Reading Up a Storm (8 page)

Detective Watson and Connor McNeil were standing in the parking lot beside their cars, each of them tapping away at their iPhones. When I came running up, Watson suggested we all drive into Nags Head together, but Connor said he had to get back to his office as soon as he'd seen Marlene. I leaped into Connor's car before Watson could object.

If I was stuck with Watson for more than a minute, who knows what secrets I'd spill.

Bertie was right, and I knew it. All I could do was hope I wouldn't be asked a direct question about Stephanie. Not until she had the chance to go to the cops herself.

I should call and let her know what had happened, but I wouldn't be able to do that until I got some time to myself. Stephanie had met Will only once. If I was to keep her confidence as long as possible, I couldn't let on that she had any particular reason to need to know that he had died. Thank heavens for Bertie. She'd sort it all out.

“What did Bertie want?” Connor said.

“Nothing,” I squeaked. I cleared my throat. “I mean, nothing.”

“You're a dreadful liar, Lucy.”

“So my mother always said.” I slid down in my seat. Connor drove a comfortable BMW sports car. At the moment I wasn't feeling at all comfortable. My mother told me I gave out a physical signal when I lied, but she would never tell me precisely what that signal might be.

I could only hope that Detective Watson hadn't picked up on it.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Connor asked.

“What do you do when someone tells you something in deepest confidence, but then you discover that that secret might influence an important legal matter?”

“I guess it depends on how important the matter is. And how much influence the secret has on it,” he said. “I'm sure you know that not informing the authorities about information relevant to a police investigation amounts to withholding evidence. Which is a felony, particularly in a murder case.”

“Who said anything about murder?”

He smiled. “Regardless of the situation, you'll do the right thing, Lucy. I'm here to support you, if you need it.”

I felt the weight lift off my shoulders, if only a fraction. “Thank you, Connor.”

The house Will and Marlene had rented was typical Nags Head beach style. Four stories tall, long and thin, painted a pale peach. Huge windows with baby blue trim were on every level, as well as a jumble of balconies and outdoor staircases. On the second and third levels
small balconies faced the street, occupied by chairs painted to match the color of the window trim. The fourth floor had dormer windows nestled into steep-peaked gables. In place of a front garden, a concrete pad for cars filled the space in front of the double garage that dominated the lower level.

Watson had parked in the street and he was already standing on the top step, pressing the doorbell, when Connor and I arrived. We climbed the steps to stand next to him. Watson alternately leaned on the bell and hammered on the door.

“She might not be in. Do you have her phone number, Connor?” Watson asked.

Connor shook his head. “Only his. Did Will have his phone with him when he was found?”

“Yes.”

“No use then,” Connor said.

“You two stay here. I'm going around back. If she's outside she might not hear the door.” He was halfway down the steps when we heard footsteps and a muffled female voice said, “Who is it?”

“Marlene? It's Connor McNeil. We met yesterday. I'm with Detective Watson of the Nags Head Police. We need to speak with you.”

The door flew open, and Marlene blinked at us through sleepy eyes. She was dressed in a short white silk nightgown trimmed with pink lace and her feet were bare, showing bright red toenails. The skin on her left cheek still carried the impression of a pillow, her hair was a rat's nest, and her face was clean of makeup. “What's the matter? What's going on?”

“May we come in?” Watson said.

She saw Connor and me standing slightly behind him. “Will isn't here. I don't know where he's gone. I'm still in bed.”

“It's you I'm here to see, Marlene,” Watson said.

She said nothing to that but stepped back, and we entered the house. “Would you like a coffee or something?”

“That would be nice. Thank you,” Watson said.

Marlene led the way upstairs to the main level, which was completely open plan. The kitchen was the type of modern kitchen that's so high-tech, it looked as though no one ever cooked anything in it. There were gleaming steel appliances, a marble backsplash, granite countertops, a spotless hardwood floor, red walls, and red accents. Four red leather stools were lined up to the counter separating the kitchen from the living area. A couple of empty wine bottles and a box of crumpled and discarded beer cans were on the floor in a corner, and several dirty glasses were in the sink.

