Better Homes and Corpses (7 page)

EIGHT

I woke to an unseasonably warm March day. Warm enough to remove the top of the Wrangler. I straightened up the cottage, which took about two seconds, and scanned the classifieds for future garage sales. I jotted down the addresses so I could stop by before the sales started. I wasn’t afraid of the
no previews
line found in most ads. I knew from past experience the owners would rather receive a stack of cash than endure the monotonous task of stickering individual items or lugging heavy pieces out to their driveways.

The sun was brilliant and only a few clouds hung over a calm ocean that shimmered like mercury. As I sped down Montauk Highway, I turned up the volume on the radio and chanted aloud to Madonna’s “Papa Don’t Preach.” The vegetable stand on the outskirts of East Hampton had pulled back one section of its plastic tarp, showcasing an assortment of plants: tulips, daffodils, and hyacinths. Good-bye, winter.

I made it to East Hampton in fifteen minutes, my personal best. I left the blacktop lane that led to the Spenser estate and took a gravel road that wove through a forest of pines until I came to a stone house covered in ivy. The house had a thatched roof and window boxes—very Cotswoldy. A lone figure sat under a blue spruce at the side of the house.

I stepped out of the Jeep. “Hi. Sorry. I think I took the wrong road. I’m looking for Seacliff.”

“What do you want with the Spensers?” His accent was unrecognizable, a cross between Julie Andrews and Ricky Ricardo. This was definitely the man I was looking for.

“I’m working there.”

“Ahh.” He scratched the top of his head and motioned for me to take a seat in a chair covered with seagull droppings. His stringy gray hair was held back in a ponytail. “How are they doing at the big house?”

“I suppose they’re okay . . . I mean, from what I’ve seen. It’s only my second day. By the way, I’m Meg Barrett.” I held out my hand.

He extended long, bony fingers. “Exactly what are you doing for the family?”

“I’m assisting in inventorying the contents of Seacliff for the insurance company.”

“You don’t look like an insurance investigator.”

“I’m freelancing, helping a friend.”

“Ahh.” This time he scratched at the stubble on his chin. I knew from reading his bio that he must be in his late sixties, but he looked older.

“My name’s Salvatore.” He stood and flourished his arm in the air like a matador.

“You’re not the
famous
Salvatore?”

Suddenly, dark clouds covered the sun and the din of thunder warned of a rapidly approaching storm.

“Infamous, maybe. Famous, never.” His pale gray eyes twinkled.

“I think I saw your painting of the family at the house.”

“Ahh, one big happy family.”

“They weren’t happy?”

“That’s what Caroline wanted. Have you met Cole Spenser?”

“Briefly.”

“He didn’t pose for the painting. I used some old photos of Cole and my own son as a stand-in. My last painting . . .”

“Your last?” I glanced at his T-shirt. It was covered with bright splotches of paint.

“I’ve changed mediums. Would you care to take a gander?”

Salvatore shuffled as he walked toward the left side of the guesthouse. Lightning ripped through the sky, followed by a snap of thunder. He pushed open a creaky gate and led me into a graveyard of demonic-faced totem poles sprouting regurgitated sea-garbage: barbed wire, fishnets, tin cans, rusted boat parts, even openmouthed fish jaws. He’d given up painting for this?

He looked at me.

“It’s resourceful. I like the way you’re, ah, creating art and recycling at the same time.”

“Can’t you feel the power and majesty of their emotions through their primal expression of dashed hopes and dreams? These could have been happy totems, but they’ve become a channel for the dark underbelly of the ocean. All the twisting, churning under-muck where the bottom-feeders dwell.”

“I . . . suppose you’ve got a point . . . under-muck?”

“Ha! Gotcha! It’s all a bunch of hooey. I sell them at a
gallery in Bridgehampton for two thousand a pop.” Giant drops of rain clinked and clanked against the totem appendages. “Quick, come inside.” He grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the guesthouse with the agility of a twenty-year-old.

He held open a back door and I stepped into a small mudroom. On a coatrack hung a black hooded rain slicker. A pair of black rubber boots stood on top of a wooden bench. I followed Salvatore through a dark hallway that led to the front of the house. We entered a room of understated elegance decorated in shades of cream. There were two easy chairs, a sofa, and an upholstered lounge chair big enough for two, all set atop a white shearling rug.

“Would you like some chai tea to warm you up?” he asked.

“That would be great.” In the corner between two windows was a small painting on an easel. As I walked toward it, I glanced out the front window and saw the outline of my Jeep through the thick sheets of rain. My
topless
Jeep! I charged out the front door, rolled up the windows, and dug out the top from behind the seat. Hail the size of Ping-Pong balls bounced off my hands as I tried to snap on the canvas. When I finally made it back to Salvatore’s front door, he was waiting with a towel.

