Better Homes and Corpses (5 page)

When I got back to the cottage, I nestled into the down cushions of the sofa to read my current Victoria Holt book. I’d recently come across a whole collection of Holts at a garage sale in Wainscott. The memory of my teen years spent reading Gothic romances was so strong I purchased all four boxes without haggling over the price. I was rereading the novels in order, starting with
Mistress of Mellyn
, a
Jane Eyre
–type novel I found years ago in my mother’s antique shop after she passed away. That summer, my fourteen-year-old self fantasized the Detroit River was the shoals of Devon and a darkly brooding lord of the manor would sweep down the streets of East Detroit and carry me off on his steed. Of course, in my fantastical universe, I heard everything he whispered into my ear.

*   *   *

It was past midnight by the time I finished the book, formulaic as I remembered, but better written than I would have thought.

It was beach time. I found:

The cold, the changed, perchance the dead, anew

The mourn’d, the loved, the lost,

Too many, yet how few.

Lord Byron. I was a sucker for classical poetry written in the eighteenth and nineteenth century. I had a bookcase full of antique cloth books with ornate gilt spines, the majority of them poetry.

Before I fell asleep, I thought about Patrick Seaton. Such a sad man and such a sad story. One day you have it all. The next, POOF—gone. Just like Caroline Spenser.

SIX

It was a blustery, cold Tuesday when I started out for my first day at Seacliff. I was still groggy from dreams of fixing up the Eberhardt cottage into my fantasy home and Caroline Spenser’s killer holding a knife to my neck. Caroline’s funeral had come and gone and Elle had received the go ahead from the Spensers’ insurance company to begin the inventory process. During the past week, I’d kept busy working on the Kittinger cottage and was successful in rustling up a new client for the month of April. Jillian had called me every day, asking when I would be at the estate. She sounded close to the edge. I had hoped they would have caught her mother’s killer by now, unfortunately, that wasn’t the case. I turned onto Main Street. There was no mistaking what holiday was around the corner. Green three-leaf clovers smothered every storefront in Montauk. I was in the center of town when Doc Heckler walked out of Paddy’s with a cup of coffee. I stopped the Jeep, rolled down the
passenger window, and beeped the horn. Doc sprinted over like a youngster. Not a drop of coffee escaped its lid.

He stuck his head in. “Guess who I met up with at Mickey’s Chowder Shack?”

“Who?”

“Detective Shoner.”

Detective Shoner was the short (in stature and patience), well-dressed East Hampton brass who’d interrogated me the morning of Caroline Spenser’s murder. “Hop in.”

He got in and rubbed his hands together. “It’s freezing in here. Colder than outside.”

“The heat doesn’t kick in until I reach my destination. So, what did the detective want? I didn’t know you knew each other.”

“It was our first meeting. Actually, Detective Shoner wanted to know about you.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Nothin’ much. He asked about your past in New York City. I told him to mind his own damn business.”

“Doc!”

“Well, not exactly, but he did get my drift.”

“Did he tell you anything about the case?”

“A little.”

“Doc, don’t get mad. I told Elle I’d help inventory the Spenser house for the insurance company.”

“Not a good idea. Have you talked to your dad?”

I met his eyes. “No. He’s still on his honeymoon.”

Doc’s upper lip started to twitch.

“Look, I can watch over Jillian and get paid at the same time. I found this fantastic cottage I want—I mean, I
need
to buy. It’s perfect.”

“You’re crazy. I won’t allow it.”

“Doc, I love you like an uncle, but I’m thirty-three and can take care of myself. What did Detective Shoner tell you?”

“They found a few things at the crime scene. A piece of black leather and, like I said, no forced entry. Mrs. Spenser didn’t put up a fight, and she had no defensive wounds.”

The whole scene rushed back—all the deep-crimson gore. “Have they figured out what was used to stab her?”

“Not yet.”

“How about the will?”

Doc placed his coffee cup on the dash, shuffled around in his pocket, and took out a spiral notepad. He flipped to the first page. “Brother and sister, Cole and Jillian, share the East Hampton estate and Spenser Communications. The town house in the city was left to the New-York Historical Society. The company shares are worth about sixty million, and then there are all the paintings and antiques.”

“What about Adam Prescott? Does he get anything?”

“The assistant, right? He gets the contents of the Manhattan town house. Apparently, he worked closely with Mrs. Spenser on her acquisitions. She treated him like a second son.”

