Better Homes and Corpses (13 page)

NINETEEN

Mrs. Arnold allowed us to leave after a few dirty looks and numerous promises from Jillian. I was able to wrangle an extension on the time I was to watch over Jillian. I was excited by the weight of the picnic basket; I’d finally get to sample some of the housekeeper’s home cooking.

Jillian met me in the hallway, dressed in her usual beige. “Is this okay? I can change if you want.”

Who was I to dictate her clothing? It was as if she missed her mother’s admonitions and couldn’t make a decision on her own.

“You look wonderful.”

We got in the Hummer and pulled away.

Van stood beyond the iron gates with a paintbrush in his hand, touching up a mailbox with black paint.

I stopped the Hummer and rolled down the window. Van leaned in.

“Where you off to?” He seemed surprised to see Jillian sitting next to me. “Jillian! Are you going to the library?”

“No. Meg’s taking me out for lunch . . . a picnic . . .” She pointed to the basket on the backseat.

“Wow, that’s great. Have a good time.”

Now that I had Jillian, I couldn’t decide what to do with her.

I took a detour in Montauk because an officer was painting a green line down the middle of Main Street. Even though St. Patrick’s Day was over for the rest of the world, in Montauk, the celebration was just beginning. Sunday would be the parade and tonight and tomorrow would be the partying. If Jillian was up to it, I’d take her to McIrney’s for happy hour. She could use a little “happy.”

I hung a left on Edgemere and headed toward a former mega-estate-turned-hotel. I pulled into a parking spot at the back of the hotel, grabbed the basket, and escorted Jillian up the narrow dirt path that led away from the hotel. The trail wasn’t treacherous, but it was steep. When we reached the top, it was well worth the climb.

We sat on a park bench and observed the beauty before us. To our left, the view encompassed the town of Montauk and the Atlantic Ocean. In front of us was Fort Pond flanked by the Long Island Railroad. And to our right were Montauk Harbor and the Long Island Sound. It was possible to see both sides of the island with barely a turn of the head. Years ago, while vacationing, I’d stumbled upon the location by accident. Officially, the memoriam bench we sat on was part of Fort Hill Cemetery, a piece of news I wasn’t about to pass on to Jillian.

“Hungry?” I asked.

“A little . . . This is so beautiful . . . Where are we?”

“Montauk.”

“Hmm.”

Had she never been to Montauk? Boy, she led a sheltered
life. We were only fifteen miles from East Hampton. I opened the basket and handed Jillian a sandwich. There was enough food for ten people. I moaned with my first bite of turkey, brie, and chutney snuggled between two halves of a sourdough bun. I wondered if the bread was homemade, like my father’s German rye—to die for. “Do you mind if I ask a question?”

Jillian turned her head in a sharp jerk.

I waited for her assent. Nothing. “What happened when you had the boating accident with Cole?”

Jillian looked toward the Sound. Five minutes passed before she uttered her first words. Awkward.

“Cole was mad at my mother. He kept going out farther and farther. I told him I wanted to go back to shore. He knew I wasn’t a good swimmer.”

“How’d you fall out?”

“Cole let the sail down . . . then he let go of the rope. The boom hit me. Why did he let it hit me?” Jillian’s voice switched to a different octave and she took on a masculine baritone with an English accent. “You fool. What have you done to your sister? How could you be so careless? She could have drowned!”

I looked around to make sure we were alone, not in the middle of a
Twilight Zone
episode. I assumed the English accent she mimicked was Stephen Prescott’s, Adam’s English-accented father, who also happened to be Caroline’s companion the day of the boating accident. It was unnerving, to say the least.

I took her hand. “Are you sure the boom hit you on purpose?”

She pulled her hand away and stood up, then bent down and plucked a few newly sprouted flowers from under a tree. She turned back to me. “Yes . . . I’m sure. I heard
them talking. They thought I was sleeping, but I heard them.”

“What did you hear?”

“They blamed Cole. Mother and Adam’s father, Uncle Stephen. They said Cole could have killed me.”

I was slightly put off by her victim routine. I couldn’t picture Cole being reckless enough to hurt his sister. Or was I being naïve? “What did Cole say, do you remember?”

“Yes. He said they were evil. He said he was going to tell my father everything. Then I heard a slap.”

“What was he going to tell your father?”

“I don’t know. He got in a motorcycle accident with Tara the day after I almost drowned. He left before I came home from the hospital. He came for Daddy’s funeral, but he didn’t even visit the house. Cole wrote me letters. I forgave him. My mother said I should.”

That was just one question I’d wanted to ask. I had many more. It seemed passive Jillian blamed her brother for the accident, and Caroline Spenser and Stephen Prescott had also blamed Cole. The accident had taken place before Jillian and I were roommates. When we were at NYU, I never noticed Jillian talking in other people’s voices. Was it the PTSD or the years of taking drugs that had changed her?

