The Weekenders (14 page)

“Whatever.” Now Maggy was wearing her all-too-familiar stone-faced mask. Incredible that she'd perfected it at such a young age. But then, her daughter had always been precocious. She turned back toward the window. “You're probably glad Dad's dead.”

“Hey!” Riley said. She made a sharp right-hand turn into the parking lot of a strip shopping center and put the car in Park.

“Look at me, please.”

Maggy turned to her with dead eyes. “What?”

“That was a horrible thing you just said to me. I certainly am not glad about your dad. I was in that room back at the hospital, too. Remember? Wendell wasn't just your dad. He was my husband. For almost twenty years. Things between us were complicated, it's true. But I cared about him. I'm hurting, too. Don't make this harder on us than it has to be. Please? I know you don't believe me, but I'm on your side, Maggy. A hundred percent.”

“You're on my side?” Her arms were crossed, hands locked to elbows, over her chest.

“Of course. Now more than ever.”

“Great,” Maggy said. “Will you do something for me?”

“If I can. If it's possible.” Riley was instantly wary.
Was this some kind of a trap?
Since she'd been diagnosed with type 1 diabetes, Maggy had become expert at emotional manipulation.

“The sheriff said it wasn't an accident. So I want to know who killed Dad,” Maggy said. “Promise me you'll find out who did this to him.”

“Me? Maggy, you don't know what you're asking. I'm no detective. This isn't
CSI: Belle Isle
. Anyway, we don't even know yet whether it was an accident. We won't know until the autopsy.”

“Promise me,” Maggy said, her voice steely. “If you ever really loved Dad, then you'll do it. Promise?”

“I promise,” Riley said wearily. “I promise to do whatever I can.”

“And you'll tell me the truth? Even if Mimi gets pissed at you? Even if you think it will upset me?”

“Can we just take this a day at a time?” Riley pleaded.

“No. Do you promise?”

“God help me, I do.”

 

16

Scott stood on the bottom stair of the firehouse, the strap of his battered Louis Vuitton carry-on dangling over his right shoulder, his laptop bag hanging over his left.

He'd been upstairs packing when he heard the first soft notes wafting upward. Now, as he stood in the open-plan living room in the high-ceilinged old brick structure, he looked over at Billy, his back to the stairs, hunched over the gleaming baby grand piano, his long, tapered fingers drifting over the keys.

When had he last heard his partner play? There was no room for the piano in their small West Village co-op, which was why this rather grand instrument stood in the middle of the living room of their not-so-grand converted 1920s brick firehouse.

He set the bags on the polished concrete floor and walked over to the piano. For a moment, Billy seemed lost in the music. He kept playing, finally nodding to acknowledge Scott's presence.

“That's so pretty. And sad,” Scott said, sitting down on the bench. “What's it called?”

“It's ‘Strange Fruit,'” Billy said, closing the lid to the keyboard.

“The Billie Holiday song?”

“About lynching,” Billy said. “Which is why it really is a sad song.”

“You're in a mood today.”

Billy shrugged and rested his arms on the top of the piano. “What can I tell you? All day, since I woke up this morning, I've felt this sort of gray funk.”

“Because of Wendell.”

“The sheriff thinks he was murdered. Murdered! On Belle Isle. I can't even wrap my mind around that.”

“Has there ever been a murder here before?”

“Not that I can remember. Wait, okay, well, yeah, come to think of it. When I was just a kid, not even ten, some lady who lived up near the north end shot her husband. She claimed he'd been beating her, and it was self-defense. I don't know what ever happened to her. I don't think she ever went to prison, but she moved away afterward, just abandoned her place, and for years afterward all us kids called it the Murder House.”

“And that's it?” Scott asked, his curiosity piqued.

“Maybe. Mama would know. She's the one who keeps up with all the stuff that's ever happened on Belle Isle.”

“Poor old Wendell,” Scott said nastily.

“I thought you liked him,” Billy said.

“I tolerated him. Because of you. And Riley. Wendell Griggs was not a nice man. Not somebody you'd want to have business dealings with.”

“You think that's what got Wendell killed? A business deal?”

