The Weekenders (17 page)

“Unfortunately,” Maggy shot back. “You are so totally unfair, it's sick. You're the reason I hardly have any friends at home.”

“The answer is still no,” Riley said. “And we're not going to fight about this, Maggy, because the issue is nonnegotiable. It's been a long, horrible day for both of us. Please don't make it any worse by nagging at me. You can read, watch television, play Words with Friends, whatever. You just can't leave this house tonight. Understand?”

Maggy flung herself face forward onto the bed.

Riley sighed again and started to close the door.

“Bitch.” The word was muffled by the pillow, but still audible.

“I heard that,” Riley said.

“Good.”

*   *   *

Back in the bedroom she'd once shared with Wendell, Riley dug out the notecard Parrish had given her and dialed Sharon Douglas's phone number.

After the third ring, she was ready to disconnect, when a woman's voice answered.

“Hey, don't hang up.” The voice was soft, Southern. “Sorry, I was just walking in the door.”

“Hi, um, Sharon?”

“That's me. And you're Riley? I spoke to your friend Parrish earlier today. She said you might call.”

“Is now a good time to talk?” Riley asked.

“Sure thing. Let me just get to my desk so I can make some notes while we chat,” Sharon said. “But first, let me say how sorry I am about what you're going through.”

“Thanks,” Riley said. “I don't even know where to start, or what I should ask.”

“Parrish gave me the big picture, but I'll need to hear it all from you, of course.”

Riley sat cross-legged on the bed. “I think maybe we'd better talk money first. The thing is—I don't know what kind of state our finances are in. I know this makes me sound incredibly naïve, but Wendell, my husband, late husband, handled our money.”

Sharon's laugh was warm. “Not naïve. Trusting. I know lots of marriages that work that way. Mine did, until it didn't.”

“God, I could kick myself for being so stupid.”

“Listen, Riley. We've never met, but after I talked to your friend, I Googled you. I even watched some of your television segments on YouTube. I can tell you're not a stupid woman. So just cut out that stupid talk, okay?”

“Okay,” Riley said, her voice shaky.

“We can come back to the money part in a little bit,” Sharon said. “Parrish said something about the FBI being involved in all this?”

“I haven't been contacted by the FBI, but yes, a reporter for the NBC affiliate in Raleigh left me a voice mail saying that Wendell was under investigation because of his involvement in a bank failure. Some small community bank down here on the coast.”

“Okay. Did the reporter name the bank?”

“No. Look, Wendell was a developer, not a banker. And our bank is Wells Fargo, the branch in Raleigh.”

“Parrish said your home on Belle Isle was foreclosed on by a bank. Do you know which bank?”

“I didn't pay attention to that part,” Riley admitted. “The foreclosure notice is downstairs in my purse. I can get it and see.”

“Let's just talk first,” Sharon Douglas said. “You had no idea that a foreclosure was imminent?”

“No. Wendell and I had been more or less living apart for the past few months, and I'd told him I wanted a divorce. So, our communication has been pretty minimal. The first I knew about a foreclosure was Friday, when I got to the house and the locks had been changed and I saw the notice tacked to the front door.”

“Brutal,” Sharon said. “This is weird because the law requires you to have been notified in writing—and the foreclosure has to have been published in the legal organ of record in your county.”

“I
never
got any kind of notice,” Riley said heatedly. “But we live in Raleigh. Would the notification have been sent there?”

“Yes. The notice should have been sent to your legal residence of record. And it would have been sent by certified mail. So somebody had to have signed a return notice.”

“Somebody might have, but it wasn't me,” Riley said slowly. “We just sold the house in Raleigh, but I only moved out right before I came down here Friday.”

“Weird. Is there anything else you can tell me?”

Riley stood up and opened her bedroom door, peering down the hallway to make sure she couldn't be overheard. The hallway was empty, and she could hear the muted sound of the downstairs television, where Evelyn was watching
The Good Wife,
another part of her Sunday ritual.

She closed the door and sat back down on the bed.

