Better Homes and Corpses (22 page)

I’d never checked which hand Cole used. It had never crossed my mind.

“Where to?”

“Seacliff. There’s something that’s been bugging me.”

Tripod gave a short bark of encouragement.

*   *   *

The estate was quiet. No patrol cars, Mercedes, or BMWs. Even Cole’s Harley was missing, no doubt confiscated by the police. I’d told Doc to keep the motor running and wait near the garage.

I entered the house through a door in the conservatory with a key and the passcode Jillian had given me when I agreed to watch over her. I wondered who else knew the alarm code.

I climbed the back staircase until I reached the attic.

This time I didn’t get sidetracked by a piece of furniture. I grabbed a fake scrimshaw letter opener off the desk and stabbed it into the belly of the beast. Sawdust fell onto the floorboards. I reached inside the warthog and came out with a single letter. I shoved it into my pocket and covered the creature with a sheet. I left the house without being seen, and luckily, Doc was still waiting. I got inside and he socked it to me. “What were you doing? I was just about to call Detective Shoner.”

“We’ll tell him about our suspicions in the morning. I need to put together a neat package, one that makes sense, because I still don’t know what Adam and Tara have to do with Jillian’s deception.”

Doc dropped me home and Tripod and I took a quick stroll on the blacktop behind my cottage. I didn’t want to deal with wet, sandy paws. Once inside, I left Tripod drinking at his water bowl. I went to the porch to review what I’d found in the Spenser attic. I planned to map out the case I’d present to Detective Shoner, one which involved Jillian as a murderer. I sat on the wicker settee.

The rain had turned to a light drizzle and the fog advanced like a silent wall. I’d run out of wood, having exceeded my own personal best in the fire-burning department. Patrick Seaton, or whom I assumed was Patrick, had left kindling without knowing I’d run out of logs. I felt trapped and restless. I thought of Jillian and Stu Polinski and remembered how adamant Jillian was about having a boyfriend. I also couldn’t get the idea out of my head that Adam, Tara, and Adam’s mother were involved. Were they in it together to get rid of Cole and Caroline so they could live off the spoils of the Spenser inheritance? I reached into my back pocket and removed the letter I’d found in the creature. Bits of
charred paper disintegrated at my touch. They hung on the humid air like moths then floated to the floor. Someone had tried to burn the letter then reconsidered.

My Dearest Caroline,

I’m sorry to be sending you this letter, but I want you to reconsider telling Charles the truth. You will hurt him and Cole. Regardless of your decision, I promise to stay close. When you told me of your pregnancy, I must confess, at first, I was unsure of the best way to proceed. If you insist, I’ll honor your wishes and take the secret of this child’s parentage to my grave.

It had a family crest embossed on the letterhead. I went inside and riffled through my bag and found Adam’s business card. It was the same family crest, reinforcing Cole’s story about his mother’s and Stephen Prescott’s long-standing affair. It wasn’t typed but written in neat penmanship and unsigned. It was dangerous to keep an old love letter, until I remembered the box I kept in storage that contained every scribbled note card from my first boyfriend. If Adam’s father swore to keep the baby’s parentage a secret, did that mean he was Jillian’s father and Charles Spenser wasn’t? What if Jillian’s secret boyfriend was Adam Prescott and Caroline forbade them to be together because they were half brother and sister? I reached for the phone and the lights went out in the cottage.

THIRTY-FOUR

Power outages in Montauk usually occurred during nor’easters, hurricanes, or snowstorms. Not fog and drizzle. I felt my way to the kitchen, found a box of matches, and lit a candle. I listened to the sounds around me. There weren’t many, only the resonance of light rain on the rooftop. Not even a tinkle from the wind chimes.

I glanced across the cottage at the exact moment Tripod let out a predatory growl. “What is it, boy?” I followed his stare and the silhouette of a human form came into view outside the French doors.

I grabbed my car keys. “Come on, boy.” We bolted out the kitchen door.

