Better Homes and Corpses (18 page)

The guard moved toward Cole. “Time’s up.”

Cole stood tall and walked out.

I shut off the tape recorder and sat until the guard returned and ordered me to leave.

“Does he have a lawyer?” I asked.

“I dunno. Ask out front.”

I didn’t have to because Detective Shoner was waiting in the hallway.

“Well? Did he confess?”

I held my purse tighter to my body. “No. Does he have a lawyer?”

“Yes, a high-priced one, but that won’t help.”

“When’s the arraignment?”

Shoner looked at his watch. “Tomorrow. Thanks for reminding me. He’s going to have to spend the night in Riverhead.”

I opened my mouth, but he cut me off.

“It’s a closed proceeding.”

“Do you have enough to indict him?”

“We’ll see.”

As he walked away, I remembered to ask him about my missing cell phone. He promised to look into it, but I doubted he would. He was too jazzed-up from his high-profile arrest.

In the lobby, I stopped the revolving door to let in a tall woman dressed in a full-length mink coat—Tara Gayle.
Animal killer.
“You’re welcome,” I said to her back and gave the revolving door an extra push. She stumbled out the other side.

It looked like Cole was lining up all his chicks in a row.

I sat on the icy steps of the police station to think about what to do next. It was only ten
A.M.
A few minutes later, a blue bus whizzed by with
Suffolk County Correctional Services
written on the side. I was sure I saw Cole’s profile through the halo of a fogged window. If it was Cole on the bus, then that meant Tara never got a chance to see him.

What a shame.

TWENTY-EIGHT

The St. Patrick’s Day parade in Montauk was in full swing. I spotted Doc outside Green’s Department Store. I sprinted across Main Street and almost got trampled by the Suffolk County Emerald Society Pipe Band.

“Hi, Doc, what’s up?”

He looked miffed. “Don’t give me ‘What’s up, Doc.’” He ignored the pun and my giggle. “Heard the news about Cole Spenser. Anything you want to tell me?”

“Not really, but I need a big favor.” We walked to an empty bench in front of the gazebo. “I need to know what evidence they have against Cole. I know about the sweatshirt and Jillian’s accusation.”

“I mean, the guy’s own sister said he did it. Why are you so worried about Cole Spenser?”

“He didn’t do it. It doesn’t make sense. What was his motive?”

“Okay. I’ll try to get some information, but in the meantime, stay away from the Spenser estate.”

“Can you call now? Pleeeezzzz?”

He took out his cell phone.

A large crowd gathered outside of McIrney’s. Music drifted across the green, and the street was littered with shamrock confetti.

Doc returned his phone to his pocket. “Okay. This is all I could get. In Cole’s room they found a pair of black gloves with blood on them, the same type as the victim’s. One glove had a chunk of leather missing, which matched the piece of leather found at the crime scene. They also have a wooden box with trace hair and tissue fragments. It’s in the lab being tested for DNA. It looks like your boy did it.”

I recalled the missing box of coins from Seacliff. “What fool would keep incriminating evidence like that in their bedroom? Bloody gloves? You’ve gotta be kidding me. This isn’t OJ Simpson we’re talking about!”

“This is serious, young lady. Why are you defending him?”

“I’m not, but call me if you get any info on the box. I’ve gotta run.”

I left before Doc could stop me.

As soon as I walked into my kitchen, I grabbed the phone, and called my father. The voice of my father’s new bride came on the machine. When the beep sounded, I tried to sound cheerful. “Hi, guys, how are you? Everything’s fine here in beautiful Montauk. Hey, Dad, I need a . . .”

“Hey, kitten. Sorry, I was snoozing in front of the tube. That’s what life’s been reduced to for dear ole Dad now that he’s retired.”

I laughed. “Come on. You think I believe that BS? Sell it to someone who’s buying. Dad, I need your help.”

“Is everything okay?”

“They made an arrest. Cole Spenser. I’ll go into the
details later. Dig around and get back to me. It doesn’t feel right.”

“Ha, you sound like a cop.”

“That’s a compliment, coming from you. When do I get to see your pics from the honeymoon?”

“Sheila uploaded a video to YouTube. I’ll send you the link.”

“Great.”

“Sheila also mailed out your care package this morning and added something special. Hey, did you try that recipe I sent you?”

Yikes.
I pretended I hadn’t heard. “Please thank her. Love you too much.”

“Back at ya.”

It had been twenty years since my mother’s death, and I still couldn’t picture him with anyone else. Maybe I’d been selling Sheila short. My father deserved to be happy.

