Better Homes and Corpses (6 page)

I ignored his leer and put my head down. I pretended to be buried in work. After an awkward silence, I realized he must have said something I’d missed. I gave him a defiant look before I scooped up my hearing aids. “I’m helping Elle Warner with the inventory for First Fidelity Mutual.”

“I realize that. What I want to know is
why
would you start here? There isn’t anything of value in this mess. Start on the first floor. How can you work like this? It must be a hundred degrees.” He removed a lace doily from a two-legged plant stand, shook the dust off, and used it to wipe my dirty cheek.

Damn.
“Listen. I was told to start here. I don’t think I need to follow your directives. Elle Warner, not you, or your family, hired me. As for the temperature, in case you didn’t learn this in grade school, heat rises.”

Cole draped his leather jacket on top of a wobbly dress mannequin. He walked to a front window and pushed it
up with ease, using a yardstick to keep it open. “Yes, heat rises, but it’s also thirty degrees outside.” He moved to the other side of the room. “Cross-ventilation might solve your little problem.”

A breeze wafted in immediately. I blew the bangs up from my forehead and gave him a quick appraisal. He exuded a paradox of auras—sensual lips and changeable eyes. I could picture him in a magazine ad, shirtless, barefoot, wearing only jeans with the top button undone. When I transposed myself in the place of a sultry model mounting him, my cheeks flushed with heat.

Cole looked down at me. “Finish here. You can start downstairs tomorrow. I’ll have a word with Ms. Warner.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.” He turned and walked out the attic door.

I shivered and put on my turtleneck. I continued cataloging until long shadows gave way to dusk then called it quits. I didn’t think there was anything of value in the attic. I’d come across only two things of importance: a shell-shaped Majolica ewer with creepy bugs on lily pads and an old Royal Doulton character jug in the guise of Mephistopheles, king of the underworld. Along with the ewer and character jug, there were a few pieces of Indian pottery and a rusty, lanceless knight in armor. I listed them as numbers 96, 97, and 98 on Elle’s list.

There was only one part of the attic I hadn’t inspected—a small recessed area next to the pig creature. I deduced it was a warthog because of its tusks. I walked to a black lacquered screen, one more Deco wannabe, and bent down to read the attached tag. Another gift from Aunt Mildred. Behind the screen, a white sheet puddled on the floor. I folded the screen, leaned it against the wall, and tugged on the sheet magician-style. Abracadabra! I exposed an
exquisite mahogany bookcase with carved seashell flourishes and a satiny finish.

It looked old. Real old. I wondered why it was hidden in the back of an attic filled with junk. I snapped a grainy photo with my prehistoric cell phone and jotted down a detailed description for Elle. I replaced the sheet, put the screen back in front of the bookcase, and closed the windows.

I felt the knight’s sightless eyes boring into my back as I moved toward the staircase and jumped like a sissy when I saw Cole’s jacket hanging like a specter in the gloom. I grabbed the jacket with my free hand and held it under my arm, but as I struggled with the doorknob, something slipped from the jacket pocket and slid to the floor. On all fours, I felt around until my hand closed on a Swiss Army knife. It was etched with initials impossible to decipher in the weak light. It looked like a deluxe model, with a can opener, file and even a miniature saw. I stuck it back in Cole’s jacket pocket and made my way downstairs. Before I reached the bottom of the last staircase, I looked around to make sure the coast was clear then stuck my nose into the collar of Cole’s jacket and inhaled the earthy scent.

When I reached the foyer, a bag with a logo from an East Hampton camera shop stood on the hall table. Inside was a new camera. Apparently things were that simple when you had bazillions of dollars at your disposal. I folded the jacket and placed it on a rush-seat bench, noticing a piece of ripped leather under the pocket that held the knife. Doc’s words came back to me about the missing double-edged weapon and the piece of leather found at the murder scene. I grabbed my things and stepped out the front door.

The temperature had fallen twenty degrees since I’d entered the house. The tan Mercedes SUV was parked in the drive, along with an East Hampton Town patrol car and
Cole’s Harley. The officer in the car gave me a slight nod of farewell—either that or he was dozing.

Just as I put my key in the Jeep’s door, Cole appeared.

“Did you finish?” He stood coatless, icy smoke escaping his pouty lips. I should tell him his jacket, knife and all, was inside, but something stopped me. It felt good to make him suffer in the frigid air; payback for his being rude to me in the attic. I pushed away the vision of me sniffing his jacket. “Yes, but part of it still needs to be videotaped.”

“Was I right about there being nothing of value?” He folded his arms across his chest.

“Yep, guess you were.” I wouldn’t share my find of the antique bookcase until Elle had had time to peruse the insurance documents.

