Better Homes and Corpses (23 page)

Step one was complete. Then step two. I grasped a railing and made it up two more steps. Then my whole universe fell apart. I tumbled backward, landing on the beach. Hard rocks hit soft flesh. A few turned into a steady stream. For the second time that night, the lights went out.

Only this time they were in my head.

THIRTY-FIVE

A tadpole flitted across my right eyeball. I followed its hypnotic trail and, for a moment, I thought I was snuggled under a down comforter. I blinked against gritty sand that had settled in my eyes and saw a blurred panorama of the sun rising from a still ocean. A distorted face looked down at me.

I screamed.

The face screamed back.

Digger, the owner of the shell shop, stood above me. He wore his rain slicker and hat. Rocks blanketed my torso and arms. I kicked and managed “Help,” in a low thick-tongued voice. “Get the police. Please!”

He nodded and scurried away.

Thank God.

Then he turned and came back.

“What are you doing? Get help!”

Digger reached for a shell that was on my chest. He held it up to the sky.

“Please,” I begged.

He nodded then put his treasure to his ear and walked away.

I understood. Collecting was a sickness. Then, once again, everything went dark.

*   *   *

Doc sat next to me in the back of an ambulance. “Hey, don’t look so worried. I’m gonna be fine.”

“Of course you are. What happened? What were you doing all the way down by the cliffs?”

I must have lost my hearing aids. It took all my strength to keep focused on Doc’s mouth. I whispered, “Call Detective Shoner. I think Jillian’s in danger.”

“You said Jillian was the murderer.”

“Can you lean in closer? Please, I don’t have time to explain. Get Shoner on the phone.”

Seconds later, Doc held the phone to my ear. My arms were useless and each bump in the road was excruciating.

“Detective Shoner, it’s Meg Barrett. I can’t explain, but you’ve got to look for Jillian. I think Van has her somewhere. And do one other thing: get the news out—put it on the radio, TV, Internet, whatever it takes—that I am alive and talking. Also, look for Van on the beach toward the point. I’m sure now that it’s sunrise he’ll be searching for me. Do it, please.”

Doc took the phone. “Detective, this is Doc Heckler. Meg’s had an accident. She was found a mile down the beach from her cottage, unconscious. I think you’d better listen to her. When I get to the hospital, I’ll call you with whatever else I can find out.”

Under Doc’s supervision the paramedics injected a nice
cocktail into my IV. I told Doc about the blackout, the letter, and my flight down the beach.

“So, why are you worried about Jillian?”

“There’s only one way Van can get out of this without being arrested. He’d have to find and kill me and then kill Jillian. He knew you were already privy to my suspicions about Jillian, especially when Stu called him after our visit. If Van killed me and then blamed Jillian, his involvement would never surface. Jillian would take the rap for everything. He’d have to pay Stu off, which wouldn’t be hard. Jillian and Van killed Caroline and pinned the murder on Cole. To cement Cole’s guilt, they staged Jillian’s fake suicide, all so they could get married and live happily ever after on Jillian’s inheritance. Cole wouldn’t get a penny because he’d be serving a life sentence for his mother’s murder and Jillian’s attempted murder. You see, Caroline Spenser found out about Jillian and Van’s relationship and forbade them to see each other. It turns out they’re blood-related. Think of the scandal it would’ve caused.”

“They’re what?”

“Half brother and sister. Salvatore had an affair with Caroline decades ago and she got pregnant with Jillian. Van and Jillian didn’t know anything about it until I told them. Van assumed the reason Caroline went ballistic was because he wasn’t good enough for her daughter, but it turned out to be much more than that.”

“Wow, this is a lot to take in. So Cole and Adam are innocent and Van is holed up someplace with Jillian, waiting to kill her after he kills you?”

“I’m not sure, but I don’t want to take a chance. It’s his only way out.”

“No more talking. Rest. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Tripod?”

“Don’t worry. After we got the call from Digger, I called Barb and she went to your cottage and found Tripod on the beach waiting for you. She took him home with her.”

“Tripod, my hero.”

THIRTY-SIX

Blue: the color of a Montauk sky, clear water, and Cole’s eyes.

Cole held my pinkie finger at the end of an arm-length cast. Things were definitely looking up.

