head. “I don’t know. I just noticed the engines, especially the loud one, then I went back to sleep.

“That must have been when the party broke up.” She was ready to say more but changed her mind.

“And then?” Jackson looked up.

“Well, it was nothing really.” Biz frowned. “But it must have been much later when something woke me. Or rather, something woke him.” She motioned with her chin to where the dog was napping. “I don’t know what it was.”

Jackson waited, pen poised. “When was this?”

“Later,” Biz said. “Much later; I don’t know the time, but I had been in a deep sleep, so it must have been at least an hour after the cars pulled out.”

Which would make it two or three. Frank inched forward, forgetting that the edge of the chair was cutting off the circulation in his legs. “What kind of sound was it?”

Biz shook her head. “I couldn’t say. Shep was the one who heard it. Not me. He’s the one who woke me. He barked.”

They all considered this.

“Did he bark a lot,” Frank asked, “or just a little?”

Biz Brooks laughed out loud. “Shep only barks one way.”

“Got it,” Ben Jackson said. “What’d you do then?”

She smiled. “I yelled down and told him to shut up.”

No arguing with that. “And?”

“He wouldn’t stop. Something was bothering him.” She crossed her arms instinctively in a protective gesture.

Whatever it was, it was bothering her as well, Frank thought.

“Anyhow, he doesn’t normally bark at night unless it’s something unusual. I took a look out the window, but it was pitch-dark. I didn’t see anything. I listened for a minute or two.” She paused.

Both detectives watched her. “Did you hear anything?” Jackson’s pen was poised.

She hesitated. “Not exactly.”

Frank leaned forward. “What does that mean, not exactly?”

Biz Brooks chewed her lip. “Well, it’s hard to say. I went back to bed, and I must have dozed off. Sometime later, I thought I heard an engine again.”

Frank frowned. “Can you describe it?”

“I really can’t.” She glanced toward the one-lane road, invisible behind the tall privet hedge. “It was not close by but in the distance, out toward Dunemere. I can’t be sure, but I think it was the one that sounds as though it needs a new muffler. But with the wind…” She shrugged. “I’m not really sure.”

Jackson frowned. “You think it might be the same car as the one you heard earlier in the night?”

Biz shook her head. “It’s hard to say. I wasn’t really awake or asleep. But something definitely woke my dog at some point. Not a car. A car on the road wouldn’t have bothered him.”

“Were you concerned?” Frank asked.

She hesitated. “Not really, not too much.”

Frank would bet anything the late Mr. Brooks, liberal ideologue that he was, had kept a trusty semiautomatic handgun stashed somewhere in his house and, further, that he had bequeathed it to his wife who, despite her
Martha Stewart penchant for gardening, was well-versed in its use.

Biz Brooks glanced placidly around her yard. “I’m never afraid here at night.”

Frank McManus nodded.

“After that, I went downstairs, got a drink of water, told Shep to settle down, and came back up.” She shrugged. “That was it till the alarm rang Thursday morning.”

They thanked her for her time.

She walked them to the car, which was good because Shep woke from his nap.

The hydrangeas practically vibrated with a low rumbling sound.

It was the B-52 of dog growls.

Frank checked his watch. Lunchtime for Fido. A good time to exit.

Biz shushed the dog in that proud-mama tone of voice.

Cirie Jackson was always telling McManus to get a puppy, and now he wondered whether he should. Women dug dogs.

T
he frozen foods section of the East Hampton Waldbaum’s was gripped in an arctic blast.

Christina huddled inside a sweatshirt with a faded
NYAC
logo. Someone had wrapped it around her shoulders at the AA meeting, and she was grateful they hadn’t asked for it back. She scanned the freezer shelves, reading from her list for Jake’s benefit. “Let’s see…there. That one.” She used her fingernail to tap the glass, indicating a box of pizza-topped Bagel Bites.

“Coming right up, Christina. Allow me.” Jake reached in, grabbed a box, and placed it in Christina’s cart, which was already overflowing.

