Better Homes and Corpses (20 page)

The pages were warm in my hand when Tripod and I headed back to East Hampton.

THIRTY-ONE

Tripod led me up the steps to the police station as if he meant business. I took off his collar and we went through the metal detectors.

The desk sergeant frowned. “No dogs allowed.” Then she held out her hand for Tripod to lick, which he did, obligingly.

“Can I leave him here for an itty bit? It’s important that I chat with Detective Shoner.”

The sergeant’s bark was worse than her bite. “Okay, but only for a few minutes.”

I was escorted to Detective Shoner’s office. We passed a main room with six desks, where a few uniformed officers quietly worked. I walked into Detective Shoner’s office just as he hung up the phone. He didn’t look happy. Even less ecstatic when his eyes met mine.

“I might have found a motive for Caroline’s murder,” I said before he could speak.

“We already have a motive.”

“It can’t be that strong if Cole made bail.”

“Strong enough to set a trial date and file a restraining order. Have a seat.”

“I think you’ve arrested the wrong person.” I continued to stand.

Shoner looked unimpressed. “Whom should we have in custody?”

“My guess is Adam Prescott, his mother, Frances, and last, but not least, Tara Gayle.” I handed him the fax Elle sent. She’d highlighted six items, complete with photos.

“A bunch of furniture. So what?” He handed the sheets back.

“Not just any furniture. Elle says one piece is worth two hundred thousand dollars. They were stolen from the Spenser house and Adam Prescott is involved. He might’ve had a hand in Caroline’s murder. Maybe Caroline caught Adam stealing and he killed her? Plus, with Caroline dead, Adam gets all the stuff from the town house.”

On my first day at the estate, Adam didn’t want me in the attic. Had he purposely broken the video camera so I wouldn’t be able to photograph the bookcase hidden under the sheet?

Detective Shoner said dismissively, “Jillian said Cole was the killer.”

“Maybe Adam dressed up like Cole.”

“I don’t think you would confuse the two of them if they were standing right next to you.”

“Maybe Jillian saw Adam running away, looking like Cole.”

“Jillian said she saw Cole, standing over her with a weapon in his hand.”

“Maybe she was confused due to the wallop on the head.”

“I appreciate your amateur detective work, the key word
being ‘amateur.’ I’ll look into the stolen furniture.” He went to the door and held it open.

“You didn’t have a problem asking me to poke around before. Don’t you even want to know why I think it’s Adam and company?”

“Sure. Go ahead. Make my day.”

“When I was in Tara Gayle’s antique shop a few days ago, I saw a clock that Elle said belonged in the Spenser estate. Then I saw Frances Prescott and Tara carry the same clock out of the shop. Plus, yesterday, I learned Tara Gayle and Adam Prescott were kissing, at a bar Thursday night. They’re all in it together.”

“That’s it?”

“If you look into it, I’m sure you’ll find a connection. At least make a trip over to the estate and confront Adam or ask Jillian if it’s possible she’s wrong about Cole.”

I handed him the faxed pages and he picked up a calculator.

“Wow. You’re right. We’re talking a lot of money in missing furniture sold at various auction houses across the country. I’ll put a call in to Jillian Spenser and tell her we’re coming over.”

“We?”

*   *   *

I sat in the front of the detective’s black Lexus. It had taken him an hour to verify Elle’s information about the stolen furniture. The rain started as we turned off James Lane, a steady downpour thumped on the car’s roof. Tripod had been left in the capable hands of the desk sergeant. I hoped I was right about Adam. If Adam and Tara sold the missing furniture, then logically they had something to do with Caroline Spenser’s murder.

Officer Bach met us on the front step. Detective Shoner pushed the intercom on the door frame and we waited. This time Mr. Arnold stuck his head out the door. He had a five-o’clock shadow and looked like Wooly Willy, the toy where you use a magnet to arrange iron shavings into comical hairstyles. Mr. Arnold blinked then refocused on the detective.

“Good afternoon. Jillian is expecting us,” Detective Shoner said.

“Uh, okay, I guess. Come in. I’ll go look for ’er. Why don’t you have a seat in the grand salon.” He walked away as he called, “Miss Jillian . . .”

Detective Shoner and Officer Bach sat on one of the small sofas near the fireplace. Officer Bach analyzed the large tapestry with the seminaked women, while Detective Shoner removed a minirecorder from his inside pocket. I sat near the window and mentally rearranged the furniture. The room had
high-priced interior decorator
written all over it; items were displayed by the book. Everything in threes: no panache, no whimsy, no personality. I believed every room should be lived in—not treated as a museum. I reached for a small Japanese print. I planned to casually lean it against a cloisonné flower pot when Mr. Arnold jogged in.

He looked more discombobulated than usual. “You’d better come quick to the breakfast room. It don’t look good!”

Officer Bach looked at Detective Shoner and Detective Shoner looked at me. We sped past Mr. Arnold, ran into the breakfast room, and saw a body gently bobbing in the current pool.