It would have been interesting to know Charles Spenser’s take on the accident that involved his children. I looked at the headstones in the cemetery behind us, knowing it was impossible.

I studied Jillian’s razor-thin form. Her limp hair was flattened to her head by a northern breeze. “You know, we haven’t really had a chance to talk. Is there anyone special in your life?”

Jillian looked at me; bright spots of color flushed her
cheeks. “Yes . . . Do you think it’s so outrageous to consider someone could love me? You sound like my mother.”

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. Sometimes it helps to talk.”

“Can we go, please? I’m cold.”

“Of course. Are you in the mood for a little shopping?”

A few minutes later, I removed my foot from the gas pedal and let the Hummer roll down the incline that led away from the hotel. I drove past the village green and parked in front of Rockin’ Retro, my favorite Montaukian shop.

“You won’t believe the fun stuff they have here. Come on. Let’s try to find something that reminds us of our childhoods.”

Rockin’ Retro sold new and vintage memorabilia from the ’30s to the ’90s. Elvis T-shirts, Nancy Drew posters, reproduction lunch boxes, and old-school candy like Milk Duds and licorice whips, and my favorite, Choward’s Violet Mints. You name it, they had it, and if they didn’t, they’d get it for you.

I led Jillian into the store and she immediately stopped at a rack that held vintage Harlequin romances. The paperback covers were slathered with heaving bosoms and open-shirted rogues, reminding me of Salvatore’s bio pic I’d seen on the Internet. I left Jillian in the front and went to the back room to see if the collection of vintage jadeite dinnerware I’d brought in on consignment was moving. It wasn’t.
Darn.
I’d never get enough money to buy the Eberhardt cottage.

When I came back to the front of the store, Jillian was standing near the counter.

“Are you sure you want all this?” a muffled voice said
from behind a stack of cartons. “I mean, it’s no problem. I just hope you have room for it all.”

“Whoa Nellie, Jillian! Did you leave anything in the store?” I walked up to her.

“Oh, Meg, you’re so funny. Of course I did. You were right. They have some great nostalgic items. Can I show you everything and get your advice on what I should buy?”

“I trust your choices. Just go with your gut.”

Jillian smiled. The first smile I’d seen in a long time. “Meg, do you mind having them charge everything to our account and then deliver it to the estate? I want to check out the candle shop next door.”

“I think you need a credit card.”

A teenage girl emerged from behind the stacked boxes on the counter. Her sweet voice didn’t jibe with her blue-black hair, leather-studded attire, and numerous piercings. “Your friend is right. We don’t have store accounts, and I’m sorry, we can’t make deliveries. We opened a month early. The owners aren’t even in town yet. I have a VW Bug, or I’d deliver them.” I didn’t know if Jillian was being arrogant or ignorant with the
Put it on my account
statement. It must be a Spenser thing. She was used to the carte blanche her pedigree afforded her.

“I’ll use my card and put the boxes in the Hummer,” I said.

“Thanks. Remember to ask Mrs. Arnold for a check to reimburse you. Oh, and a couple of things are for you, Meg.”

“Thank you, but not necessary.” I was surprised Mrs. Arnold held the purse strings for Jillian’s expenditures. Just how much cash did she have access to?

The salesgirl and I loaded the boxes into the back of the Hummer. I had no clue what Jillian had bought, but the boxes were heavy. I was glad there were only a few stores
open in Montauk this time of year. How much damage could she do?

Apparently, a lot.

In the Seashell Hut, Jillian was buying objets d’art from Digger the Shell Man. I’d never seen him out of his raincoat, and he looked older than I’d imagined, pushing ninety, at least. He wore a gap-toothed grin, and I figured out why. Whatever price he’d dreamt up for his seashell creations, Jillian was willing to pay. Putty in his hands.

“You ready to go?” I came up beside Jillian.

“Sure. Do you mind paying the man?”

I handed my card to Digger. When he handed me back the charge slip, I gasped. “Four hundred fifty-three dollars! Is that correct, Jillian?”

“Sure. Well worth it. Bye, Digger. See you soon.”

I took the single bag filled with seashell mice with jiggly eyes, a driftwood-bodied dachshund, and a few other creatures, of which I had no clue what they were, and followed Jillian to the Hummer.

I pulled out and looked for a good place to make a U-turn. Jillian seemed relaxed and calm.

I was pleased with myself. “Are you sure you want to go back? It’s almost sunset. We could drive out to the lighthouse.”

“Sure. Wherever you want.”

The Montauk Point Lighthouse sat on top of Turtle Hill, only 125 miles from the metropolis of New York City. Commissioned by George Washington, it was the oldest working lighthouse in New York and, as I’d experienced, a great cardiovascular workout if you dared climb the 137 tower steps.