Cole put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. I raised my fist to punch him just as a wolf bounded in our direction—a wolf with three legs. It jumped up and pressed a lone front paw onto my throat.

“Tripod, get down!”

“It’s okay. He seems harmless.” The dog was huge, like the spawn of a golden retriever and a St. Bernard. I became his personal lollipop as he lapped at my cheek.

Cole almost smiled then threw me a quick nod of dismissal. “You be careful. Come on, Tripod.”

Be careful. Careful of what? Bad seafood, cheating exes—him?

SEVEN

I took a detour west and entered the village of Bridgehampton. I was dying to check out the antique shop Barb had mentioned Cole’s ex-sweetheart, and my competition at yard sales, owned.

Bridgehampton was set up much like her big sister, East Hampton, only there was a slightly higher ratio of art galleries and antique shops and a lower ratio of clothing and jewelry stores. The prices were still the same—outrageous. But I wasn’t complaining. Occasionally when I came across a precious find at a sale, I would sell it to one of the Bridgehampton store owners and they in turn would sell it to a wealthy customer. I even have a celebrity client (I’m not naming names) who collects antique holy water bottles. Hard to find, but I’m rewarded handsomely. And he’s a sweetheart. Nothing like his bad-boy Hamptons rep.

Champagne and Caviar Antiques was situated in the middle of town. The shop was a small New England saltbox set back from Main Street. A red door separated two
display windows, and in each window was a chandelier with hundreds of hanging prisms. Too much eye candy. A sign gave the store hours:
BY CHANCE OR APPOINTMENT
. I turned the knob and guessed it was chance.

I walked into one large room. Tara was in the back, pandering to an elderly client and his young trophy wife. All three held champagne flutes. Tara seemed the ever-perfect
Town & Country
poster girl in her Chanel suit and gold-and-diamond-encrusted jewelry. Unlike Adam’s mother’s, Tara’s Chanel was this season’s and her jewelry the real thing. She barely glanced my way as I toured the store.

Everything in the shop was gaudy to the third degree. Tara must’ve taken a tube of Grecian Gold Rub’nBuff from the craft store and smeared it on every available surface. Ivory tags attached to grosgrain ribbons were strategically turned facedown to hide their astronomical prices.

“You’vegottabekiddingme-achoo!” I said into my hand when I saw
$600
written in gold on an obviously 1960s tea table—antique, it wasn’t.

Tara and the couple in the back turned my way.

I tossed them a wave. “Sorry, trying to hold back a sneeze.” They backed off as if I’d said,
Sorry, tiny case of tuberculosis
.

A director’s spotlight focused on a mahogany tall clock set upon a rectangular platform. No price tag hung from a ribbon. I walked over and admired the carved detail and ran my hand over the smooth wood. If I wasn’t mistaken, this was an exceptional piece of furniture, and didn’t belong with the overpriced junk that surrounded it. I got out my cell phone and snapped a quick photo. I didn’t have to worry about a flash because my cell didn’t have one.

Next to the tall clock was an alcove with a curtain. While Tara was busy serving a tray of caviar canapés to Mr. and
Mrs. Gullible, I inched closer to the curtain and stuck my head in. A room the size of a broom closet held a single bed, a microwave on a TV tray, and a portable rack crammed with women’s clothing. It seemed Tara’s overpriced antique shop was also her home sweet home. Barb’s gossip must be true: Tara hadn’t fared too well in her last divorce settlement.
Aww.

A cold stream of air from the front door feathered its way around my ankles. I swiped the curtain closed and turned to face Tara.

“Can I help you with something?” Her plastered-on smile faded.

“Hi. It’s Tara, right? Barb Moss introduced us last summer.”

“Hmm, did she?”

“I think we both frequent the same garage sales.”

“I don’t make a habit of frequenting
garage
sales. I do my collecting at fine estate sales or through my exclusive connections in Manhattan.”

“Thought you sold online.” I rifled through my purse until I found her business card.
Touché!

Tara handed me back the card. It was the same card she’d given me back when we were fighting over the curtains.

“Were you interested in something or just browsing?”

“That’s a fantastic clock.” I pointed. “What are you asking for it?”

“I think it might be a little above your means.” She put a firm hand on my shoulder and nudged me toward the door.

“I think I can decide that for myself.”

“Hundred-and-twenty thousand. It’s a Dominy. Still interested?”

“I’ll think about it.”
Dominy?

“Sure you will. I was about to close up and head home.”

Yeah, right,
home
—a fifteen-foot closet.
I searched for a displeasing feature on her face but couldn’t find one.

I sat in the Jeep and watched as Tara put the
CLOSED
sign in the window. The lights in the shop dimmed. A figure emerged from the side of the building. Bright orange hair glowed fluorescent under the streetlamp. Adam’s mother, Frances Prescott Hughes, put a key in the shop door and walked in. I decided to wait.

