Better Homes and Corpses (14 page)

TWENTY-ONE

The vehicle in front of us switched on their high beams. By the size and position of them, I knew we weren’t dealing with an average-sized pickup truck. Jillian crumpled forward into the safety position shown on airplane emergency pamphlets.

“Hold on!” I shouted over the revving of the truck’s engine.

Jillian just cradled her head tighter. The truck might have been waiting for us. Now who was acting paranoid? No. They probably saw Bambi too, and had also turned their headlights off.

Smack!

Or . . . maybe not.

Once more, metal crunched metal, each ram harder than the first. I made a decision. I put the Hummer in reverse and we fishtailed back toward the lane that led to Salvatore’s house.

That was my first mistake.

The back end of the Hummer sliced through the brush
like a ship’s hull in choppy waves. I didn’t know if we were still on Salvatore’s driveway or making one of our own. My head ricocheted forward after the impact of the third hit. Jillian remained quiet. I kept my foot on the brake, and we waited. Thankfully, we were in the Hummer, not my flimsy Jeep.

Spine stiff, white-knuckled, I prepared for the worst.

Nothing.

Their headlights retreated. “Jillian, you have to call for help. Use my cell phone. It’s by the gearshift!”

“Who should I call?”

“Nine-one-one.”

“What . . . do . . . I tell them?”

“For God’s sake—tell them we need help!”

Gears ground.

“Forget the phone; get back in position.” I held my breath.
What should I do next?
I said a silent prayer and waited.

Mistake number two.

The Hummer inched toward the totem graveyard and the Atlantic beyond with each wallop. Iron gates were flattened, then a line of totems. Next would be a sheer drop into the ocean. My forehead cracked against the steering wheel with each impact. The Hummer could make it through standing water, but I doubted it would survive a tumble over the cliff.

The last thing I remembered was the blessed sight of diminishing headlights.

*   *   *

I opened my eyes. I was on Salvatore’s guesthouse sofa, surrounded by faces that cartwheeled in and out of view: Adam’s, Salvatore’s, Van’s, Dr. Greene’s, and Mrs. Arnold’s.

“What happened?” Then I remembered the monster truck.

“You passed out.” Dr. Greene held a penlight in his hand. “Follow the light.”

I closed my eyes when the light moved too far to the left or right. “Jillian . . . Where’s Jillian?”

“I’m right here.” Jillian pulled an angora blanket up to my chin and tucked it around me.

Van asked, “Did you see who was in the truck?”

“No . . . It was too dark. Salvatore, sorry about your sculptures, and thanks for calling the cops.”

“Ha, don’t worry. I’ll tack on an extra thousand. They’ll be even more desirable all dinged up. I’d like to take the credit, but I didn’t call anyone. I came out after I heard the sirens. Are you warm enough?”

I twisted my head to the right. “Ugh.”

“Let me get you a neck brace,” Dr. Greene offered.

“Not necessary. I’m fine . . .” I sat up. I wasn’t fine. “How long have I been out?”

“Not long,” Jillian said.

Dr. Greene came back with a soft brace that he Velcroed snugly around my neck. Immediate relief.

“Shouldn’t she go to the hospital? There’s an ambulance waiting,” Van said.

“She’s fine.” Mrs. Arnold sat next to Jillian, holding her hand. “It’s Jillian who needs lookin’ after. I should never have let her take you out. Ms. Barrett’s nothing but trouble.”

“I’m okay, Frieda. It’s not Meg’s fault someone’s out to get me,” Jillian said.

Salvatore asked, “What do you think, Dr. Greene? Should Meg go to the hospital?”

“Yes. In case there’s a concussion. I’ll stay at Seacliff tonight and check on Jillian.”

I stood up. I felt like I’d spent twenty-four hours in a commercial clothes dryer. “Don’t I get a vote?”

Jillian took my elbow and led me to the sofa. “I’m sorry. I know he was after me.”

“It’s not your fault. I wanted you to have a good time.” I gave her hand a weak squeeze.