“The sheriff says Wendell was murdered. I don't … I can't process any of this.”

“Sorry. Look, Riley, do you have access to any of your family's financial records, or your husband's business records?”

“Here? I'm not sure. Wendell had a small office in the village, next to the post office. That is, Belle Isle Enterprises has an office, and since Wendell was the president…”

“If I were you,” Sharon said slowly, “I'd make it my business to take a look around his office.”

“And look for what?” Riley asked. “I thought that's what I was going to talk to you about—about hiring you to help with all this mess.”

“The thing is, Riley? I've only gone into solo practice this year. I just went through a divorce of my own. I'd love to help you out—this case is intriguing as hell. But the more we talk, the more I realize this isn't something that's going to be solved by filing some quick motions in the courthouse down there. I think there's something really fishy going on. But unless you can guarantee that you can pay me a retainer, this is as far as I can go. I just can't afford to take on a pro bono case like yours right now.”

“Oh.” The single syllable hung in the air.

“I hate, hate, hate this,” Sharon said. “Let's do this. See if you can get your hands on your financial records. Check the filings at the courthouse down there, to see if your husband has been named as a defendant in any civil or criminal cases. Maybe—just maybe, if you do most of the legwork, I'll be able to help you out a little. Does that make sense?”

“I guess,” Riley said, her voice meek.

“Call me when you have more facts, okay? And Riley?”

“Yes?”

“If the FBI does come calling, just play dumb. Got it?”

“Dumb I can do,” Riley said bitterly.

*   *   *

An hour later, Riley tiptoed barefoot down the stairs, tennis shoes in hand, but the third step from the bottom—her old teenage nemesis—gave her away with an undeniable squeak.

“Who's there?” Evelyn called out.

Damn it! How many times had that creaky stair tread stood between her and freedom?

“It's just me, Mama,” Riley answered.

Evelyn popped around the corner from the den. She was dressed for bed in her monogrammed rose satin pajamas, with her hair swathed in a silk scarf and her face coated with her favorite Lancôme wrinkle cream.

She eyed her daughter's ensemble with suspicion—shorts, T-shirt, and a UNC baseball cap. “Where are you going this time of night?”

“Parrish called and wants me to come over for a glass of wine. Don't wait up for me, okay?”

Evelyn frowned and glanced upward. She lowered her voice. “I don't like the idea of you running around by yourself this time of night. Do I need to remind you there's a murderer somewhere out there? I mean, why can't Parrish come over here?”

“No, Mama, you don't need to remind me that somebody killed my husband,” Riley snapped. “Anyway, Parrish promised Ed she'd stick close to the house because her cat's been sick.”

It was alarming, really, how quickly and easily she slid back into the habit of lying to her mother. Maybe there was something about sleeping here at Shutters, in her old bedroom. The next thing she knew she'd be stealing money from her mother's purse again to buy dime bags from the sketchy guys who gassed up boats down at the marina.

Evelyn shook her head, lips pursed in silent disapproval.

“Anyway,” Riley said, “the sheriff told me he's sure whoever did this is long gone. If it makes you feel any better, I'll call you when I'm heading home. All right?”

Before Evelyn could voice any more protest, Riley gave her a quick peck on the cheek and hurried out the back door.

*   *   *

Palm fronds and low-hanging branches brushed against the side of her mother's golf cart as she bumped along the road in the growing darkness. Moths batted against the cart's headlights, and she could hear the soft calls of mourning doves echoing from the treetops. When an armadillo suddenly scuttled across the path, Riley was so startled she nearly fell off her seat.

Ten minutes later she turned off the main cross-island road and onto Sandy Point Lane. A hundred yards down she saw the lights of Whale's Tail, the Godchauxs' house, shining through the tree line.

Riley pulled the cart under the porte cochere and was soon tapping on the home's brass whale-shaped knocker.

Five minutes passed. Riley stepped away from the front portico, found a pebble, and tossed it upward, aiming at the second-floor master bedroom window. It fell far short, actually beaning her on the head.