The clock on the mantel chimed ten and Salvatore passed me a steaming cup of tea. I sipped while he told me about the last great storm to hit the Hamptons. Apparently the junk blown ashore had been the impetus for his totem sculptures.

After the final drop of tea trickled down the back of my throat, I told him it was time to leave.

“Come visit anytime. We could do lunch. There’s a path that leads from the greenhouse to my door. Oh, and keep
a lookout for a handsome, virile man who helps out at Seacliff when needed.”

“You?”

“My son, Vancent.”

“Vincent?”

“No. Vancent. His mother’s idea. She named him after Van Gogh. He’s not too keen on the name either.”

“Okay, I’ll look for him. I’m glad you have someone to watch over you.”

“I’m not lonely. You’re the fifth person this week to check on me, although I have to admit, you’re a lot prettier to look at than that Detective Shoner.”

“Now, you’re the charmer.”

“So you’ve met the guy?”

“Yes. I’m the one who found Ms. Spenser and Jillian.”

“I know.”

Darn.
Salvatore was on to me. “Thanks for the tea and towel.”

“You’d better take the towel with you to dry off your seats. Let’s go out the back door. I’ll loan you an umbrella.”

I followed him to the mudroom. He removed a plaid umbrella with a red Bakelite handle from a brass umbrella stand. “Return it anytime.”

I opened the umbrella and stepped into the deluge.

Salvatore shouted after me, “Will you be able to find the house?”

“I think so.”

“Thought you might!” he shouted through the cavalcade of thunder.

I mopped up the seats then maneuvered the Jeep back toward the road that led to Seacliff. My wipers were no match for the horizontal rain that sluiced the windshield. I felt like a kid in a car wash, only the security of my daddy’s presence
was noticeably missing. Finally, my tires hit smooth blacktop. I was almost at the iron gates when I saw a figure in a raincoat, standing thirty feet in front of me in the middle of the road. I pumped the brake, locked my elbows, and held tight to the steering wheel.

NINE

The Jeep’s rear end fishtailed from left to right and stopped inches from Jillian. She held a tattered umbrella in her right hand like it was Neptune’s trident.

I hopped out and fought my way toward her. I pried the umbrella from her hand. She grabbed on to my wrist and stared straight ahead as if I were invisible. I half led, half dragged her to the passenger side of the Jeep and opened the door. When she didn’t move, I hoisted her onto the seat. Her wet raincoat made sucking noises against the vinyl as she rocked back and forth, much like the morning I found her holding her mother’s body.

I fought my way back through gale-force winds, wrenched open the driver’s-side door, and hopped in. After mopping my face with my sleeve, I took out my hearing aids and cupped my hands around them, waiting for the whistle that assured me there wasn’t water damage, then put them back in. There’s a reason you don’t take showers with your hearing aids. I reached across the gearshift and took hold of both
sides of Jillian’s hood, forcing her to make eye contact. My hands were shaking as much as her teeth were chattering. “Did someone hurt you?”

“Noooo . . .”

“Should I take you to the hospital or call the police?”

Jillian jerked forward. “I’ll be fine.”

“What happened?”

“I came outside for a walk . . .” Her eyes left my face and followed the wipers. Left, right. Right, left.

“Yes. You went outside, then what?” I leaned closer.

“It was so nice, the sun, the warm day, the birds . . . then all of a sudden the storm. There were flashes of silver. I saw someone, so I started running. The lightning scared me. It reminded me of the blade, silver . . . A hand held the blade . . . red . . . walking away . . . away from Mother . . . She was on the floor . . .”

“The storm probably triggered flashbacks like Dr. Greene mentioned.” I squeezed her hand in reassurance. “Was it a man or a woman?”

“I don’t know. I sensed they were strong . . . like a man . . .”

“Are you sure it wasn’t your imagination?”

“I don’t know. Someone was there. I just don’t know.” She sobbed.

“I think we should call Dr. Greene. He’ll know what to do.”

I started the car and we continued up the driveway. I thought I saw a figure on the far side of the pond. Was it the person Jillian thought she’d seen or just a tree trunk come alive in the storm?

I helped Jillian out of the car. She walked zombielike to the front door then grabbed on to the sleeve of my jacket like I was her lifeline. Cole stood in the open doorway with a frown, his hair damp, his boots covered in mud.

“Where’ve you been? What happened?” Cole pulled Jillian inside.

“She had some kind of episode. I almost ran her over.”

“Get out of the rain and take her up to her room. I’ll call Dr. Greene.”

Yes, sir
.

Jillian took my hand as we climbed the stairs.

