by Eva Gates
I was glad of it. I was afraid that, despite my protestations of innocence, she might still suspect I’d told Watson what she’d revealed to me in confidence.
The room was spotlessly clean, the tabletops and photo frames dusted, the glass in the windows sparkling, the beige paint on the walls and baseboards unmarked. A big bouquet of fresh flowers sat on the center table, but the air of long-term illness and medicinal intervention hung over everything. Almost everything: I smelled something delicious coming from the kitchen. A beef stew, I guessed.
Charlene had changed out of her work clothes into shorts and a T-shirt. She gave me a nod of welcome but spoke to Detective Watson. “My mother’s resting in her room. We’ll talk upstairs so as not to disturb her.” She led the way, and we followed. She gestured for us to take a seat, and Watson and I did so. Rankin leaned up against a wall, her arms crossed over her chest. Charlene perched on the edge of the sofa, holding her hands so tightly together the knuckles turned white. Her face was very pale, and I could tell she was frightened.
Watson got straight to the point and asked Charlene about her relationship with Jeremy Hughes. Calmly, she told him what she’d told me. A brief, highly regrettable affair that hadn’t lasted for long. It ended when she realized he was married and had no intention of leaving his wife. She hadn’t seen nor spoken to him for almost two years.
“I wasn’t aware Jeremy had joined the historical society. I’ll admit it came as a surprise to see him at the library yesterday evening, but it shouldn’t have been. It’s only by chance we never ran into each other since our relationship ended. I didn’t want to talk to him—I have nothing to say—and so I left. If I’d been asked to help them with the diary, I would have readily agreed. That is, after all, an important part of my job.”
Watson tried to suggest that Charlene had invited Jeremy to return to the library on Monday night to meet with her, but his heart didn’t truly seem to be in what he was saying. She didn’t have an alibi for the estimated time of his death. She’d gotten home from work shortly after five and relieved her mother’s occasional caregiver. She fixed dinner and ate with her mother while they watched TV. Mrs. Clayton went to bed at her regular time of eight o’clock. Charlene read until ten before she also turned in.
“Before you ask,” Charlene said, “My mother takes a sleeping pill every night. You can check with her doctor if you don’t believe me. If I’d snuck out, she wouldn’t have heard me go.”
Watson got to his feet. Officer Rankin pushed herself away from the wall. “I know this was difficult for you, Charlene,” he said. “I hope you appreciate that I have to follow every line of inquiry.”
“Of course,” she said. “I can’t help but wonder who told you Jeremy and I had once been involved. It was a long time ago, and even at the time it wasn’t exactly common knowledge.”
He just smiled at her and turned to go. “Coming, Lucy?”
“I’ll stay for a bit. I don’t feel like going to the beach any more.”
Charlene and I walked the police to the door. When it shut behind them, she turned and leaned against it. “I am totally innocent, but that was still so unbelievably stressful. I know Sam Watson, and I know he’s a good cop, and a good man, but I kept expecting him to leap to his feet and tell me I was under arrest.”
“Charlene,” a voice called. “Are they gone?”
“Yes, Mom, they are. Give me a sec and I’ll be in. Dinner’s almost ready.”
“Is that beef ragu I smell?”
“It is.”
“Yummy,” Mrs. Clayton said. “Why don’t you invite your friend to join us for dinner?”
Charlene turned to me. “Will you stay? You’d be very welcome.”
“Thanks, but I think not. I have a call to make. Do you know Jeremy’s address?”
“No. I never went to his house, but I’m pretty sure he lived in Nags Head. Why do you want to know?”
“I didn’t tell the police you and he had been in a relationship. Obviously someone did. Maya Hughes was interviewed at the police station earlier this afternoon. I saw her there myself. I’m thinking I might pay a call on her and ask her what she had to say. You told me she confronted you over her husband. Maybe she wasn’t as blasé about his affairs as you thought, and she’s happy to have the chance to get you in trouble.” I glanced down at my bare toes. “If I expect her to take me seriously, I need to go home and change first.”