Someone knocked. In walked Chief Pell, the lead homicide investigator for the Suffolk County Police Department. I hadn’t seen him since the morning of Caroline Spenser’s murder. Politically, he was top man on the homicide hierarchy, Detective Shoner a mere underling.

“We put out an all-points bulletin on the truck,” Chief Pell said. “Did anyone happen to get a license plate number?”

Jillian and I shook our heads.

“It was dark. I’m sure she was blinded by the headlights,” Salvatore said.

I sat back down. “The truck was red and huge.”

“Yes, we saw the paint transfer on the Hummer. Detective Shoner will be filled in about this recent activity. By the way, where is he—shopping for designer menswear or attending an A-list party?” He turned to an East Hampton Town officer. “Tell Shoner to call me, stat!”

Hmm. Did I sense a family feud between Pell and Shoner? East Hampton Town Police vs. Suffolk County?

Chief Pell lumbered over to me and took my hand in his huge mitt. “Ms. Barrett, you should take a ride in the ambulance.”

“We were trying to tell her that,” Jillian said.

“Okay. I give up. Take me away.” I stood and used the back of a chair for support.

Chief Pell went to the door and motioned to the paramedics.

“I’m not going out on a stretcher.”

Adam surprised me when he took my elbow and led
me outside. He stopped at the back of the ambulance. “Do you want me to come with you?”

“No. I’d rather you stay with Jillian.” To my left, a yellow blob sat atop a pile of crushed totems. “Tell her I’m sorry about the Hummer.”

“I will. Call us after you get checked out.”

An attendant smiled and helped me into the back of the ambulance and onto a stretcher. “Your chariot awaits.”

Van ran to us. “Wait, Meg. Jillian said I’m to follow you to the hospital.”

*   *   *

In most circumstances you could expect to sit for hours in the emergency room as you filled out forms and waited your turn. Not the case when Jillian Spenser called ahead and you were fortunate enough to be cared for by a fabulous nurse.

Nurse Freeman was born with a bedside manner—in fact, if she was single, she’d make a perfect match for Doc. She was in her late fifties or early sixties, with light brown hair worn in a no-nonsense French twist. She removed my hearing aids, put them on a tissue, checked my ears, then put them back in without a word. All the basic tests were administered in record time. And, as I’d thought, everything was negative.

Nurse Freeman analyzed my pupils with a penlight. “Your suitor seems worried about you.”

“He’s not my suitor.”

“You could do worse than having Van Salavar fret over you.”

So that was Salvatore’s last name. “You know Van?”

“He did an internship here. It’s a shame he didn’t stay in school.”

“How long have you been at Southampton, Nurse Freeman?”

“Thirty-five years. See?” She held out her arm and showed me a silver wristwatch.

“Congrats.”

“It even has an inscription,
Fides et Servitium
, which translates to ‘faith and service’ in Latin.”

“Nurse Freeman, you wouldn’t know anything about an accident that happened years ago and involved Jillian Spenser?”

“Of course, the poor wee thing. If I remember correctly, she stayed for almost a week.”

“Was she in bad shape?”

“Physically she was fine. Mentally, I don’t know. We tried to help her get back on her feet. There was a wonderful psychiatric intern back then.”

I couldn’t believe my luck. Nurse Freeman was a witness to the aftermath of the boating accident. Maybe “luck” wasn’t the right word. I’d almost been killed to get to this point in my investigation. “How about her family? Were they with her during her stay?”

“Oh yes, her father and mother were here every day. I even remember Van’s father, the artist with long hair, checking up on her.”

“And her brother, Cole?”

“Funny you should ask, the sad young man. He came the first day when Jillian was sedated, looking tortured. He paced the hallway. I remember his face in the window of her door—I could tell whatever happened was something he felt responsible for. I even overheard him being chastised by his mother. She told him it would be better for his sister if he stayed away. The whole conversation
seemed a little harsh. Then the next night he came into the emergency room—a motorcycle accident, him and a beautiful young woman. They were lucky—no broken bones or internal bleeding, just some stitches.”

