by Lynda Curnyn
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Killer Summer
By
Lynda Curnyn
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Contents
Prologue: Maggie
Prologue: Zoe
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Epilogue
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Praise for Lynda Curnyn’s previous novels
BOMBSHELL
“The hook is the laugh-out-loud humor mixed with just the right amount of Mae West savoir faire and iced with the Carrie Bradshaw insight we all know and love. This one is a page turner in the truest sense of the word.” —link Magazine
“Things like the right touch on personal issues, the allusion to a romantic happy ending and fully realized characters—such as Grace’s wonderful adopted parents and her age-phobic boss ‘Claud-zilla’—make Bombshell an endearing, enjoyable and uplifting read for women of all ages.” —Romantic Times
“This is the writer’s third novel and it’s her best yet. The heroine is sexy, beautiful, smart and likeable. The hero is lovable, lost and handsome. The story is rich with detail that gives you great insight into their characters. A grown-up chick lit story you will want to keep.” — Rendezvous
ENGAGING MEN
“Curnyn delivers another fun and frothy crowd-pleaser.” -Booklist
“This dose of chick lit features entertaining supporting characters and may inspire readers to think about what they really want out of relationships and life.” —Romantic Times
“Engaging Men is a truly funny and thoroughly enjoyable read.”
—Romance Reviews Today
CONFESSIONS OF AN EX-GIRLFRIEND
“First-time novelist Curnyn pens an easy, breezy first novel that’s part Sex and the City with more heart and part Bridget Jones with less booze.‘ —Publishers Weekly
“A diverse cast of engaging, occasionally offbeat characters, the hilarious sayings attributed to them, and a fast-paced style facilitated by Emma’s pithy sound-bite ‘confessions’ add to the fun in a lively Manhattan-set story…” — Library Journal
“Readers will eagerly turn the pages.” —Booklist
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If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
First edition June 2005
KILLER SUMMER
A Red Dress Ink novel
ISBN 0-373-89522-4
© 2005 by Lynda Curnyn.
All rights reserved. The reproduction, transmission or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without written permission. For permission please contact Red Dress Ink, Editorial Office, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario M3B 3K9, Canada.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, incidents and places are the products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real. While the author was inspired in part by actual events, none of the characters in the book is based on an actual person. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and unintentional.
® and TM are trademarks. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and/or other countries.
www.RedDresslnk.com Printed in U.S.A.
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For my brother, Brian
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Acknowledgments
This book was born during one hot summer on Fire Island, and so I must thank my wonderful housemates, for barely batting an eye while I plotted in their midst.
First and foremost, my dear friend Linda Guidi, who convinced me that life is just better at the beach. Thank you for your inspiration, for sharing your knowledge of the leather industry and for the killer title!
My lovable hosts, Jane and Gregg Weisser, who opened their beautiful beach house to me, fed me gourmet meals and even let me walk their dog, Sophie. And outside of the house, the dog and the good eats, all resemblances to real life, purely coincidental.
For helping me keep my facts straight, I’m indebted to Bryan Mechutan, for giving me the scoop on the music business (and for the TLC). Andrew Rauchberg, whose considerable brain I picked regarding the life and times of a law student. Detective Lieutenant Jack Fitzpatrick, Commanding Officer of the Suffolk County Homicide Squad, for patiently answering my questions. Joe Scotto di Carlo, aka Uncle Joe, my favorite garmento, for brainstorming plot ideas about the garment industry. (Any mistakes are mine, of course.)
Many thanks to Sarah Mlynowski, who suggested I put a dead body in this story and who lugged my drafts on airplanes to read. Lisa Sklar, for listening to my ever-changing plot ideas and for lots of emotional support. Robert Clegg, for helping me hash out plot details. Anne Canadeo, for all sorts of writerly advice, but especially the use of earplugs.
My fabulous agent, Laura Dail, whose publishing savvy and outlook eased my transition to the full-time writer’s life.
A huge thank-you (and a big hug) to my wonderful editor, Joan Marlow Golan, who went the extra mile to guide me on my first mystery. Thanks to Anna Cory-Watson, superb editorial assistant. Margaret O’Neill Marbury and everyone at Red Dress Ink for letting me push the boundaries of the genre with this book. And a special thanks to Pam Lawson, for her kind patience and for keeping the production gods at bay.
And as always, lots of love and thanks to my family, especially my mother, for endless support.
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Prologue
Maggie
What a way to spend a Saturday night.
