Better Homes and Corpses (16 page)

“Unless he needed you for an alibi.”

I didn’t want to go where Elle was leading. “Nah.” Could he have lied about his motorcycle breaking down? After all, it had just been in the repair shop with my Jeep. “What brings you here?”

“This.” Elle handed me a small stack of tan onionskin envelopes tied with a string.

“Where’d you get them?”

“In a desk from the town house.”

“Did you find a . . .”

“Hidden compartment.”

“Let me guess. False bottom?”

“One of the drawers was longer than the others. A false back, not bottom.”

“Did you read them?”

“Thought I’d leave that to Inspector Clouseau. I have enough work trying to figure out what happened to the twelve pieces of furniture that belonged in Jillian’s room.”

“I just ran into Van. He told me the reason Jillian removed all the furniture from her bedroom was to spite Caroline.”

“That explains why the bookcase was in the attic, but where is it now? Where is the rest of the stuff?” Elle opened a folder. “I brought the insurance photos of the missing furniture. I compared those not-so-wonderful photos you took of the bookcase and the tall clock. Do these match?” She spread the photos across the bench in front of the sofa.

“Yes. They’re both there. Any theories?”

“No, but I’m going to have to tell First Fidelity Mutual as soon as I finish inventorying the estate. Are you still going to help? It might not be such a good idea after last night.”

“I don’t think anyone’s after me. It’s Jillian who seems to be the target.”

“Why would a museum-quality Dominy clock be displayed at Tara Gayle’s antique shop?”

“Why did Adam’s mother sneak into the shop after hours then help Tara carry it out? Quite a dynamic duo, don’t you agree?”

“I don’t have an answer.” Elle stood. “But I’d love for you to take me to the cottage that’s for sale. The one you can’t stop babbling about.”

“Now?”

“Don’t you want my opinion? I’ll bring the wine. You grab the paper cups.”

I put the letters in an antique coffee tin and followed Elle outside.

TWENTY-FIVE

We hacked our way through the jungle and stood undisturbed in the living room. No one else had been inside. There was only one set of
human
footprints on the dusty wood floors—mine.

I followed Elle into the dining room. “Can’t you imagine these stained glass windows if you hacked down those vines and the sun got a chance to do its magic?”

“Yes. This cottage would be quite an undertaking, but I can see why you’re foaming at the mouth. Are you sure the property fronts the ocean? It’s hard to tell.” She rubbed at the dirt on the front window with her sleeve.

“Come upstairs. You can almost make out the ocean through one of the bedroom windows.”

“Oooh. Look what I found.” Elle had opened a small upstairs door I’d missed on my previous visit. Inside were neat rows of linens separated by yellowed tissue paper. “Look at the bark cloth drapes and furniture covers, and there are even Deco-embroidered linens from the twenties.”

“You’re right. It’s a sign. I have to have this place.”

Elle moved to the end of the second floor hallway and tugged on a doorknob. “Hey, it’s locked.”

“It goes to the attic. I want to leave it locked, so I can dream about the possibilities in case I do manage to buy it.” I walked into the largest of the four bedrooms. “Come and look out the window.”

Elle pressed her cheek against the glass. “You’re right. I do see the ocean.”

I stood next to her and looked out. I really,
really
wanted this place.

Elle wandered over to the closet and started to root around. “Meg! Look what else I found.” In her hand she held a large leather-bound scrapbook.

We sat on the floor and Elle opened the scrapbook. Inside were black-and-white photographs of the exterior of the Eberhardt house and grounds. At the back of the album was an eighty-year-old newspaper article from
Newsday
about Joseph Greenleaf Thorpe, who was the Eberhardts’ original architect.

“Meg, do you know what you have here? With a bit of research, you could probably get the cottage and grounds deemed a historic landmark. Even garner some extra capital for its restoration. Joseph Greenleaf Thorpe was Grey Gardens’ original architect. He’s famous for his homes in East Hampton. I can’t believe he’d do something on such a small scale in Montauk. Maybe it was his starter house. Wow, this could be your own Grey Gardens!”