Officer Bach jumped in and offered up a very pale Jillian. Detective Shoner laid her on the pool’s edge. Jillian was fully dressed, right down to her brown loafers. Her hands were flat at her sides, her fingers shriveled. Detective Shoner
bent his head to perform CPR. As soon as Detective Shoner’s lips met hers, Jillian started coughing and choking. He flipped her on her side. Her chin quivered and once again she muttered, “Cole.” Only this time, there was no mistaking the word for “cold.”

Officer Bach captured an orange plastic pill bottle floating in the water. It looked like the one I’d seen earlier by Jillian’s bed. Detective Shoner picked Jillian up. Mr. Arnold, a soggy Officer Bach, and I followed him up the steps. We’d almost reached the second-floor landing when Mrs. Arnold screamed.

“What happened? What’s wrong?” She looked up the staircase, her arms loaded with a stack of library books that tumbled to the floor. Two steps at a time, she charged up the stairs.

When Detective Shoner laid Jillian on the bed, Mrs. Arnold took over. She stripped off Jillian’s wet clothes. “Call an ambulance! You sods!”

I took in the room, while Officer Bach called for an ambulance. The pill bottle I saw earlier was missing and there was a letter on Jillian’s desk. The chair to the desk had been pushed over.

Detective Shoner followed my gaze. “Okay, everyone out but Mrs. Arnold. I need to secure this room for evidence. Wait downstairs. Officer Bach, see if you can find the whereabouts of Cole Spenser.”

I sat on the rush seat bench in the foyer, biting my nails. A new bad habit but quite comforting just the same, and less fattening than chocolate sauce.

Van walked in dressed in a black raincoat, dripping from the rain. “How is she?” His eyes showed he’d heard the news about Jillian. He sat down next to me and gave me a hug. It felt good to lean into him.

“She’s alive. They just took her to the hospital. How’d you find out?”

“I heard the ambulance and walked over. Plus, I just talked to Officer Bach. How’d it happen?”

“I don’t know. We’ll have to wait and see.” I didn’t want to theorize. I was still trying to figure it out.

I was forced to wait until Detective Shoner finished because I’d come in his car.

An hour later, he clomped down the stairs. “Let’s go!” His lips were pursed like they’d been Krazy-Glued.

The mood in the car was somber. He didn’t appear open to listening to any of my suggestions, so I asked only one thing. “What did the note on the desk say?”

“It said Jillian was sorry. She wasn’t sure it was Cole who killed their mother, and she couldn’t live knowing her brother would spend his life in jail because of her possibly false accusation.”

“But . . .”

“No ‘buts,’ Ms. Barrett. Listen, because I’m only going to tell you once. Jillian told the true story on her way to the ambulance. Basically, Cole made Jillian write the suicide note and forced her to swallow a bottle of pills. The next thing she remembers is waking up on the side of the pool. Cole almost got away with another murder.”

When Detective Shoner and I walked into the station, Cole, Officer Bach, and Tripod stood beyond the metal detectors.

Cole looked first at me then at Detective Shoner. “How’s Jillian?”

Before either of us could answer, Officer Bach blurted out, “I wasn’t sure what you wanted me to do with him.”

“Read him his rights and throw him in a holding cell.”

“This is ridiculous. I want to see my lawyer,” Cole said.

“Be my guest.” Shoner turned and walked in the direction of his office.

Cole wordlessly handed me Tripod’s leash. Then Officer Bach led Cole away.

Tripod and I put our tails between our legs and retreated to Montauk.

I took Tripod down to the beach. We stopped dead center in front of Patrick Seaton’s cottage. Tripod moved his head from left to right, as if reading Shakespeare’s verse:

When sorrows come,

They come not single spies,

But in battalions.

THIRTY-TWO

I called Detective Shoner first thing Tuesday morning to find out the status of Cole’s arrest and see how Jillian was doing. I also reminded him of the stolen furniture and Adam’s possible involvement.

The detective was curt. Jillian was home from the hospital, and she hadn’t suffered any adverse effects from her time spent in the pool. Once again, Jillian had survived a drowning. And once again, Cole was to blame.

I took Tripod for a walk through town, then we headed to Sand and Sun Realty. Barb’s silver Pathfinder sat in the parking lot. “We’re in luck, ole buddy.”

Tripod barked a small yip. I led him into the office. He walked smoothly, despite his handicap.

Barb was at the computer, her half-glasses ready to slip off her nose. “Hello, and who’s your fine, furry friend?”

“Barb Moss, real estate agent extraordinaire, I’d like you to meet Tripod, man’s best friend.” Tripod balanced on his hind legs and offered his single front paw in greeting.

Barb gave it a vigorous shake. “Who does he belong to?”

“Jillian Spenser.”
A teeny white lie
. “Listen, I need you to watch him. I’ve got some errands to do, and dogs aren’t allowed.”

“Sure. He’ll keep me company while I work.”

There were things I wanted to discuss with Detective Shoner—in person.