“Any of them need money?”

“Cole and Jillian had some money from their father, Charles Spenser, but most of it went to Caroline. Cole renounced his inheritance and Detective Shoner told me it reverted back to his mother’s estate.”

I grabbed Doc’s coffee and took a sip, wishing I’d worn gloves. “I’m sure the contents of the town house would fetch a good chunk of change for Adam. When did Cole get into town?”

“Friday night.” He looked through his notes. “A ten thirty United flight from Charlotte. He checked into the Marquis
around midnight. His dog spent the night at a nearby pet motel in Times Square.”

“Wow. Thanks for all the intel.”

Doc frowned and put his hand on the door handle.

“You’ve gotta pound below the lock then throw your shoulder into it. She’s a little temperamental.” I reached over and gave the door a good wallop.

Doc stepped from the Jeep. “You’re never to go to the Spenser estate without checking in with me first. Any time you feel compromised or unsafe, you must call.”

“Yes, Boss.”

“And bring your car over next weekend. I’ll check out the heater and the door.” Spoken like a true ex-Detroiter. Automobiles-R-Us.

I put the car in drive. He’d be royally pissed if he knew I was headed to Seacliff.
Next time
,
Doc.

There wasn’t a single vehicle parked on the grounds, except an East Hampton Town patrol car.

This time, the caretaker, Mr. Arnold, answered the door. “We’ve been expectin’ ya.” Mr. Arnold was the opposite of his wife. Small in stature and his voice was so high-pitched, he sounded like a schoolgirl.

He ushered me into the front salon. Floor-to-ceiling velvet drapes gave the room a padded look. Too heavy, in my opinion. “Let me know if you need somethin’, Missy.” He bent forward with a funny bow and walked out.

The carved mantel over the fireplace showed a frieze of soldiers in the midst of a bloody battle. Above the mantel hung a large family portrait. I recognized Caroline Spenser, Jillian, and finally Cole. There was also a man, who I assumed was Caroline’s deceased husband, Charles Spenser. Cole appeared to be in his late teens. The artist captured a restless, trapped-animal look in his eyes. The painting was kindest to
Jillian. She had peachy-pink skin and a confident look. It was as if the artist was saying,
See, Jillian? This is how you could be
. Caroline and Charles Spenser looked good together, cut of the same cloth—aristocratic and self-assured. The signature in the bottom right-hand corner was “Salvatore,” no last name.

I jumped when warm breath hit the back of my neck.

“Those were happy days . . .” Jillian said.

I faced her. “How are you holding up?”

“I don’t remember anything, even though everyone keeps asking.”

“I wasn’t. I’m really concerned about how
you
are?”

“Sorry. You’ve been so nice through all this. It’s just there’s so much pressure for me to remember things. Detective Shoner comes to see me almost every day.” Jillian slumped into a silk taffeta chair and anchored her feet in the thick pile of the Aubusson rug.

“It must be so hard.”

“I want to remember, but I’m afraid . . .”

“Of what?”
Duh, Meg. The killer, of course.

“I don’t know . . . It’s like a curtain’s dropped, black and heavy. Oh, Momma, poor Momma!”

I walked over and put my hand on her shoulder. I almost envied her memory loss. It would be years before I erased the murder scene from my mind. “Maybe it’s better if you don’t remember. I hope you don’t mind that I’m helping Ms. Warner inventory the estate.”

“No. I told you, I’m glad you’re going to be here. I want to know if anything was stolen. Why else would someone do what they did?”

Good question.
“Is Ms. Warner here?”

“She said I should call her Elle. She was here earlier. I told her to start with the fourth-floor attic and work her way
down.” Her voice quivered. “Mother put ugly gifts up there that she’d bring down to display whenever the gift-giver came to visit. Cole, Adam, and I used to play up there when we were children.”

“What fun. Did Elle leave any instructions?”

“There’s a note on the hall table, and a camera.”

“Well, I’ll get to work. You should rest.”

Jillian shrugged. “I’m happy you’ll be here . . . It’s lonely.”

I felt bad leaving her, but I’d make time later after I got some work done and finally checked out the attic.

As Jillian said, a note explaining where Elle had left off was in the hall. Also in Elle’s note was a warning to “Beware of the pig creature.”
Pig creature?
I slung the strap of the camera over my shoulder and moved toward the staircase. As I lifted my foot to take the first step, Adam emerged from the back hallway.