“And you can be Little Ellie instead of Little Edie.”

“And who are you, Big Edie?”

“No, I was thinking more along the lines of the Beales’ cousin, Jackie Bouvier Kennedy Onassis.”

“I saw a magazine spread, a while ago, that showed Grey
Gardens after Ben Bradlee and Sally Quinn renovated it. They even used furniture they found in the attic. If they could do that with Grey Gardens, this should be a cinch.”

I knew Dick Cavett’s Montauk beach house, Tick Hall, had originally been designed by Stanford White, the same architect who designed Rosecliff, one of the massive “cottages” in Newport. After Tick Hall burned down in 1997, Mr. Cavett and his wife rebuilt an exact replica of the house. A vision flashed in my head about getting my own home and garden column. I would chronicle the renovation of the cottage and grounds step by step.

Elle glanced at her vintage men’s Timex. “Geez. We better head back. I have a date with a little old lady who wants to unload some of her pocketbooks.”

“Yes, you need a few dozen more to add to your hundreds.” I smiled.

Elle dropped me back at my cottage. The afternoon sky was the color of a good bruise. I stepped into the kitchen and immediately went to the coffee tin, removed the letters Elle had brought, and sat down on the sofa. The typed message on the first letter was simple. Not the love note I anticipated. It was all business, and very polite at that:

Would love to know your opinion on what we discussed yesterday. It doesn’t have to be a gift, just a loan. S.

The second letter was even shorter than the first:

It has a good home. Thank you.
S.

Was Salvatore talking about the painting or some other treasure? Either way, this was a game of blackmail, and a subtle one at that.

The third and last letter read:

Please tell Charles to show more civility toward my son, or I will have to tell him what we both know.
S.

The fact that Charles Spenser was mentioned meant he was alive at the time the letter was written. Had Charles confiscated his wife, Caroline’s, correspondence? After all, they came from the town house where Charles spent most of his time. Van mentioned Charles hadn’t been pleased with the fact that Salvatore lived on the estate. Caroline must’ve done some heavy convincing to keep him in the guesthouse. What did Salvatore have on Caroline? Or maybe it wasn’t Salvatore who sent the letter. It could have been Adam’s father, Stephen Prescott; both had the initial
S
in their first names and both had sons.

The phone next to me blinked. I picked it up.

“Good day, Ms. Barrett. It’s Dr. Greene.”
Not Cole.
“How are you feeling?”

“Sore, but I’ll live. How’s Jillian?”

“Frankly, I haven’t seen her better. I told her I was going to call you and she wants me to ask if you’d take her to the parade. I know under the circumstances she should stay out of public places, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so excited. She didn’t even want to take her medication this morning.”

I heard the fumbling of the receiver and then a new voice. “Meg, it’s Van. I heard Dr. Greene tell you about Jillian. I’d love to escort the two of you.”

“Uhh, sure . . .”

The phone on their end went through more scuffling. “Dr. Greene again. Jillian wants to know if you’d come here in the morning, then you could all drive to the parade
together.” There were voices in the background. “Better yet, she wants to know if you could come tonight and spend the night.”

“Ahh . . .”

“This could be a good sign for her recovery.”

“Of course. If you think it will help,”

“She hopes you could get here in time for dinner.”

I hung up the phone and thought about a night at the Spenser estate. There were pros and cons. Of course, one pro was Cole. With that, I forgot the cons.

I packed a small bag and threw it in the back of the Jeep. Butterflies multiplied in my stomach at the thought of a night in the same house as Cole, the petrified mingling with the euphoric.

The ride to Seacliff was blessedly uneventful. Near the turnoff to Salvatore’s, a zigzag of lightning pointed to the earth near the totem graveyard. The thunder that followed jump-started my memory. I smacked the steering wheel. “Of course!”

I knew where the murder weapon was.

TWENTY-SIX

Mrs. Arnold opened the door more curmudgeonly than usual. “Follow me.” She seemed to have a hard time balancing the concrete chip on her shoulder. Apparently, I was to blame for Jillian’s misfortunes.