The rich red hardwood flooring extended into the rest of the room, where the furniture consisted of solid wood tables and plush red-and-white couches and chairs. A giant TV filled the wall over the fireplace, and gossip and fashion magazines were stacked on the side tables. The paintings were standard Outer Banks rental: beach scenes of colorful umbrellas and pristine sand, children playing in the surf, sailing boats resting in harbor. The far side of the room, looking east out to sea, was a wall of glass.

“Why don't you have a seat?” Watson said. “Lucy can make the coffee.”

I was tempted to protest, but I decided discretion
was the better part of valor. I had invited myself to come along, after all.

Marlene threw me a look full of questions. I tried to give her an encouraging smile. She slowly lowered herself to perch on the edge of the couch and watched Watson with wide eyes. The detective strolled across the room and stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out. The curtains were pulled back and sunlight streamed into the room. Curious, I followed him, wanting a peek at the view. French doors opened onto a spacious deck with lounge chairs, a dining table with seating for eight, and a grilling area so elaborate it was more of an outdoor kitchen. The deck overlooked a swimming pool, blue water sparkling in the sun; the grass and sand of the dunes; and the ocean beyond. People walked or jogged along the beach and fishermen were setting themselves up for the day.

“Nice,” I said. The house must easily be worth one and a half to two million bucks. Judging by the size and the fact that it was a vacation rental, it probably had six or seven bedrooms and a matching number of bathrooms. Two kitchens maybe, in addition to the outdoor one.

A lot of space for two people. And a lot of money, even at the end of the tourist season.

“Coffee, Lucy?” Watson said.

I scurried back to the kitchen. Connor had taken a seat in a chair next to Marlene.

“Are you going to tell me what this is about?” she asked. Her face had gone pale beneath her tan. “Has something happened to Will?”

Watson turned to face into the room. “First, may I ask your name?”

“Marlene Bergen.”

“Your permanent address?”

She waved a hand, indicating her surroundings. “Until Will buys a place, anyway. He's looking at real estate, but he's very particular.”

“I am sorry, but we have bad news, Ms. Bergen,” Watson said.

“Will? Is he hurt? Has he been in an accident?” She jumped to her feet. “I'll get dressed so you can take me to the hospital.”

I'd started rummaging through the cupboards, most of them as vast an expanse of empty white as Alaskan ice fields, searching for coffee, but I soon gave up, as I doubted anyone wanted a hot drink anyway.

“I'm sorry, Marlene,” Connor said. “But Will's dead.”

“Don't be silly,” she said with a strangled laugh. “He's not dead. He's as healthy as a horse. When I had that cold a couple of weeks ago, he didn't catch as much as a sniffle. He said he never gets sick.”

“Sit down, Marlene, please,” Connor said. She dropped onto the couch.

I sat beside her and took her hand in mine. Her long fingernails were painted the same color as her toes. “It's true, Marlene.”

She turned large round eyes to me. Then she gave her whole body a shake, pulled her hand away, and stood up once again. “In that case, I guess I have some calls to make. Thank you for coming to tell me, Detective. Connor . . . uh . . .”

“Lucy.”

“Where have they taken him?” she said. “I suppose you want me to call and make the arrangements.”

“You're not interested in hearing how he died?” Watson asked.

“I assume the old fool got himself drunk and crashed the car. It was bound to happen sometime. Heavens, I hope he didn't hurt anyone else!”

“Was Mr. Williamson in the habit of driving after drinking?” Watson asked.

“All the time. Said he could handle it.” She lowered her voice into a surprisingly good imitation of Will. “‘Man learned how to drink out in the rigs, don'tcha know. Ha-ha.'” She resumed her own voice. “Silly old bugger.”

Watson gave me a nod. I realized that he was asking me to tell her.

“Marlene,” I said, getting to my feet also. I placed a hand on her shoulder, trying to be comforting. “Will wasn't in any sort of accident. He was murdered.”