“Did Cole’s parents come to see him?”

“His father. Not his mother. Oh, you know what, I take that back. She did come, but it was much later, after he’d been released. I remember because she wore the most stunning lavender evening gown with a matching purse and shoes. The shoes weren’t dyed. They were the same lavender shade as the dress, only in kid leather. Soon after that, I read Charles Spenser died.”

“Did Jillian suffer permanent mental trauma from her fall from the sailboat?”

“All I know is what I heard the doctor tell the family. She suffered a mild concussion when she was hit with the boom and, as far as he could see, there was little or no damage from the time she spent under water.” Nurse Freeman seemed to be an optimist by the quick return of her smile. “That was then and this is now, and you, my young, gorgeous lady, are as fit as a fiddle. Now get outta here and let that handsome guy out there escort you home. Remember to set an alarm to go off every hour on the hour and wear the collar if you feel any neck strain.” She wrote her cell number on a piece of paper and handed it to me. “Call if you have any questions.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Promise me I won’t see you here again unless it’s for the birth of your firstborn. Now skedaddle!”

I gave her a quick hug.

They carted me out in a wheelchair. Van stood next to the passenger door of a sleek BMW sedan.

“Nice wheels.” He helped me inside and even reclined the seat to a comfortable position.

“It was Caroline’s.”

The soft seats and heady aroma of leather put me in a mellow place.

Van got behind the wheel and pulled out from under the emergency canopy. “I wish you could have gotten a better look at who drove that truck.”

“So do I.”

“Didn’t they want to keep you overnight?”

“My neck is stiff and my head hurts, but I’ll live. How about Jillian?”

“She’s okay but worried about you.”

“Don’t you think we should get her out of East Hampton? Can’t she go to some vacation home or friend’s house?”

“She won’t leave. The farthest she’s ever traveled since I’ve known her is Manhattan.”

“Did you grow up in East Hampton like Jillian?”

“My mother shipped me here for summers to stay with my father. We all hung out together.”

“We?”

“Cole, Adam, Jillian, and me.” Van smiled. “We liked to play
The Sword in the Stone
. Cole was Lancelot, Adam was Merlin, and Jillian was Guinevere.”

“And you?”

“The boy King Arthur, of course.” He took his eyes off the road, turned to me, and grinned.

He did look the part. I remembered the photos I’d found in the attic. It was hard to picture Jillian as the beautiful Lady Guinevere. Had she been a normal carefree adolescent?

“How about Adam?”

“Adam’s father and Jillian’s father went to college together. Oxford or Cambridge. I’m not sure which. Stephen Prescott spent a lot of time at the Spenser estate. When Adam’s parents divorced, his father stayed in East Hampton and his mother, Frances, moved to the city. Adam was at boarding school during the school year, and I was in California with my mother. During summer breaks, Adam had his own room at Seacliff.”

I was going to ask Van about Caroline and his father’s relationship, but I must have fallen asleep. The next thing I knew, we were at my cottage door. How had he known where I lived? Then I remembered the morning I woke up to the Hummer in my driveway.

Van offered his hand and helped me out of the car. I still felt shaky, but better than earlier in the evening.

He looked at me. “If you want, I could stay the night.”

“That’s so kind, but I think I’m going to put on flannel jammies, take my meds, and climb into bed.”

“Hmm . . . Now, there’s a vision. Don’t worry about us. Mrs. Arnold is spending the night in Jillian’s room. I’m sure she won’t leave her side. Take the day off tomorrow. Recuperate—I’ll call you in the morning.”

“
Late
morning.”

He bent to kiss me. I turned my cheek, but his fingers found my chin, and he matched my lips to his.

I pulled back. “Night. Thank you.” Then I quickly went inside.