I followed Mrs. Arnold up the central staircase to the second floor. She stopped at the door next to Jillian’s and inserted a key then kicked the bottom of the door with the toe of her sneaker.

Before I could walk in, Detective Shoner came into the hallway from Jillian’s room. Tonight, the minidetective looked disheveled. His suit jacket was wrinkled and the top button of his shirt undone. He seemed more accessible, more human. “I heard you were coming.” A tall, dark-skinned woman with military posture came into the hallway. “Officer Krane, this is Meg Barrett. Officer Krane’s been assigned to stay with Jillian.”

Officer Krane gave us a formal salute and then walked back into Jillian’s room.

Mrs. Arnold spat a double “humph” and stomped away toward the main staircase.

“What’s got her goat?” Detective Shoner asked.

“She takes it personally that you’ve hired someone else to watch Jillian. She wasn’t too happy when I had the job. Though I can hardly blame her after the monster truck incident.” I looked into the guest room. A dove-gray film covered every surface.

Detective Shoner followed my gaze. “I heard Jillian tell Mrs. Arnold to get the room ready.”

“She’s not big on the whole kindness-to-strangers thing.”

“I don’t trust Mrs. Arnold. Something about her eyes.”

“Doubt if she cares.” I tossed my bag onto the Tabriz carpet, where it disappeared into a smoky cloud.

“Did you have any revelations about who was behind the wheel last night? We checked the truck for prints, but so far, no luck, just Stu, the owner’s.”

“Sorry. I only remember the huge headlights and the color red.”

“Did Jillian have any flashbacks during her ordeal? Our department psychologist is surprised her memory hasn’t returned. It’s been three weeks. Suffolk County’s going to move into my office if we don’t solve this soon.”

“No flashbacks, but I do think she had some fun before the truck incident. If that matters?”

“It matters to me.” Adam walked down the hallway toward us. “You okay?” He put an arm around my shoulders just as Cole sauntered down from the opposite direction.

I froze.

“What are you doing here?” Cole addressed me but kept his gaze on Adam’s arm.

“Jillian asked if I could stay the night and take her to
the St. Patty’s Day parade tomorrow.” Adam squeezed me tighter, and I couldn’t help but flinch.

“Can’t you see you’re hurting her? Get your goddamned arm off.” Cole took a step closer.

“Chill out, Cole. I’m not hurting you, am I, Meg?”

“I’m fine.”

I caught a wounded look on Cole’s face, followed by indifference. He turned and strode down the hall.

I pried myself from Adam and said to Detective Shoner, “May I talk to you for a moment . . . in private?”

“Sure. Let’s go inside.”

Adam took the hint and said to Cole’s retreating back, “Meg, I’ll save a place for you at dinner.” Then he disappeared into Jillian’s room.

Detective Shoner and I entered the guest room. It was everything I’d imagined, if you ignored the neglect. It felt like I’d walked onto the pages of
Rebecca
. A pale blue silk canopy hung over a four-poster bed. The bed’s hairy claw feet looked ready to pounce. With the profusion of taloned feet in the late eighteenth century, it’s a wonder children ever got any sleep.

Detective Shoner sat on a feminine vanity stool and readjusted his tie.

Our eyes met in the mirror. I whispered, “I think I might know where the murder weapon is.”

“Where? And why didn’t you tell me immediately?”

I put a finger to my lips and pulled him to the opposite side of the room, away from the wall that separated the guest room from Jillian’s room. “On my first day working here, I was up in the attic. There was an old tarnished knight in armor, missing its lance. The other day when I was on the beach near the guesthouse, I think I saw the
lance in a pile of garbage. At first I thought it was an old harpoon.”

“Why would the killer use it to kill Caroline and then hide it in plain sight?”

“Sometimes that’s the best hiding place.”

“If it was used as the murder weapon, then I think we can rule out a random stranger. Only someone who had access to the attic and knew about the lance’s existence could have used it. I’m going to collect Officer Bach and get the crime scene kit. Meet me downstairs in five.” A crack of thunder added an exclamation point to his directive.