I stood at the front desk at the police station while the officer called the detective. I waited a good twenty minutes before another officer came and led me to Shoner’s office.

When I walked in, he was on the phone and motioned for me to take a seat. He put his hand over his mouth, so I couldn’t read his lips. I dug in my purse and retrieved my list.

He hung up the phone. “What can I do for you? I’m a little busy.”

“This can’t wait. I have some things I need you to look into.”

“Still think Cole’s innocent?”

“Yes. For one thing, he doesn’t need the money. He owns a company that is very solvent. Write this down: Plantation Island Yachts.”

I was surprised when he did.

“That’s it? Can I get back to work now?”

“No. I have more. Did you find out about the missing furniture sold at auction?”

“I questioned Tara Gayle and she said she doesn’t know what you’re talking about. She never had a clock worth that much in her shop.”

“She’s lying. It was moved to the attic at the Spenser estate. She must have told Adam I saw it and they put it up there. I have a photo to prove it was in Tara’s shop. Did you
contact the auction houses for a description of the consignee?”

“No.”

“Put that on your list.”

He didn’t. Instead, he said, “I think you should know we recorded Jillian making an official statement, just in case something else befalls her. It’s now documented Cole forced her to take the bottle of pills and write a suicide note and then he tried to drown her to make it look like suicide.”

I didn’t buy it. “Does Cole have an alibi? My understanding was he came to the house accompanied by a police officer to collect his things.”

“No, he doesn’t have an alibi. That was earlier. He says he was in his room at the Hearthstone Arms.”

“How about Adam? Where was he?”

“At this point, I really don’t care about Adam.”

“Then humor me. I need you to find out who Jillian called from the lighthouse last Friday. The call was made from the gift shop lobby pay phone, on the same day Son of Satan nearly killed us.”

“If I do that, will you leave me alone?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, but only out of respect for the fact your father is a retired homicide detective. This is the last thing.”

“I promise. Just trace the call. You can contact me at this number. I really, really appreciate your help.” I handed him my business card. “Call the circled number please and leave a message. Any trace of my cell phone?”

“Yes. It’s in Riverhead. I’ll have Officer Bach pick it up from forensics tomorrow.”

He wrote a note on a sticky pad, stuck it on his blotter, and I walked out of the office.

Next on my list was Dr. Greene. There were only two pills left in the bottle by Jillian’s bed. If Cole planned to murder Jillian and then set it up to look like a suicide, wouldn’t he be sure she ingested more than two pills?

I parked in a no-parking spot in front of Paloma’s. Paloma’s was a great place in Amagansett to have brunch, and, as an added bonus, you had a sixty-percent chance of spotting a celebrity year-round. More important, they had a vintage enclosed phone booth in the back.

I searched the East Hampton directory for Dr. Greene’s phone number. No office was listed. I found him in the residential section of the white pages. He lived in a nice neighborhood, not far from the Spensers. Perhaps he only did house calls for the rich and famous. Or maybe being Jillian’s doctor was a full-time job. He picked up on the first ring.

“Dr. Greene, sorry to bother you. It’s Meg Barrett.”

“Meg. Good to hear from you. I’ve been very distraught over this whole matter.”

“That’s why I’m calling. Can you tell me what kind of meds you had Jillian on yesterday?”

“You know I can’t disclose that information.”

“Yesterday morning there was a bottle of pills on her nightstand. It was Brintellix, and there were only two left. Can I just ask if you refilled her prescription later in the day? Salvatore told me you replaced the pills in her medicine cabinet with placebos.”

“No. I have the refill here. I meant to drop it off today. Salvatore shouldn’t have told you that information, but yes, I keep a close watch over what Jillian takes.”

“Do you know if they pumped her stomach at the hospital?”

“Of course.”

“Did they analyze the contents?”

“I’m sure they did.”

“Do you have a copy of the report?”

“No.” He sounded wary of my interrogation.

“She must have swallowed a lot of water.”

“No. Lucky for Jillian, she was rescued in time. There was only a minute trace of water in her lungs.”

“Any bruises or bumps on her head?”

“No. Physically she was fine. I checked her out myself. Why all the questions?”

“I’m just concerned. Thanks, Doctor.”

I sat in the phone booth well after the call ended. I pieced together the things that didn’t click. Jillian had two pills in her system, not the dose needed to fake the supposed suicide Cole staged. She had only a trace of water in her lungs, which meant Cole must’ve put her into the water unconscious only moments before Mr. Arnold found her. If Cole was trying to kill her and make it look like a suicide, wouldn’t he hold her head under water until she was dead, or at least give her enough drugs to knock her out? And when we found her in the current pool, her fingers were pruny, like mine after a long soak in the tub. Detective Shoner had called Jillian to say we were coming to talk about the furniture, but we didn’t get there until an hour after he called. Jillian must have been floating in the current pool for a while.

Like a comic strip character, the lightbulb over my head clicked on. It was all a game—a murderous game.

Jillian never suffered from PTSD or a memory loss.