After a long shower I put on some old sweats. They reminded me of the ones Cole lent me not too long ago. I made myself a cup of green tea and grabbed the tape recording from my visit with Cole and sat at my desk to peruse the Caroline Spenser storyboard. Cole had motive and opportunity for everything. Had I let my libido overshadow common sense? Did I really think Jillian could mistake her brother for someone else? It was possible. She hadn’t seen him in seventeen years.

I looked at the storyboard from an objective point of view. Not an easy task if you considered my relationship with the accused. I pulled off all the tacks and everything fell to the floor, except the center card with Caroline’s name written on it.

I played the tape once more and listened to Cole’s voice. He was angry with his mother—angry enough to kill her
years later was another story. If the events of the past had anything to do with Caroline’s murder, then there were other people involved. It seemed more likely that the person who killed Caroline was someone who’d been with her in her current life, not hundreds of miles away in North Carolina.

When I called the number Cole had given me for Bill Millburn, I got an answering machine. “You’ve reached Plantation Island Yachts. Please leave a message and someone will get back to you.” I left my name and number, along with Cole’s message, and jotted down the name of the company. I left everything scattered around the room, grabbed my coat, and headed for Sand and Sun Realty.

It was late afternoon; the only remnant from the parade was the green line running down Main Street. When I pulled into the parking lot, Barb was locking the door.

I tooted the horn.

Barb walked over to my open window. “Heard about Cole Spenser. Told you he was a bad seed.”

“I don’t think you used those words. I need a favor; I have to look something up on your computer.”

“Sure. Go ahead. I’m leaving, though. Jack is attempting to make corned beef and cabbage in the Crock-Pot. The kids are in town.” She handed me the key. “Just lock the door and put it under the planter. Hey, you wouldn’t believe who Jack and I saw at Unplugged Thursday night.”

“Who?”

“Adam Prescott and Tara Gayle. They were hot and heavy, making out in the corner. Lots of tongue action. A vacuum cleaner wouldn’t have enough suction to compete with those two. Guess I was wrong about Tara holding a flame for Cole. Good thing, seeing as he’s a killer.”

“Are you sure it was Tara?”

“Of course. She looked like a fish out of water. Not her
kind of place, sawdust and rock and roll, not champagne and caviar.”

“That changes everything.”

“Changes what?”

“Nothing. Hey, don’t let me hold you up.”

“You’re acting weird. You sure you’re okay?”

“Fine, now get home before Jack burns down the house.”

“Darn! You’re right!” She dashed toward her car.

“Any word on the lowest price they’ll take for the cottage?” I shouted out to her.

“Don’t worry, I talked to the monsignor. He’s coming next week. We’ll talk turkey then.”

“You’re a love!”

Inside, I Googled “Plantation Island Yachts” and came up with 2,427 results. Then I added “North Carolina” and the search narrowed to 403. Finally, I found a PIY.com. The home page loaded quickly and I was surprised to see Cole’s smiling face and tanned body. He had his arm around an athletic-looking man with gray hair and a beard—a small caption under Cole’s picture read,
Cole Spenser, President
, and under the other,
William Millburn, V.P.
The website photos displayed an array of vintage sailing yachts: vessels with teak cabins and antique brass hardware. I clicked on a picture of a beautiful 1930s schooner—the
Malabar X
. Its description stated the sailboat had been victorious in both the 1930 and 1932 Bermuda races and was built by Hodgdon Brothers of East Boothbay, Maine. Its asking price was one million dollars. From the looks of things, Cole wasn’t hurting for money. I printed out the pages then faxed them to my father with a note:
Dad, please find out the solvency of this company
.

I powered everything down and made my way out. I remembered to hide the key under the planter.

In Green’s Department Store I bought a copy of the
Times.
There was an article about the arrest of Cole Spenser, and the reporter wasn’t kind. He rehashed the gory details of the murder and put Cole in the same league as the matricidal Norman Bates in
Psycho
.

I headed toward Montauk Harbor and made a quick stop at a yard sale, where I found two Chinese Foo dogs. I prayed they were antique. Ever since the story of the five-dollar garage-sale Chinese bowl that netted the owner $2.2 million, I couldn’t help but grab every Asian trinket that came my way. Five dollars and a dream.