Van had been correct in his weather prognostication.

We followed the path by the greenhouse that led to Salvatore’s. As we approached a clearing, Salvatore followed by Van came into view. Salvatore was dressed for the first time in something other than jeans and a paint-splattered T-shirt and he held a bottle of wine.

“How-dy.” Salvatore raised his hand in a Native American salute. “Where are you folks off to?”

“We’re checking out something from the other night. How about you?” Detective Shoner asked.

Officer Bach moved the beam of his flashlight from Van’s face to Salvatore’s, then back again.

“Jillian invited us for dinner. Our first invitation since her mother’s death. It’s a sign she’s coming around.” Van’s teeth shone fluorescent in the darkness.

Salvatore shielded his eyes from the light. “Do you want me to go back with you?”

“No. You two go on ahead. We’ll only be a minute,” Detective Shoner said.

Van glanced at the crime scene kit in Officer Bach’s hand. “Okay. Meet you back at the house. We’re supposed to gather in the library for pre-dinner drinks.”

When we reached the site, the first drops of rain sent up a lilting melody on steel. I pulled up my hood. “Won’t the rain get rid of any evidence of blood or DNA?”

“Not necessarily. If rust is involved, it might act as a bonding agent.”

The totem statues were set up in their original positions, some flatter than before but, for the most part, unharmed. The mammoth tire tracks left by Son of Satan were evident, and it showed how close the Hummer came to going over the cliff.

This time, instead of fear, I felt anger.

When we reached the mound of trash, there was no sign of the lance.

“I’m sorry. It was here. I know it was.”

The furrows between Shoner’s brows deepened.

What little bit of credibility I had slid into a slimy pile of sea junk.

A rip of thunder sounded over the water and a bolt of lightning stabbed the surface. When we turned to go back, we saw it.

Beyond the rusty iron fence, in the far corner of the totem graveyard, was a solitary totem, holding a primordial spear. It looked like Excalibur.

Detective Shoner snapped open his crime scene kit, pulled on his gloves, and handed a camera to Officer Bach. The flash of the camera mixed with spurts of lightning. When the photo taking was complete, Officer Bach unfolded a garbage bag and held it up to protect Detective Shoner and the lance from the now-steady downpour. Detective Shoner took out a spray bottle and spritzed the lance with Luminol, the chemical used in episodes of
CSI
to render unseen blood luminescent. The results glowed.

When I inventoried the attic, the clue to the murder
weapon had been next to me the whole time. Cole, Adam, Van, and Jillian had all played with the lance as children, but who’d used it to kill Caroline Spenser?

“Swab.” Detective Shoner sounded like a surgeon. “Don’t pat yourself on the back yet, Ms. Barrett. We still have to match the blood to the victim.”

The detective left for East Hampton. Officer Bach and I stayed behind.

In the Spensers’ dining room, a huge mahogany table was set with Limoges china and hand-cut crystal stemware. Someone had turned up the chandelier to the brightest setting. I’d staged many a dining room table in
American Home and Garden
, and I was sure in Caroline Spenser’s time there would have been fresh flowers, place cards at each setting, dimmed lights, and lit tapers. Not to mention, the guest list would have been
entirely
different.

Jillian sat at the head of the table, while Cole looked uncomfortable at the opposite end. Jillian wore a dated lavender gown in iridescent taffeta, something Alexis Carrington from a rerun of
Dynasty
might have worn. The bodice was too large for Jillian’s frame, and the poufy off-the-shoulder sleeves slid down her matchstick arms. The dress fit the description of the one Nurse Freeman said Caroline Spenser wore the night of the infamous party seventeen years ago. The same night Cole had his motorcycle accident with Tara.

Salvatore, Van, Dr. Greene, Adam, Adam’s mother, and an empty place setting were on one side of the table. Across from them were Mr. and Mrs. Arnold, Officer Bach, Officer Krane, and another empty place setting. All that was missing was the Mad Hatter.