I only had one regret about my stay at Southampton Hospital—I wasn’t a fly on the wall when Van and Jillian were apprehended. Salvatore gave the police the lead they needed to find them, but only after he was convinced his son might try to kill his daughter. The police traced a call Van made to Salvatore from the Memory Motel in Montauk, the same place immortalized in the old Rolling Stones song. An apropos place to stay, seeing as
memory
had been the key to the murder all along.

Jillian was found nearly comatose and sent directly to the psych ward. The crime scene investigators recovered the bullet in my pine breakfront from Jillian’s gun.

I hounded Detective Shoner from my hospital bed about the stolen furniture. Adam finally admitted he and Tara had
taken the furniture in an effort to finance Champagne and Caviar Antiques. Tara was the one who’d gone from auction house to auction house to sell the pieces. She’d kept Adam in line by feigning interest in Cole, playing up the fact Adam had always been jealous of Cole. Cole explained he and Tara had recently met a few times, only to clear up the reason for his leaving East Hampton after the motorcycle accident. To prove his point, he showed no hesitation in having the police charge Adam and Tara with the theft of the furniture. Nice.

First Fidelity Mutual was very happy with our sleuthing.

Cole said he felt bad about accusing his mother and Stephen Prescott of having an affair and regretted all the lost years. Apparently, Salvatore said his tryst with Caroline only amounted to a one-nighter. Maybe Caroline had been faithful to Cole’s father from that time on and Stephen Prescott was, as she’d always said, just a friend and confidant.

Adam told Detective Shoner it was he who hid the letter in the warthog after he found it in his father’s things. Adam assumed, like I did, that Jillian was his half sister. He figured the letter might come in handy one day if Jillian ever found out about him pilfering the Spenser antiques.

Mr. and Mrs. Arnold sent flowers, no doubt as a ploy for me to put in a good word with Cole about their future. It didn’t work. Cole made up his mind to sell Seacliff and everything in it.

Michael and Paige even stopped in for a short hospital visit. Paige blatantly flirted with Cole, but Cole made it clear he wasn’t interested.

Van tried to pin everything on Jillian. He said he’d shown up at the cottage to prevent Jillian from hurting me, saying I’d misconstrued the whole evening. Tripod’s bite marks supported my version. The lab report after Jillian’s dip in
the current pool proved she had a very low dose of Brintellix in her system, not enough to make her unconscious.

Salvatore and Dr. Greene also visited me in the hospital. Salvatore was apologetic. He no longer had a twinkle in his gray eyes. He handed me something wrapped in brown paper. “I want you to have it. I can’t stand looking at it.”

It was the Ficherelli painting.

“You knew Jillian was your daughter, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but the kicker is, Van’s not my son. His mother, the actress, just screamed on the phone it was my fault things happened the way they did. Pretty rich, don’t you think?” He scratched at his chin. “Please, I want you to have the painting. It’s the least I can do.”

I protested but, in the end, accepted the painting. I vowed that each time I viewed it, I’d keep my focus on the bracelet under the chair.

Detective Shoner brought Doc along to arrest Stu. They confiscated the hidden cash and jewelry from the book safe, and Stu grudgingly admitted Jillian and Van had hired him to chase Jillian in the woods, tail Cole, and scare me with the monster truck. Debbie, Toby’s daughter, was the go-between used to pass correspondence between Van and Stu. I witnessed the exchange on Ditch Plains Beach the day I saw Van surfing.

Elle and Cole took turns sleeping on the cot in the corner of my hospital room. I preferred nights with the latter but didn’t want to hurt Elle’s feelings.

My father and his new bride stayed in my cottage until I was released from the hospital. I decided to give Sheila a chance because my father seemed happy. That was all we’d ever wanted for each other. In the hospital, I was treated to a plethora of home-cooked meals from Chef Barrett, and
I knew when I got home my freezer would be loaded with gourmet goodies from dear old Dad.

Nurse Freeman assigned herself as my private nurse and protector.

What more could a girl ask for?

*   *   *

The day before I was to be released from the hospital, Elle said, “When you’re up and running again, I have a new assignment with FFM, and I could use your help.”

“Time out. I have enough on my plate.”

“Sorry. Thought you liked to pile it on. Speaking of piling it on, I still can’t believe Adam risked jail for that loser Tara.”

“Me neither. Adam was used to getting every woman he wanted and Tara knew it. She played him like a violin.”

“Yeah, a fake Stradivarius. I’m glad he dumped her. She won’t last six months in the business without her sugar daddy.”