“Thanks. Tyler loves those.”

“They are good, especially with a cold beer,” Jake said with a laugh. “Don’t tell Matt I said that.” Jake leaned in close. “He’ll kick my ass. We’re not supposed to glamorize our drinking, you know?”

“Glamorize our drinking?” What the heck did that mean?

Jake was watching her like a big puppy.

Happy, she supposed, to be helping out. “Uh-huh.” Christina nodded to show she got the point.

Except she didn’t. She might as well be walking on the surface of the moon. Because right now she was on Planet Weird, where she could chat about cold beer in the frozen-foods section of the supermarket with a recovering heroin addict, while the man she had loved and hurt a million years ago was off in search of the Horizon Organic 2% Chocolate Milk that Tyler liked. Not to mention the fact that she had just attended her first meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous. Oh, and her to-do list today consisted of planning her husband’s funeral.

Just another day on Planet Weird.

Christina Cardiff, Long Island’s most jittery new widow, gripped the handle of her Waldbaum’s shopping cart and held on for dear life.

“Got it.” Matt Wallace reappeared. Placing the container of milk inside the shopping cart, he gently nudged Christina’s hands to one side and took charge of the cart. “Your hands are like ice,” he observed. “How’re you doing, Christina?”

She heard his words as if from a great distance. She just couldn’t come up with any meaningful reply. Planet Weird had a thick atmosphere that made conversation difficult.

Matt looked at Jake, who answered for her. “She’s taking it one minute at a time.”

“Sometimes, that’s how it goes.” Matt slowed his pace to match Christina’s. “Hang in there.” He gave her shoulder a squeeze.

His face swam out of focus. Christina nodded and pretended to scan the freezer shelves. She knew she would start blubbering again if she looked too long into those caring eyes. It had been a million years
since anyone outside of the rehab center had been kind to her.

“You think we got all of Tyler’s favorite foods?”

She nodded.

Matt smiled. “Great.”

Christina had told them only that she needed to stock up on groceries for her son’s return from Europe this afternoon, nothing more. She’d been shocked when they offered to shop with her. Who does that?

Matt kept the cart rolling. “Jake-O, which way to baked goods?”

“Right this way, chief,” Jake replied. They kept up a steady banter through the aisles until they found what Matt wanted.

He picked up a long white box. “Entenmann’s Cheese Danish. This is for you.” Matt smiled at Christina.

She stared. It was hoi polloi food, loaded with empty calories.

Matt grinned. “It’s the only thing I could hold down when I was detoxing.”

“Tasty,” Jake remarked.

Christina ducked her head in embarrassment. She wished detoxing were her biggest problem.

Matt steered them to checkout.

“Paper or plastic?” The clerk directed her question at Christina.

Deciding, no doubt, they were a basic family out doing the grocery shopping. Except they weren’t, and Christina couldn’t make up her mind. “Ummmm…”

“Paper’s fine,” Matt said, as he and Jake began bagging.

Something on the newsstand caught Christina’s eye.

The cover of
The Hampton Wave,
a weekly tabloid,
featured a photo of her and Jason on their wedding day ripped down the center. The headline screamed,
WAS EVEN IT OVER BEFORE HIS DEATH?

The contents of Christina’s gut heated up and turned to hot, molten liquid. The noises of the checkout line faded away, replaced by a whooshing sound in her ears.

There was a second, smaller headline running across the bottom of the page:

SLAIN BANKER WANTED OUT!
Details Inside.

Christina shook her head in disbelief. She grabbed the paper with fingers that shook and opened it.

Pages 2 and 3 were devoted to Jason:

DROWNED BANKER JASON CARDIFF CONSULTED WITH FAMED NY DIVORCE ATTORNEY MAURICE GOLD,
blared a headline stretching across the top of both pages.

There were a series of other, shorter articles quoting unnamed sources with information about the way Jason had drowned in their pool. Halfway down Page 2 was another article with its own headline:

CARDIFF’S WIDOW LEARNED THE NEWS IN REHAB—IS SHE DRINKING?
Beside it was a photo of the mangled gate.