* * *
Before I drove away, I checked 411.com for Jeremy Hughes’s address. He lived, so I found, east of Virginia Dare Trail, close to the sea. I didn’t want to phone ahead and alert Maya Hughes to my desire to talk to her, so I’d have to take a chance on finding her at home. I drove back to the lighthouse and let myself in. Charles greeted me at the door, and then he led the way up the spiral iron staircase to the fourth floor, his fluffy tail held high. I put food and water into his bowls before changing into black ankle boots, gray slacks, a crisp white blouse, and a dark green linen jacket, appropriate attire for pretending to be a police officer.
Not that I was planning on pretending to be an officer of the law. Not at all. Maya Hughes had met me in the police station, and we’d been introduced by Holly Rankin, who’d said nothing about who I was or why I was there. I’d said, completely truthfully, that I was assisting Detective Watson. If Maya Hughes wanted to assume I was a cop, who was I to dissuade her?
Watson might not look at it quite the same way, but hopefully he’d never find out.
* * *
Jeremy and Maya Hughes’s home was a typical Outer Banks beach house in a network of small streets dead-ending at the beach. By typical, I mean with five or six bedrooms and worth a couple of million bucks. The house was narrow and four stories tall, the bottom one of which served as the garage and storage areas. That design afforded the upper levels spectacular views over the dunes, to the beach, and out to sea.
I parked on the street. No cars were in the driveway, but the double garage doors were closed. I adjusted my sunglasses on my face, took a deep breath, and walked with (I hoped) confident strides up to the front door, which wasn’t easy as I felt like I was on the point of bursting into flames in my long pants and jacket. I couldn’t begin to imagine how cops stayed cool in this sort of heat in their dark uniforms and bulletproof vests. I rang the bell and waited.
I didn’t have to wait long before the door swung open, and Maya Hughes peeked out. She was, I was thrilled to discover, accompanied by a blast of air-conditioned air.
“Good evening,” I said. “I was hoping we could have a quick word. I’m Lucy Richardson. We met earlier today at the police station.”
“I remember.” She held the door open. “Please, come in.”
I did so. Without my having to ask, she led the way up the stairs to the main level. I’ve been in some nice homes on the Outer Banks, and this one was right up there in terms of up-to-date style and money spent. The main floor was fully open plan. The paint on the walls and ceiling was white, the floors light gray concrete, the lamp stands and shades white. The sectional sofa and damask wingback chairs were covered in a deep red fabric, the tables clear glass mounted on chrome frames. A small kitchen—chrome appliances, gray granite countertop, red bar stools—was off to one side. This wasn’t the main living room; it would mostly be used for casual winter entertaining. Spacious decks, with views out to sea and stairs to the pool area, would be on the third and fourth levels. A fireplace, now thankfully unlit, filled most of the wall opposite the mini-kitchen. The art was modern, red and white mostly, with wide brush strokes and thick slashes of paint.
Maya turned and faced me. Her smile was pinched, showing the network of fine lines around her mouth and unsmiling eyes. She wore a sleeveless beige silk blouse and skinny white jeans, fashionably shredded at the knees. A glass of white wine sat on the coffee table, next to an ice bucket and a pile of fashion magazines. Music came from invisible speakers. A playlist, I guessed, as I recognized the movie theme music. “Have y
ou learned any more about my husband’s death?” she asked.
She had mistaken me for a cop. As long as she didn’t ask me directly or put me in a position where I’d have to confess or lie, I wouldn’t tell her I was nothing more than a nosy librarian.
Gathering my thoughts, trying to look casual, as though I interviewed suspects every day, I walked toward the French doors that opened onto the swimming pool area—sparking blue water, comfortable lounge chairs, brilliant flowers and lush grasses in terracotta and concrete pots.
I admired the view for a moment and then turned to face into the room. I glanced at one of the wingback chairs.
“Please,” Maya said, right on cue, “have a seat.”
I sat. She dropped onto the couch and tucked her feet underneath her. She picked up her wine glass and was about to take a sip, when she remembered the rest of her manners. “Can I offer you a drink?”
“No, thank you. I won’t stay long.”
Her lips didn’t say, “Thank heavens for that,” but her expression did. She leaned back and took far more than a sip. More like a glug.