A few minutes later Tara wheeled out a hand truck carrying the $120,000 tall clock. Frances and Tara loaded it into the back end of the Mercedes SUV that I’d seen parked at the Spenser estate. I crouched down and waited until Tara went back into the shop and Frances drove away. What were Adam’s mother and Cole’s old girlfriend doing sneaking around in the dark with a possibly rare piece of furniture? A mystery was a-brewin’.

*   *   *

I settled at my desk with a grilled sandwich of Cacio di Bosco al Tartufo, Il Forteto, sheep’s sweet milk cheese with truffles, from a nearby shop. I’d heard about the cheese on TV from a famous chef who broadcasted her show from her home in the Hamptons. I was big on things that didn’t require much cooking. My father was the gourmet home chef in our family. He was always e-mailing me recipes spelled out in painstaking detail. And he’d even offered to pay for cooking lessons. I felt bad, but I just didn’t have the patience to cut, dice, and roll. However, give me a hopeless piece of furniture and I could spend weeks planning and months refurbishing it.

On my way back from Bridgehampton, I had stopped at the Montauk Library to unearth some dirt on the Spenser clan. When I’d escaped Manhattan, I’d left behind the
computer I shared with Michael—choosing the enlightened, wimpy path of least resistance. I should have taken the darkened path of sweet revenge and stripped the penthouse bare. At the library I’d printed out everything I could find on the Spensers. I figured it was in my best interest to learn as much as I could about the family. Plus, I was curious about the scandal that separated Caroline Spenser from her only son and wanted to learn more about Tara and Adam’s connection to the Spenser family.

Most of the articles were mundane references to social functions attended by the Spensers or money donated to various causes. Two items stuck in my mind. One was a seventeen-year-old article in the
East Hampton Chronicle
, which told of a boating accident involving Jillian and Cole. The article went on to explain Jillian spent a week at Southampton Hospital. The second item had to do with the death of Charles Spenser, Jillian and Cole’s father. He died of a heart attack shortly after the boating accident. Charles Spenser had been worth millions from his family’s company, Spenser Communications; his obituary was seventeen years old. A
Newsday
photo taken at Charles’s gravesite showed a young Adam Prescott holding Caroline Spenser’s hand. An older man who closely resembled Adam stood behind Caroline. Cole hid behind a group of black-attired mourners, his head turned toward his mother, his left hand clenched in a fist. There was no sign of Jillian. Perhaps she’d been home recuperating from the boating accident. And I couldn’t find anything on the motorcycle accident involving Cole and Tara. The Spensers had probably paid off the local paparazzi to keep it hush-hush.

After an hour of poring over my notes, I had a sense of the lives the Spenser family led, with one exception—Cole’s.
There was barely any mention of him. Jillian was the same in every photo, hovering at the edge of a dance floor, looking ill at ease, toting either a champagne flute or wineglass, dressed in her usual nondescript clothing.

The most recent society photos featured Adam and Caroline at A-list social functions and important auctions. They seemed cozy in front of the camera.

There was one article about Cole from a North Carolina weekly, the
Brunswick Light.

TALES AROUND TOWN BY BRENNA

Our very own Mary Ann Webber may be the next bride to walk down the aisle! A little bird told us that Mary Ann, owner of the Sunset Flower Shop, was seen accepting a small gift at a comfy table for two at the Captain’s Inn from local Cole Spenser. Rumor has it the lucky lady received a three-and-a-half-carat emerald-cut diamond, housed in a robin’s-egg-blue-and-white ring box. Dare we say Tiffany? We wish the couple all the best!

I wasn’t as surprised by the engagement as I was by the fact Cole had enough money to buy an outrageous ring from Tiffany. Doc told me when Cole left New York, he renounced his inheritance. I jotted down a note to do a search of all the local North Carolina papers to see if there was anything more to be found on this self-exiled family member. Or was “self” the right word? There was also a newspaper blurb about the resident artist who lived in a guesthouse on the Spenser grounds. Salvatore’s bio in
Artist’s Monthly
made him out to be the next Picasso.

SALVATORE—MODERN IMPRESSIONIST

Born in Lisbon, Portugal, of poor grape pickers, Salvatore studied in Paris and spent his apprenticeship repairing paintings in the Louvre. In 1975 he moved to America and became known as the Hamptons’ “diamond in the rough.” He is famous for his avant-garde art and notorious for being temperamental with his models (male and female) while living a hermit-like existence in the guesthouse of Charles Spenser’s, of Spenser Communications, East Hampton estate. Salvatore promises to be a modern visionary.

I doubted Salvatore was much of a visionary because the article was thirty-five years old and I’d never heard of him. It must be his signature on the bottom of the family portrait at Seacliff.