There was even a sidebar listing famous clients of Maurice Gold.

“Oh, my God.” Christina’s head was spinning. Maurice Gold was the most vicious divorce lawyer in the country. Did Jason know about her affair with Dan Cunningham? The printed words blurred before her eyes as the pounding in her ears grew more intense. How could
The Hampton Wave
know all this? She stared at the picture of the rumpled gate.
IS SHE DRINKING?

What if Tyler saw this?

The tabloid slipped from her hands and fell into the basket in a crumpled heap.

“Want me to ring that up?” The clerk’s voice sounded far away.

Her in-laws were behind this. Christina squeezed her eyes shut in an attempt to stop the throbbing in her head.

“Just add it to the bill.” Matt paid while Jake loaded the cart.

Matt grabbed her hand. “Let’s go.”

Christina’s eyes fluttered open. The clerk was staring. So were the customers waiting to check out all around her.

They knew.

This was just the beginning. Jason’s death would probably turn up on a future segment
20/20
or
American Justice
.

A gray cloud swirled through Christina’s vision, and she squeezed her eyes shut. But it was no use. The cloud was still there inside, haunting her. She moaned.

Matt Wallace caught her. “Come on, Christina, let’s go.”

“You okay, miss?” The clerk’s voice sounded more curious than concerned. “Do you want me to call a doctor?”

“No,” Matt and Jake both chimed at once.

Christina allowed Matt to half carry her to the exit as Jake pushed the cart ahead. She didn’t bother opening her eyes.

If she had, she would have seen everyone in Waldbaum’s checkout stop to get a closer look.

Half an hour later, Christina sat on a stool in her kitchen, toying with a slice of Entenmann’s Cheese Danish.

Matt Wallace was stowing groceries.

The kettle was heating on the stove.

Young Jake had helped Matt load the groceries into Christina’s trunk at Waldbaum’s. He directed his question at Matt. “How ’bout I follow you?”

Matt gave a quick nod. He was already steering Christina around to the passenger door of her Mercedes.

As though they were in complete agreement on the fact that she was in no shape to drive. She had been too grateful to protest.

Like now, taking tiny nibbles of pastry at Matt’s urging.

He was rummaging through cabinets, passing over the numbered Limoges tea set they kept out for show in favor of two sturdy mugs that didn’t match. “Where do you keep tea bags?”

Christina hesitated. “I don’t drink tea.” The truth was, she had no idea. They ate out a lot or ordered in.

“Now’s a good time to start,” Matt said cheerfully.

Christina had never actually sat on one of these stools. Only the cleaning ladies used them, and sometimes Tyler. The stools were comfortable, she decided, and she felt okay watching Matt Wallace whip around her kitchen. She wished she could freeze this moment in time, not go forward and not go back.

Just for right this moment, she was okay.

“Look at that, my favorite.” Matt located an unopened box of Twinings Earl Grey that Señora Rosa must have bought. He let the bags steep before adding plenty of milk and a heaping spoonful of honey. He set
one of the mugs down in front of her. “This will do you some good.”

Christina forced some down. It was warm and too sweet and thankfully did not make her gag.

Matt stowed groceries away, setting baked goods, fruits, and snacks out on the counter.

When he was finished, the place looked lived in. Tyler would be happy.

Matt opened the refrigerator and frowned. “You have beer and open bottles of wine in here.”

The housekeepers had strict orders to save open bottles of wine using special stoppers Christina had ordered from Cook’s Illustrated. Jason’s collection was extremely valuable.

“It’s best to dump this stuff so you’re not tempted to drink it.”

Jason had bought those French reds at a Christie’s auction. He’d be rolling in his grave right now. She thought of the tabloid article about Maurice Gold, the divorce lawyer Jason had hired, and shrugged. “Go ahead.”