Based on her side of our dorm room, I expected Jillian’s room to have Marcia Brady décor; instead, it was brothel madam meets Ernest Hemingway. Animal hide rugs coordinated with black and tan print pillows trimmed in gold. There were enough tassels to supply a pre–Mayor Giuliani strip bar. A gauzy canopy hung over a circular-shaped bed, giving the room the air of a sultan’s slave tent. For some reason my thoughts went to the ugly stuffed boar up in the attic. It would fit in nicely here.

Jillian collapsed under the doorway then crawled to her bed. She fumbled for the net opening and positioned herself in the hub. I left her curled like a fetus and went in search of towels.

What I assumed was a bathroom turned out to be Jillian’s closet. It held a double row of beige clothing. On a shelf at the top of the closet was an assortment of bisque dolls dressed in elaborate Victorian costumes. Three were female and one male. The girls, two blonde and one brunette, had perfect ringlets, rosy cheeks, and open mouths showing ivory teeth. The boy had painted brown hair and blue glass eyes. He wore a satin sailor suit with a frilly lace collar. They sat companionably like they were awaiting the E train to the Bronx. Compared to the garish bedroom décor, the dolls seemed more in line with the Jillian I remembered at NYU—pampered, protected, and childlike.

A second door led into a luxurious bathroom with a glass-
enclosed shower and a step-up Jacuzzi. Behind the tub was a sizeable bowed window with an unencumbered view of the garden, the pool, and, ultimately, the ocean. I went to the sink. My reflection in the mirror was beyond scary. I forgot vanity when an old yearning surfaced. In high school, my friends and I made a game out of opening medicine cabinets. You could learn a lot about a person by what they kept in their medicine cabinet. Pill vials of all shapes and sizes filled Jillian’s, many three deep. The drug-packed shelves explained some of her strangeness. If I searched hard enough, I’d probably find a cobalt bottle filled with laudanum, the opium-laced medicine prescribed for Victorian women at the turn of the twentieth century. I remembered Jillian taking what I thought was a handful of vitamins from an unlabeled brown bottle back when we’d been roommates.

“What are you doing?”

I slammed the cabinet door on my hand. “Shit! Damn! Shit! Shit! Shit!” The Detroit in me surfaced. I bounced from one foot to another, holding the fingers of my left hand.

Cole didn’t seem moved. “Sorry I startled you, but I don’t think Jillian needs to be drugged without the directions from her doctor.”

“I wasn’t planning to drug her—I was . . . uh, looking for some Tylenol. I have a headache.”

“Dr. Greene’s on his way. You can get to work now. Ms. Warner’s arrived. She’s in the front salon.”

“I can’t work like this!” My body was crusted with mud and my hair matted into Edward Scissorhands spikes.

“Are you left-handed?”

“No, lucky for you.” I was blown away by his concern.

“Here. I’ll give you something of Jillian’s.” I followed him into the bedroom. He walked to the closet and pulled out a nondescript beige blouse with a Peter Pan collar and a
pair of taupe pants. Jillian remained prone on the bed, oblivious to the swearing and clothes-swapping going on in the background.

“These won’t fit. She must be a size two.”

“I’ll give you something of mine. Stay here. I don’t want to leave her alone.”

The rain had stopped, but the sky was still dark. I sat on the window seat and looked out the window. Cole’s dog was attached to a long chain anchored in the middle of an empty koi pond. He limped in a circle like a giant traveling compass. I had a slight stab of admiration for a man who would befriend a three-legged dog. I was so hypnotized by Tripod’s orbicular path, I flinched when Cole put his hand on my shoulder. He pushed a gray sweatshirt and matching sweatpants against my chest. “Why don’t you use the shower.” He pointed to Jillian’s bathroom door. “I’ll watch her.”

After a two-minute shower, I changed into Cole’s sweats. They were soft and smelled of fabric softener. On the front of the sweatshirt was a drawing of a large antebellum mansion perched on an island surrounded by water. Below the drawing it read:
The Plantation, Oak Island, North Carolina.

I opened the bathroom door ready to face the day, only to come nose to nose, or more like chin to nose, with the diminutive Detective Shoner.

“Whoa, excuse me.” Detective Shoner overplayed a shocked look. Then he glanced at Cole. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

My face heated.

Cole shrugged. “Who called you, Detective?”

Detective Shoner’s squat body was sausaged into an expensive European-cut trench coat. “I’m here on official business. I saw the crazy way the Jeep was parked on the
front walk and rang the bell. No one came, so I opened the door, saw all the muddy footprints, and followed them. Thought something was going on.” He looked over at Jillian on the bed. “Was I right?”

“Jillian had a scare. Got lost in the storm.”