“It’s a shame she won’t be leaving her broom closet at Champagne and Caviar Antiques, unless it’s for a trip to jail. You still think Adam’s a hottie?”

“Naw.” Elle folded a Doris Day–style peignoir set she’d brought me into a suitcase. One I’d never wear.

“You’re not hung up on Detective Shoner, are you?”

“He’s not that bad once you get to know him.” Elle took the remote next to my bed and switched on the television suspended from the ceiling. “Look. It’s Van’s mother, Flora Stevens. I’ve watched this dumb soap for years. I read Flora blames Salvatore for everything that went wrong with her son.”

“She makes a good point but, in reality, she might be the most to blame, for passing Van off as Salvatore’s son.
That’s the reason Caroline Spenser went crazy when she found Jillian and Van together.”

“Yes. Secrets can be killers; just look at the plotlines in these soaps,” Elle said.

“No thanks.”

“Oh my God. Guess what I just thought of! Freshman year in the all-girls’ dorm at Emory, we all watched this soap. Guess what the story line was?”

“What?” I asked, half listening.

“Amnesia.”

“Really?”

“Maureen, Van’s mother’s character, faked amnesia in order to convince her husband she didn’t remember walking in on him in bed with another woman.”

“Why would she do that?”

“She knew he wanted a divorce. Their marriage was on the rocks, so she fainted and claimed amnesia. She pretended to only remember the good times in their marriage. Her husband stayed with her out of guilt.”

“I told Doc the only real amnesia victims are in soap operas. Did I tell you Doc finished reading Jillian’s novel?”

“Wow, how long did that take?”

“A couple of all-nighters. Doc said, if I would have read it, I would have known how screwed up Jillian was about her mother. They’re going to introduce it at her trial. I guess she got her wish to be published.”

*   *   *

I came to a few conclusions while recuperating: First, I’d move on with my life and stop thinking about Michael. Second, I’d invite Cole over and we’d talk before we did anything else.

And finally, no matter what the price, I would buy the Eberhardt cottage.

THIRTY-SEVEN

The bank manager stood when the last paper was collected. “Well, ladies, it looks like the Eberhardt cottage is all yours.”

I reached up and gave the air a Rocky Balboa tug. I was now a true East Ender.

In the bank parking lot, I said, “Thanks for the loan.” I squeezed Elle tight, ignoring the pain in my chest caused by the sharp edges of her brooches.

“No problem. Thank Aunt Mabel for willing me a debt-free life. You have a freakin’ big job ahead of you.”

“I know. It’ll be fun. I’ll do it in stages, and, of course, you’ll help. Won’t you?”

“You know it. What about Cole Spenser? Working on the Eberhardt cottage is quite a commitment. Is he planning to relocate to Montauk?”

“We haven’t really talked about it.”

“Did you ever find out if he has a fiancée in North Carolina?”

“Nope. Never quite got around to that one either.” I walked toward my Jeep.

I flew down Route 27 to my acre of land. I parked, got out, and carried my hedge clippers to the front door. I cut the vines that blocked the front door, then I turned the key. “Honey, I’m home!”

My acquisition of the cottage had gone off without a hitch. Barb didn’t show it to anyone else, and the monsignor didn’t seem to mind. He was happy someone wanted to restore the old cottage, instead of bulldozing it. The project could take decades to complete, but I was up to the task. I’d emptied my bank account, and, with Elle’s help, I was able to swing the twenty-percent down payment. I’d even considered selling the Ficherelli, but instead, I’d keep it for a rainy day. FFM gave me a good deal on the insurance, and I wanted something to remind me of what Salvatore said about the subtle art of misdirection. I’d thought Adam was Caroline’s killer, when I should’ve focused on Van and Jillian.

I’d sublease my cottage during the summer and stay in the Eberhardt/Barrett cottage during its restoration. I’d purposely bought the Eberhardt cottage without knowing what lay behind the locked attic door.

In my pocket were an Allen wrench, a screwdriver, and a bag of keys I found in a kitchen drawer. I patiently tried each key, ready to rip the door off its hinges if necessary.

It wasn’t.

A small brass key fit perfectly.

I rubbed the glass doorknob between my palms like it was a magic ball, turned it, and walked into my future.

The attic was airtight. No holes in the ceiling or broken windows. Just layers and decades of undisturbed dust. Furniture, lamps, oil paintings, china, and other precious junk filled every inch of the space. Nirvana.