“Maybe the tower will be open. I don’t know about you, but I love a good lighthouse. They’re so stark and solitary, yet warm and welcoming at the same time.”

“I’ve never thought of them that way.” Jillian turned her head toward the empty gatehouse.

The parking lot across from the lighthouse gift shop was deserted. We got out of the car, and I led her to the northern side of the bluff. The water was calm and the sun was about to be gobbled up by the ocean. Splotches of pink and peach forecasted a sailor’s delight. In the distance, a ship chugged its way toward Block Island, seagulls trailing in its wake.

“Look, Jillian!” I pointed to the ship.

When I turned, she was gone.

TWENTY

I stood at the head of the rocky cliff and turned slowly in a circle like Maria in the top-of-the-mountain scene in
The Sound of Music
. “Jillian-n-n-n-n!” Where the hell was she? The clang of the flagpole and the screech of gulls were my only answers.

I trotted over to the lighthouse. The doors were chained shut. The combination gift shop/snack bar was the next logical place to search. Luckily the vestibule door was wedged open by a piece of driftwood. Inside held a free newspaper rack full of last year’s Labor Day edition of the
Montauk Journal
and a pay phone, but no Jillian. The inner doors were locked. Ready to give up and head back to the Hummer for my cell phone, I saw something colorful on the floor under the pay phone—a single stem of hellebore—the same flower Jillian picked during our tête-à-tête at the cemetery. I went to the pay phone and placed the receiver to my ear. It was warm against my skin. Jillian had used the phone. Who had
she called—Mrs. Arnold to check in, or the aforementioned boyfriend?

A beige blob flashed across the plate glass window at the far side of the snack bar. I charged out the vestibule door and ran to the back of the building. The ocean below was indistinct in the twilight. I’d taken the path on seal walks. It would be treacherous once darkness fell. Every few hundred feet I called Jillian’s name. It had been a good twenty minutes since we’d pulled into the compound. Time to bite the bullet and call someone. Who?

As I trudged back up the rocky trail on the north side of the gift shop, something furry skittered across my foot. I jumped three feet in the air. A rat! Two more scampered by. Not rats, but baby raccoons. Their glassy eyes shimmered in fear. While they felt fear, I felt relief. I had forgotten about the rampant raccoon population that inhabited the patio behind the snack bar. When I turned the corner at the front of the gift shop, I saw a figure standing next to the Hummer. Jillian!

I ran to the parking lot. “Where’ve you been? I’ve been frantic.”

Jillian seemed oblivious to the panic she’d caused. “Sorry. Just took a walk around. Found a family of raccoons and fed them some bread.” She reached into her pocket and showed me a strip of crust left over from lunch. Why was she squirreling away bread scraps?

“Don’t scare me like that. Mrs. Arnold will make mincemeat of me if anything happens to you.” Thinking of the warm earpiece from the pay phone, I chose to let it rest. I didn’t want to upset this new-and-improved postshopping Jillian.

“I’m fine. In fact, I feel better than I have in weeks.” With
that, Jillian opened the passenger door and hopped onto the seat.

“Well, in that case, do you want to stop by McIrney’s for some St. Patty’s Day cheer?”

“Sure.” No hesitation.

“Why don’t you call the house and make sure they know you’re staying out longer than expected.”

“I don’t have a cell phone.”

“Here. Use mine.” I handed her my phone, and she told Mrs. Arnold we would return after dinner.

I made a right at the town common and turned into the last available space in the parking lot behind McIrney’s. The sounds of Gaelic music filled the air. Jillian twisted her head toward the building and smiled.

The restaurant was filled to capacity. Strings from huge green balloons attacked us as we entered. Jillian grabbed the tail of my scarf, pulling it from my shoulders. I scrambled for the balloons, corralled them into a single bunch, then sent them floating toward the bar.

Colleen, the owner, gave us a warm welcome, even enveloping Jillian in an embrace. I chose a table in the corner, under a faux-antique sign advertising corned beef and cabbage for five cents a plate. Homey and timeless, whenever I came into McIrney’s I felt like I was back in Detroit. Give me potato skins with gooey cheddar and crisp bacon, a bowl of New England clam chowder, and a side salad with ranch dressing, and I felt like I was in the company of friends. Even my foodie father couldn’t say a bad thing about McIrney’s, cuisine or otherwise.

We were seated next to the door that led to the alley. No need for an exit strategy if Jillian had one of her panic attacks. Colleen propped the blackboard with the daily
specials on a chair next to our table. She spoke in a quiet Irish brogue, “I recommend the fish stew. Patrick outdid himself today.” Patrick was one of Colleen’s seven sons.

“We’ll take two of those and a couple of mugs of Guinness.” I ordered for both of us. Montauk had a large population of Irish. In the early part of the twentieth century they came to work in the restaurants and resorts and stayed because the terrain reminded them of home.