Kismet, Fire Island, 10:00p.m.
I’d always heard that when you die, your whole life flashes before your eyes.
In my case, it was a song. Janis Joplin. Good ol' Janis. She was always there when I needed her. Of course, �
�Freedom’s Just Another Word for Nothing Left to Lose” has a whole new meaning once you’re floating facedown in the tide.
The water was so cold. Even colder now that I had been left alone. But as I learned, just moments before I took my last breath, I’ve always been alone.
Who knew death would make an existentialist out of me?
Kind of ironic that my husband was once a lifeguard. That was when Tom was a teenager spending summers on the shores of North Carolina. He used to brag to everyone in earshot that he had saved seven lives over the course of two summers. Oh, Tom was everybody’s hero. At one time, he was even mine.
But not now. Definitely not now.
Of course, I probably deserved to drown. I wasn’t, after all, the best wife.
God, what a waste. My life. My marriage…
Even my death was a disappointment. Tom once told me that something like three thousand people a year die in drowning incidents. Well, la-di-da. Now I’m a fucking statistic.
I just wished I had some clothes on. I knew there was a reason I never skinny-dipped before. Too many opportunities for humiliation. This was worse than humiliating. It was downright pathetic.
I can just see the headlines now: Lonely Millionaire’s Wife Drowns During Drunken Fifty-Yard Dash. I wasn’t even that drunk. Or swimming. But after ten years of marriage and more than my share of disappointment, I have discovered that nothing is ever what it seems.
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Prologue
Zoe
How I would have spent my summer vacation
There’s nothing worse than being alone on the ferry to Fire Island on a Saturday night. Okay, there is something worse. Being on the ferry to Fire Island with two bags too many when you’re really only going to get one day of beach time. If I even got that, I thought, looking out the window at the dark, overcast sky.
I wasn’t even sure why I had bothered, though I did have some niggling thought that it had a lot to do with the three voice-mail messages I had received from my best friend, Sage.
“At least come out on Saturday morning,” was the first. This in response to my message, declaring that I wouldn’t be done with work until late Friday night. A rather pathetic declaration on my part, considering the financial compensation I was receiving for this particular job. I’m a documentary filmmaker—an award-winning documentary filmmaker, I might add. But before you get too impressed with me, note that the award was received four years ago for a piece on the homeless and that my current film was a digital short for dogsnatchers.com, paid for by a sixty-four-year-old widow who’d had her King Charles spaniel snatched in Washington Square Park. Not the kind of thing PBS will be airing any time soon. Still, it was a job, and since I hadn’t had a job in about three months, I wasn’t about to argue for beach time with the one person I had come across of late who was willing to bankroll me.
“You’re not done yet?” was the second message from Sage. Sage is a sales rep for Edge Leather, which means she has the good fortune of being able to do a job she loves between the hours of 9:00 a.m. and 5:00 p.m. In fact, when I missed our last two beach weekends, she acted like I had committed a federal offense. I suppose she had every right to be offended, seeing as she did put up half the money for my share when I couldn’t come up with the cash.
Okay, so maybe that was the real reason I was on this ferry. It was hard to say no to Sage, which was probably why I’d let her slap down the remaining deposit in the first place. At this point, I wasn’t even sure I needed a day of beach time, much less a summer. After a Saturday spent explaining to Adelaide Gibson why I thought we should edit down the six hours of home footage she had given me featuring Fifi running in the park, Fifi lying on Adelaide’s French provincial sofa, Fifi nipping playfully at Adelaide’s designer pumps, I just wanted to go home and sleep through next Wednesday.
“You better be coming out tonight.” That was the last message I’d received, about four this afternoon. I could only assume the reason I hadn’t heard from Sage since was because she was either mad at me for blowing off two of the sixteen beach weekends she begged me to take on, or because she’d given up on me.
Or because she knew I wouldn’t say no to Maggie, who had also left me a message this afternoon. “I’ve decided to make grilled spicy lamb with coriander sauce,” she’d announced merrily to my voice-mail box, “and we have no coriander in the house!” Maggie Landon is probably the only person I’ve ever known who might find a lack of coriander in her beach house peculiar. I might not even have known her either, if it hadn’t been for Sage, who managed to wangle us shares in her boss’s beach house. No easy task, mind you, since Maggie and her husband, Tom, hadn’t even opened up their house to shareholders until this summer. But for Sage, who had a way of seducing everyone over to her point of view, it was a no-brainer for her to land sixteen weekends in an oceanfront house for her, me and Nick, Nick being Sage’s other best friend and beneficiary of her endless— and somewhat strenuous—generosity.
