Better Homes and Corpses (12 page)

When I was small, my father worked the graveyard shift on the Detroit PD. On his time off, especially in his drinking years, he hung out with The Boys. My mother wouldn’t sit home and darn his socks. Instead, she bought an old dry cleaning store on Michigan Avenue in Dearborn from the inheritance left by Grammy Pearl and turned it into a thriving antique store. She’d strategically picked the location because it was a mile away from the Henry Ford Museum, knowing the antiques in the multi-acre village and museum weren’t for sale, thus inspiring visitors to drop in on their way home to get their antique fix. She called her shop Past Perfect. Our past was perfect—sparkly, adventurous, and filled with love.

A full-body shiver catapulted me off the lounger. I
moved the chairs back to their original position and reached under and tugged on the chain for more leeway. My hand brushed something soft; fabric was caught between the bottom chair and the cement floor. I gave it a yank and, to my surprise, pulled up a black hooded sweatshirt. My thoughts immediately went to the person chasing Jillian in the woods. I took the jacket and started back to the Spenser estate.

At the lamppost near the bottom of the steps leading to Seacliff, I held up the sweatshirt—it had the same logo as the one Cole had loaned me the day before:
The Plantation, Oak Island, North Carolina
.

Officer Bach stepped out from behind the hurricane fence, his hand on his holster. “You’d better get inside. It’s too late to be wandering the beach in the dark.” Seemed he wasn’t about to miss a thing after being reprimanded by Detective Shoner. “What’s that?” He looked at the sweatshirt. “I’ll take it. It could be evidence. In fact, why don’t you show me where you found it?”

Officer Bach directed his flashlight on the sand. When we reached the cabana, he muttered, “What the heck? I searched this area myself.”

SEVENTEEN

It was dark by the time I walked into my cottage. Safe, but not too sound. I uncorked a bottle of pinot grigio and poured it into an etched crystal Lalique wineglass. I filled a large bowl with Super Fudge Chunk, lit a fire, grabbed the first chapter of Jillian’s epic,
The Coyote at My Door
, and headed upstairs. Earlier, when I’d gotten into the Hummer, Jillian’s novel, the size of the Manhattan Yellow Pages, sat on the passenger seat. I was probably the only one in the twenty-first century who used the yellow pages—actual pages, made from trees. Very un-green of me: the price you pay when you don’t own a computer. Once I received my check from the Kittinger job, I’d put purchasing a computer at the top of my to-do list.

I filled the tub with scalding-hot water, needing to get the chill out of my bones. I placed the chrome caddy holding my treats across the claw-foot tub, lit two candles, and sank my body into the water until I was chin-deep in fragrant suds. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d eaten Super
Fudge Chunk with a dusting of eau de lavender whipped cream.

I read Jillian’s first chapter, which ended with her protagonist jumping off the stern of a fifty-foot sailboat and swimming to save her child. I was floored by her writing style: not one ounce of shy, passive Jillian. Her lead character was strong and confident.

I dressed in a worn flannel nightie, a decades-old gift from Nana Barrett. The nightgown wouldn’t see the trash heap until it disintegrated—my own Velveteen Rabbit.

I went downstairs and moved the desk in front of the fireplace, planning to work on my current design project.

My father had called earlier and left a message on the answering machine. “Hi, hon. We’re back. What’s goin’ on with my lovely daughter? Call us.”

It couldn’t hurt to have someone else’s opinion on Caroline Spenser’s murder, especially if that person was an ex–homicide detective and the smartest man I knew. But, in order to fill him in, I’d first have to organize the facts . . . and the innuendos. The “us” part of his message was hard to get used to. When my father had used the word “us” in the past, it had only included him and me. The first time his new bride, Sheila, and I were introduced, she’d said, “It’s so nice to meet you. You’re even more beautiful than in your pictures. See, God takes away something and gives you back something in return.” I assumed she meant my hearing. Hmm. I’d never looked at it that way, and I never would.

I stared into flames that shape-shifted into eerie faces wearing crowns of scarlet, gold, and blue. I missed my mother so much. What would she have thought of my new Montaukian life? I wiped at my damp cheeks and, instead of pulling out the file of my latest decorating project, I
found a blank spiral notebook and assigned a page to each of the players involved in Caroline Spenser’s murder, including a page for Caroline:

Caroline Spenser
—Had two children, Cole and Jillian. Not the best mother? Had possible affairs with the resident artist and handyman. Buddies with Adam’s father. Had a falling-out with son—hadn’t seen him in seventeen years. Avid antiques and fine art collector. Multimillionaire. Cole and Jillian get everything in Caroline’s will, with the exception of the New York City town house, which goes to charity, and the contents of the town house, which she left to Adam.