I barely made out the shape of my Jeep in the drenching fog. I opened the driver’s door and Tripod leapt over the gearshift onto the passenger seat. A whine came from so deep in his throat I thought the windshield would implode.

I put the Jeep in reverse, pedal to the floor. What followed was the sound of metal crunching metal. My head
bounced off the steering wheel. Eyes closed, head braced against the seat, I attempted to unjumble my brain—if a car blocked the driveway, then I
had
most definitely seen someone on the porch. As Tripod cowered under the glove compartment, the driver’s-side door groaned open. I turned and slowly blinked. Jillian Spenser’s face was haloed by the Jeep’s interior light. One side of her mouth was up in a grin, the other down in a frown. She was the comedy/tragedy mask incarnate.

“What are you doing here? What did I hit?” I focused on Jillian. Was it the mist or the bang on the head that made her face appear so distorted?

“I’m afraid you hit my car. Why don’t you pull up a little?” She spoke with an American accent. She wasn’t her mother, but she wasn’t Jillian either.

“I th-th-think Tripod’s hurt,” I stammered.

“You’d better not move him. We’ll call a vet. Let’s get inside.”

I did as I was told and pulled myself out of the Jeep. When I stopped to steady my legs, I saw there was a light on in my neighbor’s window. Even in my scrambled-eggs-for-brains state, it was quickly evident that my cottage was the only one without electricity. I could just make out the back end of my Jeep, which was attached to the bumper of Jillian’s mother’s BMW.

“Come on. Move it.” Jillian reached into her pocket and pulled out a flashlight.

The door to the cottage was open. I hadn’t locked it, but I’d definitely closed it during my panicked exodus. Jillian held the door open and waved her flashlight like an usherette in a movie theater.

“I don’t have electricity. It happens all the time out here. Can I get you something? A glass of wine? A soda? Some
green beer? You never said why you’re here. Is it about Cole?” I rambled on until something trickled down my forehead. I swiped at it with my finger. Blood.

“Yes. This is about Cole.” Jillian pushed me onto the bench next to the kitchen table then went to the counter and ripped off a section of paper towels. When she turned to face me, she wore latex gloves. “Here. Hold this to your head. We don’t want any bloodstains. Do we?”

Was that a rhetorical question? I gave a fake giggle. “What’s with the gloves? You performing surgery?” I scuttled closer to Jillian as I pressed the towel against my forehead. Jillian had a look I’d never seen before. Confidence.

“Detective Shoner’s due any minute.” I didn’t even convince myself. “Did you want to talk to him about something?”

“Oh, for God’s sake. Can you keep quiet for one damn minute?” a familiar male voice blasted from behind me in the darkness.

Okay. Jillian’s here with some man, she’s wearing gloves, and she’s concerned about bloodstains
.

I inched closer to the door. “What’s going on? Did I miss something?”

“No, Meg, you didn’t miss anything. That’s the problem. I wish things could have been different.” Jillian turned to the man in the shadows. “Hon, should I get the dog from the car?”

“Please,” he said.

I grabbed Jillian’s arm, the one holding the flashlight, and aimed it in “hon’s” direction.

Looking straight at me was Van.

He wore all black, like James Bond on a mission. I had a hunch he wasn’t the good spy. I didn’t know what was
going on, but I knew one thing, I had to get the hell out of Dodge. Something was askew, and it wasn’t just my head. Puny Jillian, who stood between me and the kitchen door, couldn’t hold me back.

“Need some help?” I went toward Jillian, but she shoved me back on the banquette. “Sit where I can see you.” To make her point, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a small silver gun.

Van stepped into the candlelight. His shadow flickered up the cupboards and hit the ceiling in Hitchcockian proportions. He gave a loopy grin. “I’ll get Tripod. You watch her.” Then he walked out the kitchen door.

“What’s this about?” I tried to sound stern.

“You’ll find out.”