Colleen returned with two heavy mugs of ale. They went down with a thud, not once disturbing the green shamrocks etched on top of the thick beige foam.

“Hey, that’s so cool!” Jillian exclaimed.

The lights were low and a fire burned in the brick hearth next to the bar. Panes of leaded glass from the bay window reflected pastel pinwheels onto the table. On Friday and Saturday evenings, McIrney’s had live entertainment. I hadn’t been brave enough to come alone on a weekend, but maybe one day soon . . .

The room was a sea of emerald. I glanced at my black T-shirt and jeans. Jillian’s usual beige took on a greenish cast from her surroundings. A three-piece band, complete with a male singer in a green foil top hat, led the crowd in a stirring rendition of “Danny Boy.”

I was near the bottom of my beer when Doc made his way toward us.
Drat.

I said to Jillian, “I need to use the ladies’ room.”

When I reached Doc, I put my hands on his chest and pushed him toward the waiter’s stand.

“When did you walk in?” he asked.

“About twenty minutes ago. How about you?” I wiped his top lip with my pinky finger, but a thin green stain remained on his white mustache.

“Green Sprite.”

“No Irish stout?”

“No. I’m a teetotaler just like your dad. Just the occasional beer while I’m out fishing.” He nodded his head toward the end of the bar. “What’s this? Old home night for the Spensers?”

“Why? Who else is here?”

“Cole, and he’s not alone. Hey, you didn’t check in with me last night. I wasn’t kidding about that.”

Cole sat at the bar dressed in his black leather jacket, and there was no mistaking the curvaceous female to Cole’s left. Tara. “I checked in with my dad. Uh . . . we gotta go; I promised to get Jillian home at a decent hour.”

I turned, but Doc grabbed my arm. “Wait a minute. What’s the hurry? You could always have her brother take her home.”

“I promised to give Jillian a day away from the estate. Block my view so I can sneak her out the back door.”

“On one condition,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“Let me escort you to your car. I wouldn’t mind being introduced to Ms. Spenser.”

“Okay, but let’s get out of here.”

I paid the check and we exited out the back door.

In the parking lot, I wanted to kick myself. Cole’s Harley was parked three feet away from the Hummer. This wasn’t his turf. What was he doing in my neck of the woods? Slumming with Tara Gayle?

Jillian and Doc went through stiff introductions. Introverted Jillian was back. She answered Doc in yes-or-no sentences.

After I promised Doc we’d drive to East Hampton with
extreme caution
, I helped Jillian into the passenger seat. “Do you want to take the wheel?”

“No thank you. I let my license expire; someone from the house usually drives me. I bought the Hummer after one of the hurricanes.”

It was early evening; the sky was an inky black. Not a star in sight. Route 27 was desolate. We passed only one car between Montauk and Amagansett. But between Amagansett and East Hampton, Jillian kept looking in the side-view mirror. I couldn’t blame her for a little paranoia.

East Hampton seemed raucous compared to Amagansett. Cars were parked on both sides of the highway. Small groups of people clustered outside the ice-cream parlor and movie theater. The movie theater looked like any other in small-town America, but that was because it was March. In October, the movie theater was the home of the Hamptons International Film Festival, a now-acclaimed stop on the independent film circuit. The cofounder of the festival was a restaurateur who smartly recognized the potential of lengthening the Hamptons tourist season with promises of VIP star sightings, media personalities, and motion-picture execs.

“What the hell?” I blurted out.

“What? What’s wrong?” Jillian screeched.

“Nothing, thought I saw someone I knew.” Was that my ex-fiancé, Michael, going into the Black Crow? Alone?

Jillian’s shoulders relaxed. “Don’t scare me like that.”

When we turned off James Lane, I gave a last glance in the rearview mirror to check for headlights. There were none, but it was hard to keep my hands steady as I gripped the wheel. Was Michael going to turn up everywhere I went? I’d survived last season with not one sighting. I turned to Jillian. “I hope you had a good time.”

“Thanks. I did. I’d like to do it again. Tomorrow?”

Tomorrow? Wow, she really had enjoyed herself. “The
day after tomorrow is the St. Patrick’s Day parade in Montauk. If you’re up to it, we could go together.”

Jillian smiled. “That would be great.”

There were no streetlamps on the narrow blacktop that led to the Spenser estate. Newmont Lane was purposely left unkempt to keep out voyeurs and paparazzi. Branches brushed against the roof of the Hummer and clawed at the titanium steel. A few feet before the turnoff to Seacliff, we were surprised by the vision of a prancing deer, a small fawn whose incandescent eyes locked on the Hummer’s high beams. I pressed the brake and the Hummer stopped on a dime, different from my Jeep’s braking system. I switched off the headlights to unfreeze the Hallmark moment, and the fawn returned to her romp.

Whack! We were hit head-on.