The Weekenders (10 page)

Billy sat down beside her.

“Bebo, you're scaring me now. Tell me what's going on. Please?”

He took a deep breath, and then another. The room was cool, but he was sweating profusely now.

“It's Wendell. There's been some kind of accident.”

Riley gripped the pillow with both hands. “Where is he? Is he all right?”

“No.” Billy shook his head. “No, honey. Wendell is dead.”

She hugged the pillow to her belly like a life raft. “That can't be right.”

He put his arms around her, and she tried to pull away, but he hugged tighter. “It's true. I'm so, so, so sorry. That's why the sheriff is downstairs. He won't tell Mama why he wants to see you, but I know it's because … of Wendell. They found his body this morning. In the water, at the marina.”

“That's not right,” Riley repeated. “It can't be Wendell. He wasn't even on the island. It's a mistake.”

“I wish,” Billy said. “I was coming back from my run about an hour ago, it was still dark, and a sheriff's car went zooming past me on the loop road.” He ran a hand through his damp hair, leaving it standing up in little tufts. “You never see cops here, right? So I just, kinda followed the road until I saw where they were going. And it was the marina.”

“A fisherman found him. He was … I mean, his body was … tangled in some lines. I saw his face, honey. It was Wendell.”

“No.” She felt like screaming, but it came out as a whisper. “It's somebody else.”

“It was Wendell, Riles. It was. But the sheriff, he's downstairs in the kitchen with Mama. He wants to see you. I told her I'd come get you.”

Riley searched her brother's face for some tip-off, a tell. He was a notorious practical joker.

“It's true, Riley,” he said softly. “You know I wouldn't kid about something like this.”

“Swear it,” she said fiercely, hugging the pillow so tightly she could feel sharp feather quills stabbing the tender skin of her inner arms.

“I swear. To God. Remember Ray Warren? We played T-ball together as kids. He's a member of the volunteer fire department. He was driving the ambulance, and he saw me standing there, and he told me, because he knows you're my sister. It's Wendell. They found his wallet in his pants pocket. And then they brought me over, and I identified him.”

“No. No. No.” She buried her face in her hands. Her eyes burned, but the tears didn't come.

Her heart was beating a mile a minute, and her chest—it felt like a lead weight was perched there.

She looked up at Billy, gasping for breath. “I can't … I can't…”

He patted her back gently. “Come on. You can do this.” The palm of his hand was warm as he made circles on her back. “Slow it down. Breathe in. Breathe out.”

Five minutes passed. Her cell phone dinged quietly on the nightstand, registering incoming e-mails. Without thinking, she grabbed it up. Wendell. Maybe he was e-mailing to let her know there'd been some gruesome mistake. Maybe he was waiting on the ferry dock in Southpoint right now.

The e-mail was for a Scoutmob deal for an oil change and lube job. She thrust the phone away.

“Okay?” her brother asked.

She nodded.

Billy went to the suitcase and handed her a T-shirt. “Come on, Riley. You need to get dressed and go talk to the sheriff. Please?”

She stared down at the T-shirt and some part of her brain registered that it was a hot pink walkathon shirt from some charity benefit she'd done for the television station. She folded it neatly in her lap.

“He's been down there for half an hour now. If you don't go downstairs, you know Mama's going to come up here.…”

“No,” Riley said quickly. “Okay. I'll get dressed.” She stood up, but her knees were shaking so badly she had to cling to the bedpost for support.

“Where's Maggy? Tell me she's not down there. I don't want her…”

“She's still asleep,” Billy said quickly. “It's not even nine yet. You go on down. I'll stay up here and wait for her to wake up.”

“I'm going,” Riley said.

*   *   *

Riley found the sheriff standing in the kitchen, looking uneasy beneath the hostile glare of Evelyn Nolan, who was still in her cotton housecoat. Even to Riley, this man looked barely old enough to be a school crossing guard, let alone a sheriff.

His white-blond hair was neatly combed with a side part. He wore a baby-blue golf shirt with an embroidered insignia patch, and black Dockers. His baseball cap was tucked into his belt, which also held a leather case bearing a gold badge.