“Maybe. I'm just speculating here. For all I know, it could have been a drug deal gone wrong. Or a jealous husband. Or a botched robbery.”

Billy regarded Scott with interest.

“You make it sound like lots of people could have had a motive to kill him. Maybe you're right. It's not like I loved the guy either. As long as Riley was happy, I thought he was okay. Well, maybe not all
that
okay, but at least he was a good dad.”

“People keep saying that,” Scott said. “But he wasn't even around all that much. He missed Maggy's birthday party last year. You and I flew down to Raleigh, but he couldn't cancel one lousy meeting to be at her birthday dinner. You're as much a father to that kid as he ever was. As heartless as this sounds, she's probably better off without him.”

“I doubt Maggy feels that way.” Billy twisted the braided rose-gold-and-platinum wedding band on his left hand. “The kid is devastated.”

Scott patted his hand. “She's young. But she's still got Riley. And us. Maggy will be all right.”

“I guess. But everything feels so weird to me right now,” Billy said. “Like, nothing will ever be the same here again. That all the good times are maybe over. You ever have that feeling?”

“All the time,” Scott assured him. “But remember, I'm twenty years older than you. I happen to know things won't be the same.”

Billy rested his head on Scott's shoulder. “Don't talk like that. You're not even sixty.”

“But I'll also never see fifty again.”

Both men sighed simultaneously.

“Do you think I should be worried?” Billy asked, drumming his fingertips on the piano lid.

“About what? Hitting fifty? You're just like Evelyn. You'll never look old, Bebo.”

“I mean, about money. And the company, with Wendell being dead.”

“Why should you start worrying about money now?” Scott said lightly.

“Suppose this foreclosure thing on Riley's house isn't a screwup? Suppose Wendell really was broke? What's that mean for Belle Isle Enterprises? What's it mean for me? I mean, it's a family business. That means Riley, me, Mama, and Roo. And Maggy too, of course. We're all affected.”

“Stop worrying,” Scott said, firmly placing a hand over Billy's to quiet the drumming. “I make a pretty decent living. And there's always your trust fund, right?”

Billy looked away. “I feel guilty worrying about myself, especially considering what my sister is going through right now. But I can't stop thinking about this stuff. I mean, Wendell was such a smart guy. He had such amazing plans, for the hotel and the new development with the town houses and everything. Now what? It seemed like a sure thing.”

“Like the checks would just keep on coming, right?” Scott asked.

Billy's shoulders sagged. “You make me sound like some kind of parasite or something, just living off my brother-in-law's largesse. It's my family's business, damn it! And I would have gone into Belle Isle Enterprises, I really would have.”

“Absolutely.”

“You don't believe me? Ask Riley what my dad was like. I couldn't do anything right as far as he was concerned. He never wanted me in the business, because he was ashamed that his developer buddies would think less of him because he had a fag for a son.”

“Good ol' W.R.,” Scott said.

“Screw him and screw Wendell Griggs,” Billy said savagely. “This is all too depressing to think about.”

He picked up a highball glass sitting on a nearby table and jiggled the ice cubes. “Here's to the good times,” he said gloomily.

He took a swallow and held out the glass to his partner. “How about a Bloody Mary? A little roadie for the road?”

“Better not. I've still got to drive to the airport after I get to Southpoint, remember?”

“You really have to go? You can't wait until tomorrow?”

“I wish I could. Especially now, with all this stuff with poor Riley. But we've got the install for the steak house in Vegas on Wednesday. With the layovers and everything, I won't make it to my hotel until tomorrow morning. Tuesday's gonna be crazy, trying to get all the subs coordinated after the long holiday. I'm just praying all the furniture and window treatments were delivered Friday.” Scott looked at his watch. “Are you taking me to the ferry?”

“Oops,” Billy said. “I forgot to plug in the cart last night. I'll just call Mama and see if she can give us a ride to the ferry.”

*   *   *

Scott paced up and down outside the house while Billy plucked at spent red geranium blooms from the large cast-iron planters on either side of the double front doors.