TWENTY-TWO

It was almost eleven. All I wanted was to get in bed, pull the covers over my head, and stay till summer. I popped a pill that Nurse Freeman had given me and glanced at a pile of bills on the countertop but kept on walking. At the French doors, I took in the view. A half-moon hung under a sky peppered with stars. Processing the evening’s events would be impossible with the way my head felt, but one thing was for sure: I wasn’t about to let my guard down.

On my way up to the bedroom, I noticed a stack of papers on the floor under the fax machine.
Thanks, Dad
. I’d leave them for the morning, when I was more coherent.

I changed into heavy flannel pajamas, and went into the bathroom to brush my teeth. I looked in the mirror. Everything was where it should be, but somewhat off-kilter. The pain pills had kicked in.

In my tiny bedroom, there were nighttime props I’d strategically placed on my bedside table as a ploy to seduce me to sleep—a scented candle, a schooner in a bottle, my
parents’ wedding photograph, a sailor’s valentine, and a music box that played Debussy’s “Clair de lune.” Jillian’s seven-hundred-page manuscript was on the man side of my bed—who needed nighttime props to help me sleep when I had her tome to read? Maybe Doc would read it and give me a book report on Monday at the pancake house. Doc was a literary snob. He even subscribed to the
New Yorker
.

My head felt achy and full of cotton. I felt restless. Instead of being Nurse Freeman’s obedient patient, I grabbed the patchwork quilt off the end of my bed, threw it over my shoulders, and went downstairs and out into the darkness.

The beach was empty. Not only of inhabitants, but there were no words of wisdom in front of Patrick Seaton’s cottage to get me through the night.

As I looked out at the ocean, I thought about Stephen Prescott, Adam’s father. Did he have an affair with Caroline while her husband Charles stayed in the city? Or was Caroline doing it with Salvatore and that’s why she gifted him with the painting and the guesthouse? Then there was Mr. Arnold, who’d called Caroline his hothouse flower. I clutched the blanket tighter and faced the hammering wind like a figurehead on a ship. There were rough waters ahead. Would I be strong enough to keep my head up?

I didn’t have a choice.

I grew weary and decided to head up to bed before my injuries made it an impossible feat.

The wind picked up, and I fought my way up the steps. When I reached the landing, two headlights shone through the mist.

A police car was parked in the driveway. Two males stepped out. Cole loomed like a giant next to a young officer.

The officer said, “Hello, Ms. Barrett. Sorry to bother you, but Mr. Spenser said you wouldn’t mind.”

Visions of Caroline Spenser’s bloody corpse pranced in my head. “Is everything okay? Jillian? Did something happen to her?”

“No. Everything’s fine.” Cole reached into the patrol car to retrieve his helmet. “My bike broke down on the outskirts of town and Officer Flinn was kind enough to rescue me. I told him you wouldn’t mind if I took the Hummer back to East Hampton.”

“Oh . . . well . . . I mean . . . It’s not here.” I was surprised he hadn’t been called.

“Where is it?” Cole asked sharply.

Thank God I’d thrown the quilt over my shoulders to cover my black-and-white prison-striped pj’s with
I’VE BEEN TO HELL, MICHIGAN
written across the back. I said, “It’s a long story. Suffice it to say, the Hummer’s out of commission.”

“Mr. Spenser, what do you want me to do? I can give you a ride, but I don’t get off duty until two. I’m stuck with the graveyard shift. Becky’s got that bug that’s goin’ around.”

“Thanks, Officer. I appreciate the help.” Cole looked at me. “Is it okay if I stay till then?”

“I guess.” Neither saw my hesitation.

Officer Flinn walked back to the cruiser and flipped us a jaunty wave. Cole followed me to the deck. I held open the doors and he pushed ahead. In his wake was the scent of leather and aftershave. What happened to Tara? Why hadn’t Officer Flinn dropped him at
her
door—the Hummer, of course. What other reason could there be?

“What’s that for?” Cole nodded toward the neck brace on the kitchen table.

“I was involved in a small accident. Dr. Greene gave it to me as a precaution.”