I tried to get Jillian to relax with small talk, but she just stood there with the gun pointed at me until Van walked in holding a squirming Tripod.

“Where’s his leash?” he asked.

“I just took him for a walk,” I said.

“Well, you’re taking him for another.”

Suddenly it hit me. I’d totally gotten it wrong. “Van, does this have anything to do with Jillian being your half sister?”

“What are you yapping about? Now you’re the delusional one!” Jillian waved the gun in the air.

“No, it’s true. I have proof.”

“That’s laughable. Van and I aren’t related. Though soon enough we will be. Mother didn’t think Van was good enough for me and threw a fit when she found us holding hands. She ordered Van to leave the estate immediately. When I pleaded and begged for her to reconsider and told her I loved him, she told me I could have him over her dead body.”

Van said, “I guess you have to be careful what you wish for, right, darlin’?”

I ignored Van and turned to Jillian. “I’m serious. I have proof. Look on the sofa, at that open letter.”

“Bring it here, love.”

Van passed Jillian the letter and she scanned it with the flashlight. Her face lost what little color it had. “Where did you get this?”

“I found it in the attic, stuffed in that ugly pig creature.”

Jillian reread the letter, mouthing the words.

“Let me see it.” Van held the letter near to the candle and read, while Jillian inched closer to me with her petite revolver.

“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger.”

Van pushed the letter in my face. “This doesn’t say Caroline and my father were having a baby. Caroline and Adam’s father, Stephen Prescott, had a baby.” He looked at Jillian. “Adam’s your half brother.”

I cut in. “That’s what I thought, but it doesn’t make sense.” I turned to Jillian. “Think about it. You said your mother didn’t want the two of
you
together—not you and Adam. Salvatore was blackmailing Caroline for something, possibly an affair she wanted him to keep quiet about, so she paid him off with a priceless painting and a place to live. I have proof in another letter. Maybe Salvatore knew you were his daughter and that’s why he was so hell-bent on keeping Van away from the main house.”

“You’re a nosy bitch,” Van hissed.

“Caroline must have had a fling with your father, and afterward she found out she was pregnant with Jillian. Think about it, Van. You know I’m right.”

Van reread the letter then reeled back like he’d been hit by a bullet from Jillian’s gun.

I took advantage and bolted from the table. I shoved Jillian aside and flung open the door. A whooshing sound
whizzed by me, and my Molly McPherson bowl exploded off the shelf.

Jillian was at my side in two seconds. She rested the warm muzzle of the gun near my temple, her hand shaking. “Sorry, Meg, but you have to listen to Van.”

I bent my head in acquiescence.

“Let’s go,” Van said.

Jillian kept the gun in the small of my back, while her left hand held the flashlight. We took the steps down to the beach. Van followed, dragging Tripod by his collar. Tripod wasn’t trying to attack. He thought these people were family. I wasn’t the only fool.

“No one will believe whatever you’re planning, Jillian. Detective Shoner knows all about your faking PTSD. He knows about Stu Polinski and you too, Van.”

“Stu called and said you were with some poser pretending to be a cop, but not Detective Shoner. You’re bluffing. You didn’t even know I was involved until a few minutes ago,” Van said.

At the bottom of the steps, Jillian collapsed. The flashlight between her knees illuminated a vanquished face. “What are we going . . . to . . . do? We have to kill Detective Shoner . . . we have to . . . and how about the other guy Meg was with?”

Tripod strained to lick her face, but Jillian shoved him away and Tripod teetered on the sand.

“You can’t kill everyone. They’ll go easy on you if you turn yourself in. Your plan is ruined. You can’t marry your half brother.” I got down on my knees and clasped her hands in mine.

“Get away from her,” Van shouted. “Jillian! Get up.”

“Meg’s right. What are we . . . going to . . . do?”

“We have to keep to our plan. Cole needs to be punished
for leaving you. Your mother deserved her fate, even if what Meg says is true. She was a tramp. She treated you . . . us, like crap. I deserve . . . We deserve her inheritance. We deserve to be happy.” Van tugged on Tripod’s collar to keep him still.