Cole stayed mute.

Detective Shoner walked to the bed and fumbled for the net’s opening.

Jillian squirmed and let out a stifled moan.

“It’s all right, Jillian. It’s me, Detective Shoner. Did someone frighten you? Do you remember anything?”

Jillian sat up and rubbed her fists across her eyes. Here I was, freshly showered, while Jillian resembled a street urchin from a Dickens novel. “No . . . I didn’t see anything. The storm scared me.” She fell back among the pillows.

I went to Jillian. The gauze closed around us like a butterfly net and Detective Shoner and Cole peered in, as if ready for dissection. “Jillian, why don’t you go take a shower. I’ll wait here,” I whispered into her ear.

Just then Dr. Greene came into the room and made a beeline for Jillian. “Ms. Barrett, could you please bring me a glass of water?”

I went into the bathroom, filled a glass, walked back and handed it to Dr. Greene. He took out a bottle of pills from inside his jacket pocket and handed Jillian two large pink ones. Jillian ignored the water and swallowed them dry.

Leaving Jillian with Dr. Greene, I followed Cole and Detective Shoner down the stairs. Cole stopped at a mahogany-paneled door, ushered Detective Shoner in, and closed the door without a backward glance.

I reparked the Jeep at the side of the house, retrieved my briefcase, and went into the front salon. Elle was on the sofa with the insurance photos fanned on her lap.

“Sorry I’m late. I almost ran over Jillian in the storm.”

“I saw the way you were parked. Is she okay? I had a terrible dream last night that someone locked us in the workroom safe and only Caroline Spenser’s killer knew the combination.” She hugged herself and shuddered.

“Jillian’s okay, I guess. Well, not really. Back to your nightmare. How would Caroline’s killer know about your safe?”

“I don’t know, but I’m going to look up the meaning in one of my books. Here, I brought you something.”

Elle handed me a small piece of amethyst. I slipped it into my back pocket.

“Don’t you wanna know what it’s for?”

“I trust you.”

“It will keep you safe . . .”

“Shhh!”

Angry voices came from the adjoining room. I moved next to the connecting door to hear what was being said. A few words were garbled, so I motioned to Elle to be quiet and opened the door a crack so I could read Cole’s and Detective Shoner’s lips. From what I could gather, Detective Shoner was returning some of Caroline’s personal effects. He recited a list of people with access to the estate before Caroline’s murder: Adam, the Arnolds, me, Salvatore and his son, two house cleaners that came three days a week, a grocery delivery boy, and Dr. Greene. Why was I in the third slot
?
Could there be a murderer hidden in such a short list?

“Where were the Arnolds when my mother was killed?” Cole asked.

“It was their usual Friday-night routine to take the train to the city and do the food shopping for the week. They stayed at the town house then returned on Saturday afternoon.”

“I forgot about my mother’s obsession with Grabard’s
Gourmet and the Fulton Fish Market.” Cole seemed more subdued.

“They have their train stubs. They took the afternoon train out of Penn Station. Your mother had a small staff. I’m surprised she didn’t have a full-time security guard.”

“You’d have to talk to Adam or Jillian about that.”

“I talked to Mr. Donovon, your mother’s attorney. He told me you were surprised your mother left both you and Jillian with Spenser Communications and the house. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Personal reasons. I told my mother I didn’t want anything.”

“Maybe your mother didn’t feel Jillian was in the best mental health to carry such a responsibility alone?”

“Jillian’s stronger than you think. Given time, she’ll come out of it. Anything else? I have things to do.”

“Were you on good terms with your mother?”

“We talked on the phone.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“I’ve already told you, seventeen years ago. My father’s funeral.”

“That’s a long time . . .”

“It’s really none of your business.”

“It becomes my business in a murder investigation.”

“You’re not insinuating I had anything to do with my mother’s death, are you?”

Detective Shoner answered him with silence.

“Isn’t this case under Suffolk County jurisdiction, not the town’s?”

“Don’t you worry about jurisdiction. I’d be more worried about a good alibi.”

“I have to get back to my sister. Is there anything else?”

“No, but I want to talk to Meg Barrett before I leave. Where can I find her?”

I shut the door and crossed the room to Elle.

Detective Shoner didn’t use the adjoining door; instead, he entered from the hallway.

“Anything missing?” He looked at me.

“Ms. Warner only received the photos and list yesterday.”

“We had our detectives do an initial search of the house on the day of the murder and couldn’t come up with anything out of the ordinary.” He offered his hand to Elle. “By the way, I’m Detective Shoner. I’m in charge of the investigation. You must be Ms. Warner.”

“Nice to meet you, Detective. Call me Elle.” She shook his small hand.