On the north side of town was Montauk Harbor, home of Billy Joel’s oft-sung heroes: the hardworking, underappreciated Long Island fishermen. Also on the harbor, was Mickey’s Chowder Shack, my favorite Montauk eatery. Mickey’s offered the best pan-braised fluke on Long Island, and some would say the entire eastern seaboard. Mickey’s motto was
You Hook ’Em—We Cook ’Em
. Mickey was a local hero who, in 1943, when working for the local Coast Guard, was credited with aiding in the apprehension of two German spies who swam ashore in Amagansett. In his late eighties, Mickey, with the help of his family, continued to offer the best meal on the East End.

Mickey’s granddaughter, Erin, was behind the counter. She had long copper hair and a body that belonged on the cover of
Maxim
magazine. Men occupied all six tables of Mickey’s, and I didn’t think it was a
fluke
. I went to the counter to order takeout. I didn’t want to wait for a table and eat alone in a room full of men. One good thing about Manhattan was everyone ate alone. Here I’d stick out like a German spy.

Mickey’s oldest granddaughter was the notorious Tara Gayle. I could kill two birds with one stone: unearth some
dirt on Tara, especially with the new info about her and Adam Prescott, and eat a meal that rivaled any New York City Michelin star restaurant. Even my father had been impressed when I’d brought him to Mickey’s. And that didn’t happen often. There was always one ingredient he would have taken out or added in. And he was usually right. I didn’t know how to cook, but I sure knew how to eat fine cuisine. I was raised on it.

“I read about you finding that murdered Spenser woman,” Erin said as she refilled a ketchup bottle.

“Cole’s sister and I were roommates for a short time at college.”

“No shit! What a coinkydink. My sister Tara used to date Cole Spenser, back when they were teenagers.”

“Honey, where’s my whiskey?” An unshaven man shuffled up to Erin.

“Roy, get back to your table. I told you, no more drink until you eat your dinner. What would Jenny say?” The man dropped his head and went back to his table like a punished toddler.

“I was in your sister’s antique shop the other day. She had the most beautiful tall clock.”

“Really? Our tastes aren’t exactly the same.”

“It takes a lot of cash to start up a business like that. Wish I could. It’s always been my dream.”

“Ha. She doesn’t have any cash. Her ex left her with nothing. Not that she and a team of lawyers didn’t try. Tara must have found some new sugar daddy to help her. It was either that or work here, and I know she’d never lower herself to do that. Tara’s never spent more than an hour here.”

“Well, she must have been pretty broken up when she heard Cole was arrested for murdering his mother,” I said. “Unless she’s more into Adam Prescott?”

“Cole? Was he arrested? Who’s Adam Prescott?”

Roy came back. This time Erin spun him like a top and sent him wobbling toward the exit. “Oh boy, I’d better call Tara.” She handed me my takeout bag.

“I think she already knows.” So Erin knew nothing about Adam and Tara. Things were getting stranger and stranger.

Outside, I inhaled a lung-cleansing gulp of salty air. The aroma of grilled seafood coming from the exhaust was a nice preview to my upcoming meal. I hadn’t made it home yet without gobbling down the fritters that came as a bonus with each order: corn bread stuffed with bite-sized pieces of shrimp. An original recipe à la Mickey. I arrived home to a dark cottage. I put my key in the lock just as an angry offshore breeze slammed the screen door against my shoulder. I catapulted inside. My toe caught the corner of the rug, and the bag with my dinner fell, splat!
Damn.
Why couldn’t someone, preferably male, be waiting for me in front of a roaring fire?

Only one container survived: the garlic mashed potatoes. I cleaned up, snipped a few chives from the windowsill, got a fork, and brought the Kittinger storyboard to the cushioned banquette that surrounded my ’40s enamel-topped kitchen table. The table was a garbage find. I’d spotted a similar table in a shop on Bleecker Street in Greenwich Village for seven hundred dollars. With my first forkful of taters, I remembered the fact Erin didn’t know where Tara was getting the money to open Champagne and Caviar Antiques. Cole? Adam?

I removed everything from the storyboard and filed it away. My chest fluttered when I looked at the empty corkboard. At the end of a design project, I always felt melancholy.

I hadn’t been inside my next client’s home because they
were Londoners who had to wait until April 1st to enter the country due to visa restrictions. The interior of the cottage would be completely different from the Kittingers’—more modern farmhouse than seaside cozy.

The evening was spent removing magazine clippings from individual overstuffed scrapbooks I’d organized by room and pinning them to my new storyboard, a welcome distraction from picturing Cole in a Riverhead jail cell.

The home owner’s interior photographs of their London brownstone gave me a glimpse of their taste level. I played until I felt the direction I was going in was the right one. When my eyelids started to droop and the embers in the hearth took their last gasp, I went up to bed.