Jillian Spenser
—Has amnesia (post-traumatic stress disorder) about the circumstances of her mother’s death. Introverted. Takes drugs. Had some kind of boating accident that affected her in a profound way. Terrible decorating taste. Feel sorry for her.

Cole Spenser
—Left home after boating and motorcycle accidents. Owns knife (used by person chasing Jillian?) and sweatshirt found after Jillian was chased. No known income. Renounced father’s inheritance. Possibly engaged to some Southern belle and he’s Tara’s ex-boyfriend. Too much like the hero in a Gothic novel.

Adam Prescott
—Son of Stephen Prescott (Charles Spenser’s Oxford buddy and Caroline’s friend and advisor) and Frances Prescott Hughes. He was Caroline’s assistant for antiques and art acquisitions. No love lost between him and Cole.

Charles Spenser
—Cole and Jillian’s father, Caroline’s husband. Died seventeen years ago of a heart attack. Spent most of his time in Manhattan.

Stephen Prescott
—Adam’s father. Caroline’s antiques and art advisor. Went to college with Charles Spenser. Divorced from Adam’s mother. Spent a lot of time at the estate. Died five years ago.

Frances Prescott Hughes
—Divorced from Adam’s father. Adam is her only child. Looks like she’s fallen on hard times. Knows Tara. Bought expensive Dominy clock? Obnoxious.

Salvatore (no last name)
—Has lived on the estate for thirty years. In possession of the missing painting. Had possible affair with Caroline. Wants his son, Van, to stay away from the Spensers. Not what he appears to be?

Van
—Childhood friend of Jillian, Cole, and Adam. Has issues with his father, Salvatore. Surfer. Med school dropout. Protective of Jillian.

Frieda Arnold
—Cranky, strong woman, good cook, former army nurse, Jillian’s surrogate mother.

Mr. Arnold
—Had affair with Caroline? Simple-minded. Or is he?

Dr. Greene
—Too perfect? Always there! Replaced Jillian’s prescriptions with placebos.

Tara Gayle
—Sells overpriced junk. Friends with Adam’s mother, Frances? Cole’s old girlfriend. Pretentious, condescending. Hate her!

I never said I was going to be objective.

When I returned my father’s call, I decided not to read him my notes, because when I scanned each name, I realized I was miles from figuring out who the most likely
suspect was. It was a personal attack—perhaps a disgruntled ex-employee or a lover I’d never met? The killer was now after Jillian, so Jillian must have seen the killer’s face the morning of the murder. If the killer was a random stranger, it seemed more plausible he or she wouldn’t stick around the scene of the crime or stalk Jillian. The security alarm was turned off. Did Caroline disarm it, or the killer? If it was the killer, did that mean it was someone who knew the code? I stuck with the theory Caroline was killed by someone she knew. Miss Marple would already have her prime suspect. I was no closer than I’d been days before. It was always who you least suspected in mystery novels. Tripod? In real life, family members performed the majority of crimes of rage.

My father picked up on the first ring. “Why didn’t you tell me you were involved in a murder investigation?” Jeff Barrett had a way of cutting through the fluff and getting right down to the creamy nougat center.

“I was going to tell you. Who spilled the beans? Doc. Of course.”

“He just wanted me to know he’s looking out for you, Megan.” My father was the only one allowed to call me Megan. He used it only when he was trying to be stern. Which never worked because we both knew he was a softie.

I filled him in on the goings-on at Seacliff and even got him to calm down enough to tell him about the cottage I’d found and wanted to buy.

“I wish I had enough greenbacks to bankroll that for you, darling.”

“You’re retired, and you just spent a fortune on your honeymoon. That’s one of the reasons I’m helping Elle: to earn some extra cash.” My father had little contact with multimillionaires. His precinct covered the blue-collar
part of Detroit: low-income residents who made in a year what Caroline Spenser spent on one of her parties. “What did you make for dinner tonight?”

“Goat cheese and tomato crostini, and for the main dish, shrimp and andouille sausage gumbo.”

“Yum.”

“Don’t try to distract me, young lady. Fax me your notes, which I know you have, and I’ll look into things on my end. Don’t let on to Sheila that I’m helping. She’s worried about my blood pressure. Be careful. Love you lots.”

“Back at you!” Sheila was worried about his blood pressure. That used to be my job. I knew involving him in a case to keep his mind occupied was much better than any medication a doctor could order.