“Ma'am?” he said, as she entered the room. “I'm Craig Schumann. Sorry to barge in on you people so early.”

“It's all right,” she murmured. “I'm Riley Griggs. My brother said you wanted to see me?”

“Yes ma'am,” the sheriff said. He glanced at Evelyn, who was pretending to wipe down the already spotless countertop. “I was, uh, wondering if we could talk, well, I wouldn't want to disturb your family…”

“He won't tell me what this is all about,” Evelyn said. “I've explained that I'm your mother, and this is my home.”

“Mama, please?” Riley gave her mother a beseeching look.

*   *   *

When they were alone, the sheriff gestured toward the dinette. “Ma'am, you might want to sit down before we talk.”

“Did my mother offer you coffee?” Riley heard herself ask. Absurd that she should be concerned about his discomfort, when she was the one about to be given the worst news of her life.

She hadn't been a real journalist in more than a decade, but suddenly, out of nowhere, she found herself back in reporter mode, noticing the tiniest details, the mole on the sheriff's chin, the speck of mustard on the Formica tabletop, her own hands, clasping and unclasping, the sorry state of her nails, with chipped polish and ragged cuticles. Most of all, and the thing she found both shocking and unforgiveable, was her complete and utter emotional detachment.

“No, well, she did, but I don't care for any coffee,” the sheriff said, blushing furiously.

Riley sat down at the table, and he took the chair opposite hers.

“My brother said this is about my husband?” she asked.

He nodded. “I'm afraid I have some bad news.” He leaned forward and took a small spiral-bound notebook from his back pocket. He flipped through the pages until he found the one he wanted. He consulted his notes, then looked directly at her.

“Your husband is Wendell Griggs, that's correct? Age forty-two? And the two of you reside here on Belle Isle at 555 Sand Dollar Lane.”

“My husband is Wendell Griggs. We have a second home on Sand Dollar Lane, but our legal residence has been on St. Mary's Street in Raleigh, which we just sold,” she said.

“That's right.” He nodded. “Okay, well.” He took a deep breath and looked directly at her. “I'm sorry to have to tell you that your husband is deceased.”

“I know.”

His eyes widened. “You already know? Do you mind if I ask how you know?”

“My brother was out for his morning run when he saw the commotion at the marina,” Riley said. “He told me just now.”

“He told you your husband is dead?”

“Yes.”

“Shit.” He said it under his breath, then looked up and colored again. “Pardon my French. I'm just, well, your reaction isn't what I expected.”

“It's not what I expected either,” Riley said sadly. She stood abruptly. “If you don't mind, I think I'm going to need some coffee now.”

*   *   *

At home she drank coffee heavily dosed with sugar and half-and-half. Today she drank it scalding hot and black, and she could already feel a blister rising on her tongue. It was the only thing she could feel.

She sat down at the table and took another sip of coffee.

“Do they know? I mean, do you know what happened? Billy said he was in the water?”

“That's right.”

“I don't understand any of this. Are you saying he drowned? Because Wendell wouldn't drown. He could swim. He was an athlete. Or, he used to be.”

“We don't know yet. I can tell you there was a wound on the back of his head.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh God. A wound? What does that mean?”

“Again, this is all the information I have. There will be an autopsy.…”

Riley felt her stomach roil. She bolted from the room, making it to the hall bathroom just in time. She knelt by the commode, retching again and again, until she thought her ribs would shatter. Finally, she laid down in a fetal position on the black-and-white-penny-tile floor, resting her cheek against the cool surface.

There was a light knock on the door, which she hadn't had time to close. Parrish stepped inside. She took one of Evelyn's starched and monogrammed linen fingertip towels from a delicate silver tray on the marble vanity, ran it under the faucet, and sat down beside her best friend, pressing it to the back of her neck, and then her temples, and finally, dabbing it at Riley's lips.

“They're saying Wendell's dead,” Riley said finally.

“I know, shug,” Parrish said sadly, putting an arm around her shoulder. “Billy called. Are you okay?”