The Belle Isle Volunteer Fire Dept. Station 1 was located mid-island. It had served the community up until the 1960s, when funds had been raised to build a larger, better-equipped station. For more than forty years the old structure had lain abandoned, its roof collapsed, small trees growing up through the rotted engine bay doors, until Billy Nolan and his trust fund came up with a scheme to save it from demolition.

For the first few years after he and Scott were a couple, they'd stayed in the caretaker's cottage at Shutters during their summer visits, but after Billy turned thirty and gained access to his inheritance, he'd decided the time had come for home ownership.

He and Scott had sketched out the floor plan for the firehouse on a paper place mat over crab stew and cocktails at the Sea Biscuit, finishing the plan before their second round of Salty Dogs.

Because of historic district design restrictions, they'd had to keep to the original footprint of the old brick building. The plan was a simple one. Heavy twelve-foot-tall rolling barn doors were commissioned to replace the original doors to the engine bay. These opened into the first floor of the building, with an airy combined living and dining room, huge professional quality kitchen, and guestroom and bathroom. Rising up through the foyer was an open steel-frame stairway that led to a loftlike second floor, with the master suite and home office, both with new floor-to-ceiling windows looking out onto the bay.

That view was one Billy never tired of seeing. Although he still thought of himself as a New Yorker, every year he seemed to arrive a little earlier for his summer residence and stay a little later, last year past Columbus Day even.

It was only Memorial Day weekend now, the kickoff to the summer, and yet, here he stood under the shade of a live oak tree with Scott, watching as people zoomed past on the crushed oyster shell road. Everybody, it seemed, knew Billy Nolan. Families waved and hellooed on their way to the beach, with swimsuit-clad children clinging to the backs of their carts. Sunburnt tennis players rode past, waving water bottles and calling for Billy to join them Monday for the club round-robin. A steady stream of golfers passed too, heading back from Belle Isle's quaint nine-hole course.

“You're going to miss the best part of the summer,” Billy said sadly.

Scott just laughed. “I don't play tennis. Or golf. Remember? I don't even particularly like the beach.”

Billy looked stricken. “But I thought you loved it here.”

“
You
love it here. Belle Isle is your happy place. And I love you, so I'm happy to be here with you,” Scott said. “I know you think you're some sophisticated New York artiste, but we both know that at heart you're still a small-town Southern boy.”

Billy couldn't let it go. “You have fun here though, right? I mean, we have supper club and bridge with the girls, and game night. And you love hanging out at the pool here. Right? You always say you like it here way better than the Hamptons or Fire Island.”

“Well, I don't miss getting stuck in traffic on the Long Island Expressway on Fridays, and I don't miss Fire Island anymore either, since the Pines got so crazy,” Scott admitted.

Billy's forehead creased with worry, but before he could pursue the matter further, Evelyn and Roo came jolting to a stop in front of them, with Evelyn honking her cart's cartoon-quality horn, and Banks and Ollie, who each took up a lap in the front seat, barking in tune to the horn honking.

“You sound like the Road Runner,” Billy told his mother. “And you look like Strawberry Shortcake.”

“Thank you,” Evelyn said, patting her hair. She was dressed in a pale pink sleeveless cotton shirt, pale pink knit skort, pink-and-white saddle-oxford-type golf shoes, and a pink sun visor. Even her golf gloves were pink. Her sister-in-law, perched on the bench seat beside her, wore a faded Kelly green Belle Isle logoed polo shirt, shapeless khaki shorts, a sweat-dampened white bucket hat, and weird black golf sandals she'd found at the island's charity thrift shop.

“How'd you hit 'em today, Evelyn?” Scott asked, giving her a dutiful peck on the daintily powdered cheek she offered, and a head scratch to Ollie, who sat demurely in his mistress's lap. He and Billy clambered onto the third row of seats, since the two women's clubs were strapped to the middle row.

“Like she always does. Like crap,” Roo said, turning around to address the men.

“I think I might take some lessons with the club pro this summer,” Evelyn said, ignoring the gibe. “My drives just don't seem to have any oomph lately. Not to mention the fact that I can't find my seven iron.”