The Weekenders (45 page)

“You obviously see something in Nate Milas that I can't see,” Evelyn said with a sniff. “Yes, he's been successful in business, but that hardly makes him suitable for somebody like you. You can call me a snob if you want, but it's the truth and you know it. And have you forgotten how he ruined your debut? I haven't and, no matter what, I'll never forgive him for humiliating our family that way.”

“Okay,” Riley said wearily. “I give up. I do. Unfortunately, I don't have the financial resources at the moment to allow Maggy and me to find a place of our own here on the island. Out of respect for your insane dislike for him, I won't bring Nate around here. But I'm not going to keep our relationship a secret any longer. I'm going to keep seeing Nate, and I'm going to create a new life for my daughter and me.”

“Do as you like,” Evelyn said, carpet-bombing the desktop with Pledge.

“I intend to,” Riley said.

 

54

Riley's cell phone rang, and, when she saw that the caller was Porter Burroughs, she grabbed it. Porter was her longtime agent. The agent she'd been calling and e-mailing for a month. Riley hit the connect button.

“Riley!” Porter's booming voice reflected his roots in shock radio. “How are things at the beach?”

“Oh, you know, sunny and beachy. I've been hoping I'd hear back from you. Getting a little anxious, you know?”

“Yeah, sorry about that. One of my client's contracts expired, and we got involved in a bidding war. Pretty exciting stuff, but also crazy-making. Bottom line is she's gonna be evening anchor at the number-one station in a top-five market. And I'm gonna be one happy son of a bitch when I cash that commission check.”

“How nice for both of you,” Riley said, feeling long-dormant pangs of professional jealousy. At one point in her career, she, too, had aspired to that kind of a career trajectory. Now she'd be happy just to be able to pay her mounting bills.

“Has anything turned up for me?” she asked.

“Honey, you know everybody in the business loves you, right? You've got class, experience, smarts…”

“And a forty-two-year-old face,” Riley said.

“Yeah. Don't take this wrong, but one of my clients down in Florida just flew to Mexico for a little tune-up. Fabulous results. It's like a spa, right? You stay two weeks, get a little R-and-R and some ice packs, and boom! When you come back, you're ten years younger. Only ten thousand dollars. Think about it, okay?”

“I just thought about it. But I don't have ten thousand dollars, Porter, which is why I really need for you to find something for me.”

“Did I say I haven't?”

“Does that mean you have an offer for me?”

“I'm getting to that. You know there's just not a lot out there right now. I do have an assistant line producer opening in Huntsville, Alabama.…”

“Nothing out of state. Remember I told you that?”

“Which is why I'm calling to tell you about a great opportunity. It's right near you, in Durham. That's near you, right?”

“Right,” she said cautiously. “Tell me more.”

“It's a new concept for that market. A lunchtime magazine format, heavy on women's interest. It's an owner-operated ABC affiliate, four times a week…”

“I'll take it,” Riley said. “What's the pay?”

“Welllll, it's not what you're used to making,” Porter said. “But they're building it from the ground up, so I'd say if ratings are okay, we can go back and renegotiate at a later time. The main thing is to get you back on the air and your foot in the door.”

He named a salary so low that Riley was momentarily too stunned to speak. “Porter, I can't survive on that. I'm a single mom now,” she said.

“I thought about that, but we'll get you lined up to do some commercials, endorsements, and some voice work. There's actually a vinyl siding company in town that wants to hire you to do Riley from Raleigh commercials. You'd do live shots, travel around to home shows, that kind of thing. Money's decent. And one of the sponsors for the show is a snazzy local women's boutique, so your wardrobe is comped.”

“All right,” she said finally. “When do they want me to start?”

“Second week in August.”

“Okay, Maggy's school starts back around then, too.”

“I'll send you the contract,” Porter said.

*   *   *

She fixed herself a sandwich and a glass of iced tea and went out on the front porch to have lunch and compile a mental list of all the things she'd need to accomplish as soon as she got home to Raleigh.