Truth be told, until I’d gotten that message from Maggie, asking me to pick up not only coriander, but a Vidalia onion and “a crisp, citrusy white” because she had also discovered, much to her horror, that she only had a chardonnay at the house, I was thinking about staying home. I had missed two of the three weekends of our share so far—what was one more? But apparently the market at Kismet, the hamlet on Fire Island where our house was located, didn’t carry most of these items, and since, as Maggie went on to say, I was the only shareholder still on the mainland, she “surely hoped” it wouldn’t be a problem for me to pick up a few things. So of course I went to the market for her, even though, as a vegetarian, I wouldn’t even be able to partake in the main course. I had been forbidden by Sage to deny our happy hosts anything. Sage had only two conditions when we took these shares: that we have a good time, and that we not offend Tom and Maggie. As for offending her boss—well, I think I might have already done that tonight. As for having fun…
I wasn’t even sure I knew how to do that anymore.
Don’t get me wrong. I love the beach. Sage, Nick and I had practically grown up on it, the beach being one of the perks of our long-suffering Long Island youth. I’d left lazy summer days on the beach behind when I moved to Manhattan during college, but three summers ago Sage had joined the ranks of those urbanites who flee to the shore and had been badgering me to get on the bandwagon ever since. I hadn’t been able to allow myself such an indulgence—not with my income. But I had come out as Sage’s guest last summer, and during one brief shining moment, I had even bought into the dream while sitting on what was likely the very same ferry.
Except last time I wasn’t alone. Wasn’t sitting in the damp, half-empty bowels of the boat, breathing in a nauseating mix of sea and fuel. That evening I was with my then-boyfriend, Myles, on the top of the ferry with the wind in my hair, the sun setting and splitting the sky open into a spectrum of color that always induced a kind of silent wonder in me. Myles had felt it, too. I could tell by the way his fingers paused in the midst of the gentle circle he was making on my shoulder. Once the sun had dipped beneath the horizon, we both looked at one another and vowed to come back next summer. “Maybe we can even get our own house,” he had said, a bit of a heady claim, since, at the time, our combined income didn’t even come near the median household income required to support a Manhattan existence, much less a Manhattan-plus-beach-rental existence. But we had just turned the bend on our second year together and were still in that blissful state where everything seemed possible.
By February, when it came time to put down the first deposit, even a shared oceanfront room seemed too much for Myles. “I don’t know, Zoe. Sixteen weekends is a big commitment,” he’d said.
By April, the relationship I had once imagined would see me through the rest of my life was over.
Of course, backing out of the beach house was not an option for me at that point. “What are you gonna do in the city all summer by yourself?” Sage demanded. When I pointe
d out that I wouldn’t exactly be alone, that surely some of the eight million people who lived on the island of Manhattan wouldn’t be fleeing to the shore, she simply rolled her eyes at me. She knew as well as I did that out of those eight million people, there were only a handful I could truly claim as company. Actually, less than a handful. When Myles had dumped me, he’d taken with him the smattering of friends I had adopted as my own. Now I was left with Sage and Nick, Nick being more Sage’s friend than mine, but who was counting?
“When was the last time we did anything together?” Sage said, and it was this last comment that had me slapping down the first five hundred bucks for a deposit, whether out of guilt at being one of those women who had ditched her friends in favor of her boyfriend, or because I believed what I needed most in the post-Myles phase was the solid bolstering of a summer spent with friends.
“Is this yours?”
I looked up to see an overly freckled, lanky teenager holding a somewhat bruised Vidalia onion.“Uh, yeah,” I said, my gaze dropping to the shopping bag I’d placed on the floor beside my seat. It now gaped open, making me wonder what other vital ingredients I had lost. Not that it mattered. Because the other bit of ridiculousness was that I had missed the earlier ferry because I couldn’t locate a jar of coriander in a timely manner. The first two stores I’d tried had sold out of the stuff. Who knew coriander was in such high demand? Though I did finally find a bottle at Gourmet Garage, I had missed my train and was out of the running for anything but the late ferry. Which meant that, despite all my efforts to please Maggie, I had failed miserably. I had left her a message, but whether she’d had to postpone her gourmet meal until ten when my ferry arrived, or whether she’d been forced to bag the whole thing and was sitting fuming at me over a badly cooked burger at one of the two restaurants in Kismet, was anyone’s guess.