“You can't be serious?”

“I'm afraid she's very serious,” Connor said.

“Sit down, please,” Watson said.

Marlene slowly did so. I sat beside her, but didn't take her hand again.

“I've been told you and Mr. Williamson were at the book club at the Lighthouse Library yesterday evening,” Watson said. “Is that correct?”

“He”—Marlene nodded toward Connor—“invited us. It was fun. Lucy was there too.”

“What did you do after that?”

“We went to the Ocean Side Hotel for dinner and a couple of drinks.”

“Did anyone join you?”

She shook her head.

“A man by the name of Ralph Harper spoke to Mr.
Williamson at the library as you were leaving. Did you see him again?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I'm sure.”

“What did you do after your dinner?”

“We drove home. I mean back here. I watched TV for a bit and went to bed.”

“What time was that?” Watson asked.

“Midnight, maybe a little after.”

“Mr. Williamson? What did he do?”

“He got a phone call, shortly after we got home. He went out right after that. I . . . didn't see him come to bed. I don't think he did.” Marlene's eyes began to fill with tears. “Silly old fool.”

“Who was this phone call from?”

“He didn't say. He just said he was going out. I figured he wanted a drink.”

“Was he in the habit of going out for another drink after the two of you came home?”

“Sometimes. He drank a lot, Will did. Sometimes he stayed in and drank in front of the TV or his computer, but he usually liked to find a bar. Losers drink alone, he always said.”

“But you stayed in?”

“I'd had enough and I was tired.”

“You don't know where he went or who he was meeting? Or even if he was meeting anyone?”

“Nope.” She stood up again. I popped to my feet as well, feeling somewhat like a jack-in-the-box. “Do you want me to identify the body? It's not too icky, is it? I should get dressed.”

“I'll take care of that,” Connor said. “The identification, I mean. And no, it's not icky.”

She gave him a big smile. “That is so sweet of you.”

“Did Mr. Williamson take his car when he went out?” Watson asked.

“Probably. It was late, and Will didn't like to walk if he didn't have to.”

“Can we check if it's in the garage?”

“Sure. Come on.” Marlene led the way across the living room and down the steps. A door to the garage was beside the front entrance. She opened it, flicked on a light switch, and we all crowded around to peer inside. I don't think I've ever seen a cleaner or emptier garage. Even the concrete floor looked as though it was polished daily. There was none of the detritus of living: no old suitcases, no gardening tools, no boxes or chests gathering dust. My mom was a fastidious housekeeper (okay, she hired a maid who was a fastidious housekeeper) but even our garage contained the occasional spiderweb and dead fly.

Only one space was occupied in this garage: a tiny, spotlessly clean, bright yellow Smart car. “Is that Mr. Williamson's vehicle?” Watson asked, a note of disbelief in his voice.

“Last night he was driving a Lincoln Navigator,” Connor said.

“That one's mine,” Marlene said. “I needed a little runabout, so Will bought it for me. Cute, isn't it?”

“Very cute,” Watson said dryly. He pulled out his notebook. “I'll need a contact number for you, Ms. Bergen. And I'll have to ask you not to leave Dare County until further notice.”

“I'm not going anywhere. The rent's paid up on this place until the end of the year.”

I couldn't help glancing at Connor. I've never before had to be the one to break the news to someone that their loved one has died, and I guess different people react in different ways. Marlene didn't seem to be too dreadfully upset. I tried to think charitable thoughts. Maybe she was waiting until she was alone to break down.

“Are you and Mr. Williamson married?” Watson asked.

“Nope.”

“Who would be his next of kin then?”

“His wife died a couple of years ago. He has one son. I guess I should call him. His name's Michael.”

Watson handed her a square of paper. “I'll leave you to get dressed and make what phone calls you need to. I will be back to take a full statement from you later, but you can call me at that number if you think of anything.”

“Okay,” she said.

“Can you think of any reason anyone might want Mr. Williamson dead?” Watson asked.