With the faucet running full blast, Matt dumped out all the wine. He placed the empties into Waldbaum’s bags. “I’ll take them with me so they don’t stink the place up.”

He’d have a heart attack if he saw the contents of the wine cellar beneath their feet.

Matt slid onto the stool next to hers and nudged the cake plate. “Good,” he said, after she managed a tiny bite.

As though he spent every day coaxing old girlfriends to eat something. Maybe he did.

“You know, Christina, they say you should not let yourself get too hungry, angry, lonely, or tired.”

Another zippy slogan from AA.

Matt saw her eyes roll. He took her hand and held it in both of his, smiling as he let out a long slow breath.

As though he felt it, too. As though for the space of that single moment they were the couple they might have been.

Christina closed her eyes. She wished he would say something, like he would stop at a farm stand for corn on the cob after Tyler finished his soccer game. He’d call her so she could heat up the grill. Maybe later they’d head into town for ice cream and a movie.

It was a glimpse at life in a parallel universe, where she and Matt would have been quiet and content and married forever, easing toward middle age.

Happy.

She chose wrong. And now look.

“Oh, Matt,” she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut against tears that scalded with regret. She buried her face in her hands, miserable.

“I’m sorry.” His voice dropped to a whisper, and she realized he was crying, too. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her toward him, and it was a crazy thing to notice but he smelled the same as she remembered.

Christina breathed deep.

“Chrissie,” he whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

It was her old nickname, one she hadn’t heard in over a decade. And she literally sobbed on Matt’s shoulder, for all of it, for everything she had lost, while he held her.

“Look,” he said, handing her a luncheon napkin.

Christina mopped at her face, and this simple act calmed her.

Matt rubbed her shoulder until she straightened up. “I’m sorry you’re going through…” He searched for the right word. “All of this.”

“Me too,” Christina said with a wan smile. One thing she had noticed since she quit drinking was that crying helped. For a little while, at least. It was like loosening the valve on a pressure cooker so the steam could escape.

Matt took her hand in his once more and smiled back at her.

The weight of his hand on hers felt good.

“I do know one thing,” he said, turning to face her. “Everything that happens is meant to be.”

More AA talk, she suspected. But the way he said it, and the comforting feeling she got just having him near her, solid and sane and close enough to touch, reminded her for that one single instant of something she used to know and forgot.

Deep down inside, she was okay.

It was a feeling she hadn’t had in years and years.

Christina nodded before she even realized what she was doing. She was not, nor had she ever been, the type to put a brave face on things. And yet here she was, in her kitchen with Matt Wallace, of all people, acting like everything was going to be okay.

As if he could read her mind, Matt said, “Everything is going to be okay.”

“I know,” she murmured, and the crazy thing was she believed it.

She wished she could hold on to this feeling forever.

“You can do this. Just don’t drink, Chrissie.” Matt
gave her hand a final hard squeeze and stood. “I’m on your side.” He winked. “I owe you.”

Christina’s eyes widened. What did he mean, exactly? She was the one who had dumped him that summer, so how did he figure he owed her? Her mind raced back to the time they’d shared, endless days and nights at the beach, full of laughter and full of fun. Was her drinking already out of hand? Or was she simply such a mess right now that he pitied her? She didn’t want to ponder that question.

But he didn’t look like he felt pity. He was smiling at her like he was just, well, happy. The Matt she remembered.

He pulled a business card from his back pocket and jotted something on it before pressing it into her hands. “Here.”

The card had all his pertinent information. Underneath his name in tidy block letters were the words, ATTORNEY AT LAW.

He had achieved his childhood dream. Christina beamed at him. “Good for you.” She meant it.

He was beaming right back at her. “The most important part is on the back.”

She turned the card over. On the back was his cell phone along with a note. “Free rides to AA. Call 24 hours a day.”

“Thanks,” she said, uttering a silent prayer she could stay sober through the days ahead.

Matt’s eyes were dark with intent. “I mean it. Call me before you do anything you’ll regret later.”