“Dr. Greene? What happened? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Jillian and I were coming home when some maniac in a monster truck rammed us head-on.”

“Is my sister okay?”

“She’s fine. We went out of the house for the afternoon. It was going great until the truck thingy.”

“You’re pretty calm. Sounds serious to me. Did you ID the guy?”

“Thanks for asking.
I’m
fine!”

“I assume you’re fine, seeing you’re walking alone in the dark in your nightclothes.”

“As a matter of fact, Van followed me to Southampton Hospital and then drove me home.”

“Why the hospital?”

“My head hit the steering wheel a dozen times. I have a slight case of whiplash—hence the neck brace.” I waved the brace in front of him then rattled the bottle of pills. I wasn’t beyond playing the sympathy card.

“What were you doing on the beach? You should be in bed.”

“I needed fresh air. I have to set my alarm to go off every hour to make sure I don’t have a concussion.”

“And if you don’t get up when the alarm goes off? What does that prove?”

My alarm would wake up a hibernating bear. Not only did it flash on the ceiling, it had its own vibrating attachment I put under my mattress to shake me awake. “I will.”

“Famous last words.”

“Can we sit?” I moved to the sofa.

He raised a perfectly arched eyebrow.

I looked ridiculous. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Cole joined me but left a cavernous space between us. “Were you in McIrney’s? Thought I saw you in the mirror
over the bar, but when I turned, you’d gone.” He raised his arm and rested it on the back of the sofa.

“Oh, you were there?” If I lied about being there, Jillian might let the cat out of the bag.

He slid closer and reached for my throat. I flattened myself against the sofa. Then he unbuttoned the top of my pajama top. I couldn’t contain the warm flush caused by his gentle touch. His fingers moved to my forehead, where he softly touched the egg over my left eyebrow. I started to feel warm and fuzzy.

“I appreciate you turning in my sweatshirt to Officer Bach. Anything else you want to give to the cops? I thought I knew you.”

I never saw it coming. The warm and fuzzy turned to cold and furious, and I shot to my feet. “You thought you knew me? How would you know me? You barely speak to me! One casual kiss in the sand doesn’t make you an expert. I didn’t turn anything in to the police. I found the sweatshirt on the beach. It was in my hands when Officer Bach surprised me.”

I climbed over Cole’s feet, charged up the stairs, and slammed the bathroom door. “Freakin’ jerk!” I shrieked. When would I learn?

A door slammed and I counted to fifty. Then I cracked open the bathroom door. Through the window near my bed, I could make out a figure marching up the road. It served Cole right. Maybe he’d hitch a ride to Tara’s house. I was sure she’d welcome him with open arms—and
legs
. Oops, Tara didn’t have a house, only a closet in her antique shop. Probably the reason he’d shown up on my doorstep.

I ripped off my black-and-white-striped jailbird pj’s and tossed them to the floor. I should send them to Cole. He’d
appreciate the insinuation. Too steamed to wear flannel, I dressed in lace panties and a silk kimono. The pill I’d taken earlier was wearing off. My neck ached and my head pounded, but neither compared to the anger churning in my gut. I debated whether to throw something but knew I’d regret sacrificing my precious collectibles. “Damn!”

I peeked through the banister on my way downstairs to make sure Cole hadn’t snuck back in. I left the lights off and felt my way to the kitchen. I went straight for the fridge and the Sanders chocolate fudge sauce. I planned to eat it straight, no milk. Only enough remained to coat the tip of my spoon.
Damn it!
I threw the spoon across the room. It hit the flagstones in front of the fireplace just as the clock on the mantel chimed one. In one hour, Officer Flinn would be back to retrieve Cole. What was I supposed to tell him?
Well, Officer, Cole chose to hitchhike home instead of waiting here with me, a backstabbing snitch!

I placed my right foot on the step to go upstairs. A knock sounded at the kitchen door. I opened it.

“It wasn’t a casual kiss in the sand,” Cole said.

I dropped my robe and, with it, my anger.