It had been an unusually cool and rainy week, and Maggy had been moodier than ever, bored and hostile toward every adult she encountered. Riley was actually grateful she'd gone to town with Annabelle to see a movie. She was grateful too, that Evelyn, who wasn't currently speaking to her, was at her garden club.

She went back to worrying about things she could control.

Job one would be getting all her furniture out of storage, where it had been since selling the St. Mary's house back in May. Job two would be getting moved into the new house.

Riley frowned. She'd agreed to a leaseback agreement with the sellers, who didn't want to vacate the house until their new home was completed. Her agreement was that she'd move in August fifth. That hadn't been much of an issue in May, but now, with starting a new job and a new school, she'd really need to get into the house sooner. She'd have to call her real estate agent to ask if she could speed up the move-in date.

School clothes for Maggy. She'd always gone to public school before, but the new, exclusive, private middle school she was starting required uniforms. Boxy navy blazer with an embroidered crest, pale yellow blouse with Peter Pan collar, gray kilt, navy knee socks, and black-and-white saddle oxfords. Thank God she'd ordered everything back in the spring.

The last item on her list was the one that was the hardest. Leaving Nate. They'd discussed it briefly on the phone during his two-week absence. He'd be in Raleigh and Chapel Hill on business in the fall, but it wasn't the same thing. And she knew most of his focus would be on starting up his projects on Belle Isle. And there was Maggy to think about, too.

Riley looked up when she heard the unusual sound of a car approaching on the driveway that encircled the house. It was a Baldwin County sheriff's cruiser. As soon as it parked she saw that the driver was Craig Schumann, aka Sheriff Shoe, and his companion was Special Agent Aidan Coyle.

She picked up her phone to call Parrish but, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a golf cart right behind the police cruiser. Parrish. This superpower thing of hers was helpful, but super creepy.

The two men turned around to see who was joining them, and Riley saw the sheriff frown when he recognized Parrish come hurrying up the walkway.

*   *   *

The four of them sat around the polished mahogany dining room table, with Parrish's cell phone placed right beside her tumbler of iced tea.

“I hope you're here to tell me you've made some progress on solving my husband's murder,” Riley said.

“We have,” the sheriff said cautiously. “Of course, I'm not at liberty to give you any specifics. But we had some questions we wanted to ask, if that's all right.”

Riley glanced at Parrish for approval.

“Ask away,” Parrish said.

Agent Coyle took a printout of a color snapshot from the inner pocket of his windbreaker and slid it across the table to Riley.

It showed a deeply tanned man with a thick mane of silver hair and a neatly trimmed goatee. He wore a Western-style denim shirt with a bolo tie. The man was laughing and holding a cigarillo between his thumb and forefinger.

“Ever seen this man before?” Agent Coyle asked.

“No,” Riley said.

“You seem pretty sure of that,” the FBI agent said.

“This guy kind of reminds me of Harlan Sanders,” Riley said. “I'd remember if I'd ever seen him.”

Sheriff Shoe wrinkled his forehead. “Harlan Sanders?”

“Colonel Sanders—the Kentucky Fried Chicken founder?” Parrish said. “Yeah, you're right, Riley, he does look like the guy on the chicken bucket.”

“Who is he?” Riley asked.

“That's Samuel Gordon, the Wilmington attorney who set up the dummy corporations for your husband,” Agent Coyle said.

“What kind of law did Samuel Gordon practice?” Parrish asked. “I've been a lawyer in this state for nearly twenty years, and my husband has been practicing for more than thirty years, so we know a lot of lawyers.”

Agent Coyle said, “Our records show he moved to Wilmington in 2002, and set up a solo practice the next year, following admission to the bar.”

“Moved from where?” Parrish asked.

The FBI agent took a notepad from his windbreaker and flipped some pages. “Laurel Springs, Mississippi. He had a law practice there for many years.”

Parrish did the math. “He died at eighty. Which means he moved to this state at the age of sixty-seven and started practicing law here?”

“So?” Sheriff Shoe said.