“Detective Watson interviewed Charlene Clayton earlier this evening,” I said.
Maya nodded. “I told him about her.”
“She says her relationship with your husband ended two years ago. Do you have reason to believe otherwise?”
She studied me through clear, narrow eyes, heavily outlined in black liner, the lashes thick with mascara. This woman had not been crying recently. “He died at the library, didn’t he? I know she works there. Why on earth else would Jeremy be in a library, of all places, other than to meet up with her?” I could think of plenty of reasons a person would want to be in a library, and very few of them had to do with illicit assignations.
“He’d been there earlier with members of the historical society.”
She waved a freshly manicured hand. The deep red polish matched not only her toes but the furniture. “Oh, that. Whatever.”
“How do know Ms. Clayton works at the library?”
“I keep tabs on all Jeremy’s … friends. Past and present.”
“He had a lot of … friends?”
“Over the years.”
“That didn’t bother you?”
“Why are you asking me all this? I told Detective Watson Jeremy and I had a completely open marriage. He did his thing, and I did mine.”
“Yet you kept tabs on his girlfriends.”
“If you want to call them that.” A smile touched the corners of her mouth. The smile was so cold I almost shivered. “He can do … could do … whatever he liked, but I needed to know if anything threatened to become serious, so I could do something about it in time. Nip it in the bud, so to speak.”
“Like you did with Char—Ms. Clayton?”
She shrugged. “He gave her his maternal grandmother’s ring. He’d never done anything like that before. I had to make sure it didn’t happen again.”
“You told her it was your ring.”
“Did I? I suppose I did. Better to make it sound like he was a thief rather than an infatuated little boy making a romantic gesture.”
I stared at her. This woman was so cold and calculating it scared me.
She realized she’d shocked me and she grinned, pleased with herself. Her eyes studied me over the rim of her wine glass. “And so the pattern continued. Just between you and me, dear, I was surprised when I checked the web page for the historical society shortly after he joined. I assumed he was interested in a woman there, and then I saw pictures of the other members.” She laughed. “Everyone of them middle-aged and up. Way up. Positively geriatric. Not a pretty young woman in the lot. Poor Jeremy, getting old, I suppose, and times are changing. Young women these days aren’t quite as naïve as they used to be, are they?”
I thought of Lynne Feingold. Not even worthy of Maya Hughes’s scorn.
“Do you yourself have many … friends?” I asked her. What a shockingly personal question. This pretending (without actually pretending) to be a detective was making me bold. I could imagine my mother, a Boston Brahmin matron to the core, gasping in horror at my impudence. Which isn’t to say my mother didn’t like gossip—she and the rest of her social set lived for it; she just thought one should approach the important business of the gathering of gossip with some delicacy.
Maya didn’t seem to mind. She wiggled a well-plucked eyebrow at me. “I might. I might not. That’s absolutely none of your business, but I’ll tell you what I told your boss …”
I almost asked when she’d spoken to Bertie, but at the last minute I realized she must be talking about Sam Watson. “When Jeremy died, I was at the Calming Waters Spa near Raleigh for a few days of pampering. I try to go there several times a year. I wish I could produce a handsome young lover to be my alibi, but sadly I was alone that evening. I had a Swedish massage from three until ten to four and then retired to my cabin for some much-needed peace and quiet. I watched TV for a while, decided not to go to dinner—I worry that the quality of guest they’re attracting lately is deteriorating—and went to bed early. Alone. That is the purpose of a spa stay after all, dear. To be alone.”
A lot of rich and not-so-rich women went to spas for the stated purpose—rejuvenation and relaxation. Some of them went to dry out. Others went because they needed an escape from a failing marriage and a cheating husband, another thing I knew from when my parents’ marriage wasn’t doing so well. “Your husband’s affairs didn’t bother you?”
Once again she waved a hand in the air, and her diamonds flashed. “Not in the least. He could do what he wanted. To be honest, I couldn’t stand the blasted man, and the less time I had to spend in his company, the better. There, I said it. Are you shocked? Your boss certainly was. I considered playing the grieving widow but decided not to bother. You police have ways of finding things out, don’t you? Any of my friends, my so-called girlfriends that is, would be more than happy to tell you all the salacious details.” She plucked the wine bottle out of the cooler and refilled her glass. About a quarter inch of wine dribbled out, and she gave it a shake to get the last few drops.