I faxed my father the notes I’d promised and started up to bed but then had a change of heart.

On Patrick Seaton’s beach, I found:

In skating over thin ice,

Our safety is our speed.

A wave licked at the words, causing them to blur and appear sinister—like the opening title to an old horror movie. I could interpret the quote from Emerson in two ways: one—get off the ice, or two—find out what I can and then get off the ice. Either way, the key was getting off the ice.

When I got back to the cottage, I nixed reading any more of Jillian’s
The Coyote at My Door
and instead retired to my window seat and opened Patrick Seaton’s book
The Sting of the Sea
. I read until well past midnight.

EIGHTEEN

Friday morning I arrived in East Hampton earlier than expected and stopped at Gleeson’s for a few (dozen) of their legendary cinnamon-sugar doughnuts. I parked in the lot next to Food World and walked up a small alley lined with exorbitantly priced children’s shops. At the end of the lane, like a bad hallucination, was none other than my ex and his ex. Michael and Paige were fifty feet in front of me. Before I could bolt, Paige pointed at me. “Look, Bunny Wabbit!”

Well, that clarified the meaning behind all the stuffed rabbits and Bugs memorabilia in one of Michael’s desk drawers. He’d told me they were his nephew’s—nephew, my arse. I had no recourse but to forge ahead and meet them head-on.

“Michael.”

Michael’s ex-wife (possible current wife?) threw her Cartier-wristwatched arm around his neck like a lasso.

Michael had once been editor-in-chief of a men’s magazine called
Above.
He’d been the perfect figurehead for
The magazine for those who are on top and want to stay on top!
Funny, when I’d found him with his ex-wife Paige,
she’d
been on top.

Paige Whitney’s daddy also owned
Above
magazine. After Paige and Michael divorced, Daddy Whitney took Michael away from
Above
magazine and made him the editor-in-chief of
American Home and Garden
with a substantial pay cut. In fact, I was making more than him as managing editor.

I wondered what would happen now that Paige and Michael were back together.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“Well, Peg,” Paige answered at shouting level (Michael obviously told her about my hearing loss), “we’re airing out Windy Willows and overseeing the servants.”

Michael wore his salesman’s smile and rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet like he had to take a wicked pee.

“Her name is
Meg
,” a male voice said from behind. “And we’re late for breakfast.” Cole Spenser draped a muscled arm around my shoulders. “Right, lover?”

“Umm, yeah, righty-o!”

“Who the hell are you?” Michael finally found his voice.

“Cole Spenser.”

“As in Caroline Spenser and Spenser Communications?” Paige inched closer to Cole.

“Precisely.” Then Cole turned to me. “They’re holding a table for us at Bernadette’s.”

“Yes, right, they are. Bye, Michael. Bye, Mange—I mean, Paige.”

Cole kept his arm around me as we crossed the street.

Every table was taken in Bernadette’s, but Cole put his hand on the small of my back and guided me toward the back of the restaurant.

“Thanks. I owe you one. Is there a back door?” I scanned the restaurant.

“Why don’t you sit and give your ex some time to clear out?”

“How did you know he was my ex?”

“It was obvious by the stricken look on your face—either that or a poison dart was lodged between your shoulder blades. We’re over there.” Cole motioned to a small round table.

“We’re,” as in “we”?

“What’s she doing here?” Tara shouted across all the gray-haired ladies breakfasting.

From Paige to Tara, my bitch radar had failed me again.

“I invited Meg to join us.”

“For God’s sake. Why would you ask an insurance investigator to join us?” Tara’s face collapsed into a pout.

I was surprised she knew I was working at Seacliff. “It’s late. I have to go. Elle’s waiting.” I put my hand on Cole’s arm, then I leaned in and whispered, “Thanks again.” For Tara’s benefit, I gave him a quick kiss on the lips, but it turned out to be more for my benefit. Then I slid against the wall and inched my way toward the EXIT sign.

Mr. Arnold answered the door two seconds after I pushed the button to the intercom. I was scheduled to start inventorying the upper level of the library. Elle had already videotaped everything in the room but wanted me to make sure all the Spensers’ rare books were accounted for and not replaced with forgeries.

The library was magnificent. The wood used in the paneling must have depleted an entire rain forest; the furniture,
floors, and bookshelves gleamed of polished mahogany. A large chandelier hung from the center of the room and glittered over the seating area. Its elegance and light complemented the masculine wood and dark furnishings. Three complete walls, from floor to ceiling, held books.