“Meg, wait. I need to talk to you.” Adam offered a half smile. “We appreciate what you did for Jillian. It couldn’t have been easy. I don’t know what you saw, but I gather it wasn’t pretty?”

“I didn’t do anything. In fact, I wish I could have done more.” I took another step.

“I know the police questioned you, but I want you to know Caroline wasn’t just my employer. She was also my mentor, and I won’t rest until we find out who did this.”

I turned. “Do you have any theories on who that might be?”

“No, but I’m sure everything will become clear as soon as Jillian’s memory returns.” He took his fingers and made furrows in his light brown hair. “If you or Ms. Warner find anything missing, please make sure to let me know. I wouldn’t want to upset Jillian any more than she is.”

“Maybe if robbery was the motive for her mother’s death, she’d be less anxious.”

“I see you’ve already formed the opinion the murderer was someone close to Caroline.”

“I haven’t formed any opinions . . .”

“I suppose that’s what we’re all thinking. I know that detective sure is. Let me know if you need anything. Here, take my card.”

His business card had a family crest of intertwining dragon necks with a
P
in the center;
Adam Prescott
was printed in raised gold calligraphy with a phone number.

“I’ll be going back and forth to the city so you can call my cell if anything comes up. Where are you starting?”

“The attic.”

He moved closer. “Let me help you.” He reached for the camera strap and yanked, pulling me with it. I caught myself, but the camera slid off my shoulder and skidded across the floor. The sound of shattered glass followed as it hit the brass-taloned feet of the hall table. I let out a yelp, not because I was worried about the camera, more about the priceless table.

Jillian bolted into the foyer. “What’s wrong . . . What happened? Oh, your poor camera . . .”

“I’m such a klutz. I promise to replace it.” Adam looked tall and handsome, the opposite of a klutz. He let Jillian scurry to retrieve the camera.

“I’ll call right now and have a new one sent over,” Jillian said.

Adam said, “Maybe Meg should wait until after the camera’s fixed to inventory the attic.”

“I’ll be fine. I’ll just do a written inventory and videotape the rest later.”

Adam acted as if he wanted to say more, then he turned and escorted Jillian back into the other room.

*   *   *

It wasn’t the attic of my dreams; definitely not one where Nancy Drew might find clues in an old humpback trunk. It was as Jillian described: filled with dreadful artifacts that belonged hidden under dusty sheets.

The space itself was lovely. Light pine floorboards, eight six-paned windows in the front and back, and a triangular window on either end under the V shape of the roof. Each item in the room had either a hangtag or a label that specified where the item came from, with a date. This verified Jillian’s claim that Caroline Spenser pulled items from the attic when the gift-giver came to visit. The tags made it easy for her to remember who gave what and when.

Against the east wall there was a hideous, stuffed pig-boar-warthog-type thing. It had yellowed tusks and filmy eyes; its hide was worn into shiny patches. Elle’s dreaded “pig creature.” Jillian had mentioned she’d played up here as an adolescent. Perhaps the attic had been the cause of Jillian’s inherent strangeness. Who had dared give such a thing to Caroline Spenser? I sidled over to the creature but was disappointed there wasn’t a tag with a date or origin. Maybe if I found the gift-giver, I’d find Caroline’s killer?

I chose a black lacquered desk in the center of the room as home base. The poor thing was trying to pass for Deco. It had a sticker from the long-closed B. Altman Department Store—a gift from Cousin Mildred. The air was thick with dust spores and heat. I shed my turtleneck and worked in my camisole. I’d list all the objects, then put an asterisk next to anything that had potential value and videotape it later. I removed my hearing aids and put them on the desk,
preferring silence to the occasional buzzing or low hum when they were in.

I measured an Ecuadorian phallic deity, whose member, so to speak, was completely out of proportion to its body size. The heat was making me loopy. I tried the windows at the front of the attic until I successfully freed a sticky brass latch. I rested my forehead against the cold pane and glanced down at the driveway. Dressed in a black leather jacket, hair blown off his face, was Cole Spenser. His head was tilted back and he was looking at me. I let the window drop, crouched down, and chicken-walked back to the desk.

Two minutes later, Cole flung open the attic door. I jumped off my seat, sat back down, and looked at him.

“What are you doing up here? Do you think the killer was looking for”—he picked up the well-endowed idol—“a souvenir?”