“I don't know,” Riley whispered. “I don't know what to do, Parrish.”

“Ed does,” Parrish said. “He's out in the kitchen with the sheriff. He'll take care of stuff.”

“The sheriff said Wendell had a … a wound on his head.”

“That's what he told Ed, too. Do you feel like standing up yet?”

“Give me a minute.” Finally, Riley pulled herself up and splashed cold water on her face.

“The sheriff said he had some questions for me,” Riley said. “But I don't know anything. I don't know what Wendell was doing at the marina. He was supposed to meet us at the ferry yesterday.”

“Ed doesn't want you to talk to the sheriff just yet,” Parrish said.

“I already have.”

“Well, don't say anything else to him. Look. Your husband is dead. We don't know how, or why, or anything. Maybe there was an accident. We don't know that yet. Now, it's been years since I practiced criminal law, but I can tell you, if this is not an accident, the first person they're going to look at is Wendell's wife.”

Riley stared. “Are you saying they think somebody did this to him? It might not be an accident? That somebody
killed
Wendell? That's crazy! Who would kill him? And why? And why would the sheriff think I had something to do with it?”

“Because he's a cop. That's how their minds work. And, face it, once he starts asking questions, he's probably going to find out that you guys were about to get a divorce. And then there's this whole foreclosure thing.”

Riley sat down abruptly on the commode. “Oh God. I'd forgotten about that.”

“He hasn't,” Parrish said. “We need to get you a lawyer.”

“I don't want a lawyer,” Riley said. “I didn't do anything. You know that. Ed knows it.”

“Of course we do. You wouldn't hurt a fly. This is just for your own protection.”

“No.” Riley shook her head vehemently. “I want to talk to the sheriff. I'll answer his questions. I want him to know I don't have anything to hide. I want to know what happened. I have to be able to tell Maggy what happened.”

“Not a good idea,” Parrish warned.

“I don't care. I appreciate Ed's concern, and yours, but I have to do this.”

“All right,” Parrish said, sighing. “Where's Maggy? You haven't told her yet, right?”

“Billy's upstairs with her. She's still sleeping and, with any luck, it'll be another hour or so until she wakes up.”

“Your mama doesn't know yet?”

“God, no.”

*   *   *

She sat at the table with Ed and the sheriff, who was now sipping coffee from one of Evelyn Nolan's delicate pink-flowered coffee cups.

“Wendell was supposed to meet me yesterday at the ferry in Southpoint, before the last boat of the day. But he never made it. I kept calling and texting … I guess now we know why he didn't answer.”

“Why didn't your husband drive down from Raleigh with you?”

“He had meetings. Most of the time, we do drive down separately, because my daughter and I stay on the island all summer, and Wendell is a weekender.”

“Even for the long Memorial Day holiday?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of meetings? Do you know who your husband was going to be with?”

“No.” Riley bit her lip. “I didn't keep up with Wendell's work stuff. And I guess I should just go ahead and tell you…”

“Riley?” Ed gave her a warning shake of his head, anticipating what she would say next.

She plunged ahead anyway. “Wendell and I had been pretty much living separate lives these past few months. He hadn't actually moved out yet, but that was our next step.”

“You're getting divorced?”

Riley picked at the cuticle on her thumb. “We were going to tell Maggy, our daughter, this weekend.”

“When was the last time you talked to Mr. Griggs?”

“You mean, in person?” She thought back. Lately, the bulk of her communication with Wendell had consisted of e-mails and texts.

“Maybe Wednesday?” She frowned. “I'd have to look at my phone.”

“What did you talk about? Did the subject of the divorce come up?”

“Not really. I guess we were both avoiding the subject. I know I told him I'd booked his trip on the ferry online. We just talked about the usual stuff. Dinner plans, like that.”

The sheriff jotted something down in his notebook. “I'm sorry to have to ask these questions.”

“Then don't,” Ed put in. “For God's sake! She just learned about Wendell's death. She's told you what she knows.”

“All right.” The sheriff sighed and closed the cover of his notebook. He glanced at his watch. “I've got to get over to the mainland anyway.”