“Then why,” I asked boldly, “did you and your husband stay together?”
“Money, why else? Jeremy’s mother is still alive. Miserable old woman. Almost as miserable as her son. She clings to some rather old-fashioned ideas about marriage. She has … had … three sons, and her estate is to be divided equally among them when she finally does us all a favor and goes to her vastly undeserved reward. If any of the sons get divorced, the money will go to the others. If they all divorce, a home for wayward cats gets the lot. Controlling shrew.”
If Jeremy’s mother had been murdered, I knew who my prime suspect would be.
I wondered about the conditions of this will. Was Maya now in line to inherit Jeremy’s share?
I was feeling bold, but not that bold. I simply couldn’t ask. It was possible, likely even, Maya didn’t know the other conditions of the will.
She threw back the last of her wine and got to her feet. “If you don’t mind, I have dinner plans.”
I stood up also. “Okay. Thanks for your time. Did Detective Watson ask you not to leave town?”
“Yes, he did. I might have objected, just on principal, but why bother? I’ve no plans to go anywhere. I gave your boss the contact details for Mrs. Hughes and Jeremy’s brothers. He said he’d let them know when the body”—she giggled “—is ready to be released. Let them handle it. They can stick him in that big family plot on Long Island next to his father and grandparents.” She laughed. “You should see your face. I’ve shocked you again. You are an innocent little thing, aren’t you?”
I tried to look non-shocked and non-innocent.
“My husband was not a nice man, and I see no reason to pretend to care about him now he’s dead.” She headed for the stairs leading to the street level, and I followed.
“Uh, thanks for your time,” I said, opening the door to the sticky heat.
&nbs
p; “I’m having a little party tomorrow evening. Drinks by the pool at five. Come if you’re free. Bring your dishy boss.”
She shut the door, and I was left standing on the hot pavement.
Was Sam Watson dishy? I’d never thought so.
Chapter Twelve
I didn’t feel like driving back home to get my bathing suit, but I needed some beach time. I drove to Coquina Beach, where I threw my jacket into the back seat and rolled my pants up to my knees. I unbuttoned the blouse as much as I dared and folded the sleeves back. It was coming up to eight o’clock, and the sun hung low in the western sky. A light, salty wind ruffled the tops of the beach grasses and sea oats.
I slipped off my shoes at the bottom of the beach path and dangled them from my fingers. I walked for a long time, making tracks in the wet sand before the surf washed around my feet, removing all traces of my passing. The swimmers and sunbathers had gone home, but a few family groups were gathered around picnic baskets or bonfires, and the scent of roasting meat and the sound of laughter filled the air. Fishermen lounged comfortably in their beach chairs, an open beverage can in hand and a cooler, optimistically waiting to receive the catch, resting at their feet while their long poles arched over the sand into the water.
As I walked, I tried to push aside my jumble of thoughts and enjoy the feeling of the world settling down for the night.
My jumble of thoughts won out. They would not be pushed.
Maya said she saw no point in pretending to be grieving for Jeremy. Just as well—I doubt she could have pulled it off. Her spite and sheer viciousness was so strong it was almost physical.
I had no problem seeing Maya as the killer. She didn’t have much of an alibi. Raleigh was a three-hour drive from here. If the last time she’d been seen was when her massage finished at four, she would have had time to drive to the Outer Banks and arrive around seven. If she’d followed her husband to the library, killed him, and driven back to her spa, no one would have been the wiser. Watson might be able to find out if her car had been in the spa’s parking lot all night, but I didn’t expect him to share that information with me. Even if she hadn’t taken her car out, there are other ways of getting around. Other ways of getting around. As far as I knew, Watson still hadn’t found out how the person who killed Jeremy had gotten away from the library area without laying down tire tracks in the mud. Was it possible that person had arrived by helicopter? I dismissed that thought almost immediately. I didn’t know much about helicopters, but I didn’t think they could fly in the sort of heavy rain and high winds we’d had that night.