“Meg, sit by me.” Jillian pointed to an empty seat next to her.

Adam looked about to protest and Cole gave him a triumphant glare.

“You look beautiful, Jillian,” I said.

“Thank you.” Jillian grinned. “How’s your room, Meg, and how are you feeling after last night?”

All eyes focused on me. “The room’s fine. Lovely, in fact, and I’m fine.”

“Lovely, in fact,” Adam repeated

What was his deal? I gave him a weak smile and then shot Mrs. Arnold a look to let her know she owed me for not being a tattletale about the dust-shrouded guest room.

“Let’s eat. The food’s getting
cold
.” Mrs. Arnold concentrated her stare at me.

Everything was set under silver domes. Mrs. Arnold stood and moved toward Jillian, but as she put her hand on the lid, Jillian announced, “Sit down, Frieda. You’re my guest. We’ll pass the food ourselves.”

“How about a refill?” Adam’s mother tipped her empty tumbler in Mr. Arnold’s direction. Apparently she’d been on time for the drinks-in-the-library part of the evening.

“Sam Arnold, don’t you dare. Let her get it for herself.” Jillian’s sharp voice was punctuated with an English accent.

Frances looked nonplussed and glanced at her son for assistance, but Adam was too busy looking at me.

The conversation was stilted and formal. The mixture of servants, hired hands, law enforcement, and gentry wasn’t conducive to proper dinner-table chitchat. Adam’s mother, Frances, flirted with Dr. Greene, and, if I wasn’t mistaken, he didn’t seem put off. Cole barely said a word, and Jillian’s new sentinel, Officer Krane, focused on Jillian’s every move.

For some reason, the letters Elle had given me came to mind. Then I realized,
Whoa!
Mr. Arnold’s first name also
started with an
S
—Sam. The Arnolds didn’t have any children, did they?

The food was delicious but cold. Having the cook mingle with the dinner guests didn’t quite work. Near the end of the meal, Jillian raised a champagne glass and addressed the motley crew. Adam pulled a mahogany cart away from the wall. Two silver buckets filled with Dom Perignon rattled against each other and stopped near Jillian. Adam popped the corks with ease. They each flew in a perfect arc across the room and landed on the glasslike surface of the sideboard. Adam filled everyone’s glass and we waited for Jillian. My eyes caught Cole’s. His gaze worked like a blowtorch on my spine. I felt as if I’d already consumed a case of Dom.

“Oh, wait, I forgot something.” Jillian walked over to each guest and squeezed a drop of dark liquid into their glass. When I lifted my head, my champagne had changed to grass-green.

“Happy St. Patrick’s Day, everyone!” Jillian toasted.

I think she expected applause, but all she got was “Hear, hear” from Dr. Greene and “That’s disgusting!” from Adam’s mother.

With the exception of the two officers, we raised our glasses and swallowed.

Dessert was forgone, or Jillian grew weary, as did I, of the titillating dinner conversation. Officer Bach went outside to his patrol car and Officer Krane followed Jillian to her room, while Mr. and Mrs. Arnold went to work clearing the table. Salvatore and Van exited via the front door and Adam, his mother, and Dr. Greene went into the library for a nightcap. Cole and I were left alone. We walked up the stairs single file, but when we arrived at the hallway that led to the guest room, Cole seized my arm and pulled me
into the shadows. He drew back my hair and whispered, “I’ll come to you later.” His eyes sparkled under sooty lashes and the right corner of his mouth spiked in a roguish grin. A debilitating case of weak-in-the-knees-itis overcame me as I continued on to the guest room.

*   *   *

The next hour was spent cleaning. I threw the dirty towels in a heap on the bathroom floor—that would teach Mrs. Arnold. Then I opened the window to let out a month’s worth of neglect.

The storm had intensified, and I reveled in the fact, for once, I wasn’t in it.

Jillian’s door shut, then there was silence. I removed a flashlight and a pair of gloves from my overnight bag, which I’d packed with snooping in mind, and headed toward the east wing, taking the staircase to the third floor.