“Van, why have Jillian fake PTSD? Why not say Cole was the killer right from the beginning?” I wasn’t stalling; I really wanted to know the answer.

“It was easier to have Jillian play the part of an amnesia patient, like a character in her book. Plus, it was her word against Cole’s. She needed an alibi—you—but you couldn’t let things alone, could you? Jillian hates Cole for the boating accident and leaving her, almost as much as she hated her mother for not letting us be together. I’m the only one who understands her. Right, Jilly?”

Van reminded me of the pictures I’d seen of him in the attic: a child trying to play a man’s role.

Jillian looked at him with vacant eyes.

“When Caroline said we couldn’t be together, the answer was simple,” he said.

“Where do I come in? What do you want with me?”

“When Jillian mentioned you were a junk collector, we thought about the attic. We knew you’d be the ideal person to chance upon a murder scene. You’d witness Jillian’s hysteria and hear her mumble Cole’s name.”

“But I didn’t know she was saying ‘Cole.’”

“Jillian stupidly forgot about your hearing loss.”

Hurt showed in Jillian’s eyes.

“We had to improvise and make sure you saw her being chased in the woods.”

“So you screwed up my Jeep so I would use the Hummer, knowing it could withstand a few love taps from Son of Satan?”

“Yes. Jillian would only agree to my plan if she was securely inside the Hummer.”

“I didn’t even know I’d be taking Jillian out that day.”

“It was perfect, our good fortune. Jillian had planned on asking you to take her to the library, but you made it easy. All she had to do was call Stu from the lighthouse.”

“Not so perfect. You screwed up trying to frame Cole for Jillian’s attempted murder in the pool. The toxicology report said she had only minute traces of drugs in her system.” I lied about the report but was sure about the results.

“No. You screwed up, Meg, by not believing Cole was Caroline’s killer from the beginning.”

“Because of you, Meg, I had to float in that water a long time. I almost drowned for real. Didn’t I, Van? Just like Virginia Woolf.” Jillian convulsed into sobs.

“I told you it was a dumb idea. You and your stupid books.” Van crouched down on the sand next to Jillian. In the flashlight’s beam, the silver of a hypodermic needle sparkled. Van softened his voice and whispered, “Here, Jilly, this will help calm you.”

There was an immediate slump to Jillian’s body. Van had dropped out of medical school, but it seemed he’d learned a thing or two.

I wrenched the gun from Jillian’s hand and threw it into the surf. Van swung his fist and cracked me hard across the cheek. I fell back against a mound of wet sand. A low rumbling filled the air and crescendoed into a full-throttled growl.

Tripod chomped down on Van’s Achilles tendon and Van howled up to a moonless sky.

I tore down the beach, melting into the fog. The advantage was mine because it was my beach. Then I remembered I was headed for Ditch Plains—Van’s surfing beach.

I couldn’t see my hands as I clawed through the mist. So I ran.

And ran.

The rocks got larger the farther east I traveled. I tripped, got up, and tripped again. I was a rat in a maze, but, instead of cheese, all I smelled was fear.

Van called, “Meg, wait, can we talk? I didn’t have anything to do with Caroline’s murder. It was all Jillian. I was trying to help her. Please, we need to sit down and discuss this. I promise I won’t hurt you.”

My mind flashed to the murder scene and I leapt over obstacles like a clumsy rabbit. The sandy beach disappeared and was replaced with mountainous boulders. I climbed over them and, on my descent, my feet hit freezing water. I hurdled over another and then another. I had to be near the Kittinger cottage by now. My only choice was to feel my way across the point where the cliff met the shore. I needed to find steps leading up to someone’s cottage. I groped my way, millimeter by millimeter. I followed the rock wall where my fingers finally latched on to a plank of wood.
Could it be?
Using my hands as shovels, I started my ascent.