The books that surrounded me weren’t Victorian poetry in cloth and gilt like I collected. Most of the Spenser books were from the eighteenth century, made with fine leather bindings and marbled boards.

The fourth wall had a fireplace flanked by assorted oil paintings. I was in the midst of drooling over a Cézanne depicting a desk, a vase of flowers, an inkwell, and a sheaf of writing papers, when Jillian, escorted by her sentinel, Mrs. Arnold, entered. It was eleven
A.M.
—my turn to stay with her.

“Hey, Meg, did you have a chance to read any of
The Coyote at My Door
?” Jillian asked.

“Yes. I read the first few chapters.”
More like one because I fell asleep and woke with lines on my cheek from the spirals on her binder.
“They really drew me in.”

“Oh, that’s exciting. I’m sure there’s a lot you’ll want me to change. Feel free to write in the margins.”

I wished she had more confidence. Too bad wealth couldn’t buy self-worth.

“Nope. So far, I haven’t changed a thing.”

Jillian was wearing a ruffle-necked floor-length robe. She settled atop a chaise and quietly went to work reading a copy of
Little Women
by Louisa May Alcott. If I hadn’t been sitting next to a sleek desktop computer, I would’ve sworn I was back in the 1800s. I expected Father March to walk in any minute, limping from an injury in the Civil War.

I left Jillian, took my briefcase, and climbed a circular staircase that led to a balcony overlooking the main floor
of the library. The balcony level housed rare books safely enclosed in glass cases. Each case was climate-controlled to keep the books from becoming too brittle or too moist. A window seat with a view of a formal garden was centered between two bookcases. I stuck my chin over the railing and peered down at Jillian; she gave me a feeble wave and continued with her reading.

There was one particular section on the inventory sheet Elle had given me that held the truly priceless books, those important enough to insure. The majority of the rare books were natural history in origin: eighteenth- to nineteenth-century biological arts and sciences—a worthwhile category to collect, albeit an expensive one, by the look of their purchase prices. As instructed, I removed a disinfectant wipe from my briefcase and cleaned my hands to get rid of any oils that might seep through the white cotton gloves Elle had given me. I went down the list, taking out one book at a time to make sure no one had switched it with a newer edition or false cover. I used two hands to turn the pages and only grabbed each volume by the middle of the spine, not the top or the bottom, again per Elle’s directives. The books on the inventory list were all accounted for, including six volumes from the mid-1800s called
A Monograph of the Trochilidae, or
Family of Humming-Birds
by John Gould. An absolutely amazing collection of books with hand-colored plates. They transported me back to the early days of exploration and discovery, when, instead of going to a search engine to get an image, you had to go out to collect specimens in dangerous locales, draw them on paper, then tint them with watercolor paint. The Gould set was valued at two hundred thousand dollars.

I returned to the main floor of the library and was
admiring a portrait of an elderly Spenser. Jillian was fast asleep, her book open on her lap. Someone tapped my shoulder.

“Yikes!” I turned. “You frightened me.”

“Shhh.” Adam put his finger to my lips and looked over at Jillian.

“I’m glad she’s able to sleep with all that’s going on.”

“I see you’ve grown fond of your charge.”

“We are the same age. I’ve always been fond of Jillian. How about you?”

Adam’s face reddened. “Of course I’m fond of Jillian. She’s like a sister to me.”

“Any news on my Jeep?”

“The oil reservoir was bone-dry. Toby had to overhaul the whole engine. It should be ready tomorrow at the latest.”

“Toby?”

“The owner of the service station we use.”

It seemed Adam included himself as a Spenser. “Maybe it would be more cost-efficient to buy a new car?”

“Don’t worry. We’ll pick up the tab. After all, you’re going out of your way watching over our Jillian.” He flashed a confident smile. “So, what do you think of Caroline’s collection? Have you found anything missing?”

“I really can’t discuss that.”

“How about the items from the town house? Am I allowed to ask if everything’s in order?”

“I think you’d better talk to Ms. Warner or Detective Shoner about that.”

Adam abruptly turned and left the room.

*   *   *

I finished listing the rare books at one o’clock and didn’t find anything missing. A beam of sunshine through the
terrace doors landed on Jillian’s cheek like an illuminated pointer. “Hey, Jillian, why don’t we go for a drive. It would be nice to get out and sample some early spring weather. I’m sure if you asked Mrs. Arnold, she’d pack us a picnic basket.”

Jillian’s eyes clicked open. “Yes, I’d like that.”