“I suck,” she muttered. “Hey, Parrish,” she called, through cupped hands. “Open up! It's me!”

A minute later, the sash slid open and Parrish leaned out. “What the hell?”

“Would you please get your ass downstairs and let me in?”

“Why?”

“Just let me in, will you?”

*   *   *

They sat at the table in the kitchen. Parrish, dressed for bed in pajama bottoms and a camisole, sipped a cup of tea while Riley poured herself a glass of Ed's expensive Brunello.

“I talked to your lawyer friend Sharon Douglas,” Riley reported. “She's nice, but she says she can't represent me unless I know I can pay her. And I honestly can't guarantee that I could.”

“That's it? She wouldn't even talk to you?”

“I wouldn't talk to me either, if I were just starting a solo practice after going through a bad divorce.”

“So that's it?”

“She gave me some advice. For one thing, she says I need to find out everything I can about the state of our finances, and the company finances.”

“How do you propose to do that?”

Riley cocked an eyebrow and grinned.

“Oh, shit,” Parrish said, shaking her head. “I know that look. That's the look that got us thrown out of the sorority house our junior year. The same look that made my daddy take away my car for three months after we ran out of gas and money during spring break in Key West senior year.”

“I'm pretty sure Wendell kept all the business papers at his office in the village,” Riley said. “All we have to do is go over there and take a look around. It's not like we'd be breaking and entering. I mean, it's my family business. And I'm Wendell's wife. I mean widow.”

“You don't have a key to the office, do you?” Parrish asked, stirring her tea.

“Not exactly.”

“How
exactly
do you plan to get in?”

“I need to find Wendell's keys. It didn't hit me until tonight, when I was talking to Sharon, that I don't know where his car is. I don't even know where our golf cart is. Wendell kept a separate ring for the island—with keys for the house, the garage, his office, and the golf cart.”

“Maybe the sheriff impounded the golf cart,” Parrish suggested.

“Impounded it where? This island is only three miles long. That cart has got to be here, somewhere.”

“For all you know, the keys were in Wendell's pocket.”

“No. The hospital gave me his stuff before I left. His wallet, his money clip with some soggy twenty-dollar bills. No key chain.”

“What about his phone?”

“Come to think of it, they didn't give me his phone,” Riley said. “Maybe it's on the golf cart. He was always leaving it in one of the cup holders.”

“Or maybe the sheriff has it, or maybe it's at the bottom of the bay.”

“Always the optimist,” Riley said.

“I'm a realist. And you need to be, too,” Parrish said. “Go home and get a good night's sleep. Tuesday, you can go to the courthouse and start figuring things out.”

Riley stared at her. This was not the Parrish who'd been her wingwoman since childhood. That Parrish was reasonable and rational, but she was also the friend Riley always knew would have her back.

“Go to sleep? How? My life has gone completely haywire. I've been locked out of my own home. My husband's been murdered. I need some answers, Parrish. I need to know why. You expect me to just sit back and wait to see what happens next?”

“Yes, I do,” Parrish said. She ran a hand through her reddish hair, and under the light of the chandelier hanging over the table, Riley could see a half inch of gray at the roots. Parrish had scrubbed off her usually flawless makeup, and now Riley also noticed splotchy patches of acne on her cheeks and chin.

“You're not a cop, you know,” Parrish said. “And you're not even an investigative reporter anymore. Even if you could get into Wendell's office, you have no idea what to look for.”

“I'll know it when I see it,” Riley insisted. She stood up. “Are you coming?”

“No.” Parrish shook her head. “Sorry.”

“Me, too.”

*   *   *

Riley steered the cart away from Whale's Tail. The shrubbery on either side of the trail seemed to close in on her. She could smell night-blooming jasmine and something sour. A skunk? An owl hooted from the treetops.

She couldn't believe Parrish had abandoned her. Maybe she was being naïve, believing she could solve this mystery, but shouldn't her best friend have come along—out of sympathy, at the very least?