“So most men that age are retiring,” Parrish said. “They're not picking up and moving to another state and taking that state's bar exam to start all over again. Do you know anything else about this guy?”

“Married and divorced twice, the last time in 1992,” Agent Coyle said. “No children, no survivors other than a distant cousin who hadn't seen him in forty years. One interesting thing, his law license in Mississippi was suspended for a year after a client accused him of commingling funds from an escrow account. The suspension was lifted after a year.”

“I wonder why he moved to Wilmington,” Riley said. “And how he knew Wendell? I mean, Belle Isle Enterprises has a sales office there, but Wendell hadn't spent a lot of time there in the past few years.”

“We don't know how they knew each other, but we know now that they did,” Agent Coyle said. “We searched Mr. Gordon's records and found an agreement signed by Gordon and your husband, stating that all assets of those dummy corporations were actually owned by Belle Isle Enterprises.”

“Maybe Melody Zimmerman was the connection,” Parrish said.

“We talked to her,” Sheriff Shoe said. “And she strongly denies having anything but a strictly professional relationship with Wendell Griggs.”

“She's a liar,” Riley said. “There's a photo on her Facebook page that I can tell was taken from the balcony of my bedroom on Sand Dollar Lane. And I also know from Facebook that her first job was as a clerk in a law office there.”

“But she didn't work for Samuel Gordon. We checked,” the sheriff said.

“Maybe she knew him through some other connection,” Parrish said.

“Okay, I'm still not convinced this lawyer had anything to do with killing Wendell Griggs,” the sheriff said impatiently. “I mean, he was already dead.”

“Then how can we help you today, Sheriff?” Parrish asked.

“Tell me about your brother's relationship with your late husband,” the sheriff said.

“Billy? He and Wendell got along okay, I guess. They weren't best friends, but they weren't enemies either,” Riley said. “But I told you before, Billy is the least violent person I know. He would never…”

“Your brother has an alcohol problem, isn't that correct?”

Riley glanced at Parrish.

“What bearing does that have on Wendell's death?” Parrish asked.

“Do you have any idea of how many violent crimes are committed by people under the influence of drugs or alcohol?”

“Billy's not violent when he drinks. He just gets happy. And sleepy. And he didn't have any reason to kill Wendell,” Riley said.

“Your husband owed him money, correct?”

“Yes. I think Billy invested money in Wendell's hotel project.”

“We looked into your brother's finances. He was basically broke,” the sheriff said. “The money he inherited from your father, that was all gone, right?”

“My brother doesn't discuss his finances with me,” Riley said. “But even if he was destitute, that wouldn't change things. Billy's partner, Scott, is a very successful restaurant designer. They have money. And, as I told you before, neither of them had a reason to kill my husband.”

“That you know about,” the sheriff said. “Where is your brother today, Mrs. Griggs?”

“It's Ms. Nolan. I believe he's working out of state this week. Billy is a jazz musician.”

“And his partner, Scott Moriatakis? He's what you people call a weekender? Comes and goes but works someplace else?”

“Yes. His full-time residence is in New York, but he travels constantly for work. Didn't he tell you this already when you questioned him?”

The sheriff ignored her question. “And your husband owed him money too, because he'd also invested money in the hotel project that fell through?”

This was the first Riley had heard about Scott investing in the Pirate's Point hotel project. “Where did you hear that?”

Riley felt Parrish kick her under the table.

“Scott doesn't discuss his finances with me either,” she said quickly.

“Is he on the island now?” the sheriff asked.

“No. As you said, Scott's mostly a weekender. You have his contact number, correct?”

“Yes,” the sheriff said. “There's one more thing. The Baldwin County Coroner's office is ready to release your husband's remains. Call Cleo Carter at this number. They'll need to know what mortuary you're using.”

He stood up abruptly, ripped a page out of his notepad, and handed it to Riley. “Mrs. Griggs, Mrs. Godchaux, that's all we have now. But we'll be back in touch.”

*   *   *

Riley and Parrish stood on the porch at Shutters, watching the police cruiser roll slowly down the driveway toward the main road.