The Perfect Couple

by Elin Hilderbrand

  While Dawn takes the order for the Reuben, the coleslaw, and the large chardonnay, Marty sneaks a better look at his new neighbor. She is blond, or blondish, in halfway decent shape, with laugh lines around her mouth and fingernails painted cherry red. She is dressed in a strapless army-green jumpsuit type of thing that Marty knows is meant to be stylish. It gives him a good view of her chest and arms. She’s a bit puffy, but Marty is hardly sculpted himself.

  “I’m Marty Szczerba,” he says, holding out his hand.

  “Featherleigh,” she says. “Featherleigh Dale.” She takes his hand and offers a smile, then her chardonnay arrives. She lifts the glass to Marty and says, “I can’t wait to get off this island. The past twenty-four hours have not been kind to me.”

  Marty wishes he had a glass to cheers her with, but he’s still on the clock. He, too, has had one hell of a day, beginning and ending with the case of the Murdered Maid of Honor and the runaway person of interest. It turned out the guy they were looking for was caught by a local teenage girl who works for the Hy-Line. Marty is glad the guy isn’t still at large but he bristles at being bested by some kid who found him by using Facebook. That’s cheating, is it not? Marty would have benefited from a little glory. He has been considering asking out Keira, the chief of police’s assistant, but she’s in her thirties and goes to barre class every day and is, likely, looking for more of a hero than Marty can currently claim to be.

  “So you’re just visiting?” Marty says. “Where do you live?” He knows better than to get his hopes up about anyone from off-island; he still has two years left until retirement, although after that, he’ll be ready to go. Laura Rae and Ty will be happily married, maybe even starting a family, and Marty will become an annoyance. He hopes this Featherleigh says she lives in Boston. How perfect would that be? He gets two free round-trip tickets to Boston on Cape Air per month. He envisions himself and Featherleigh strolling around the Public Garden hand in hand, stopping in at the Parish Café on Boylston for lunch. They’ll have cocktails down at the Seaport. Boston is a great city for people in love. They can ride the swan boats! Have high tea at the Four Seasons! Go to a Sox game! And in two years, when Marty is ready to retire, his relationship with Featherleigh will be established enough to take it to the next level.

  “London,” she says. “I have a flat in Sloane Square, although I fear it’ll belong to the bank by the time I get home.”

  London, Marty thinks as his dreams deflate. That’s too far away. But it wouldn’t be a bad place to visit Featherleigh for a casual, no-strings-attached fling. Marty has never been to London, which is something he needs to remedy, especially since his Match.com profile boasts that he loves to travel.

  “And what do you do for a living?” Marty asks.

  Featherleigh takes a long sip of her wine, then sets her elbow on the bar and rests her head in her hand to regard him. “I sell antiques to rich people,” she says. “What do you do, Marty?”

  Marty straightens up a little. “I’m head of security here at the airport.”

  “Well,” she says, “that’s a very prestigious job, isn’t it?” The way she pronounces the word prestigious in her English accent sounds so lovely, Marty grins.

  “He’s the top gun,” Dawn chimes in.

  Marty silently thanks Dawn for the backup even though he feels somewhat mortified that she’s eavesdropping on his first attempt at a pickup since 1976. He bobs his head yes, then wonders if Featherleigh is making fun of him. After all, it’s not like he’s the head of security at Heathrow. That would be a hellish nightmare of a job, Marty thinks. Flights from all over the world converging. How would he ever keep track of the potential threats? And yet somehow those chaps do it, day in and day out.

  “In the summer, Nantucket is the second-busiest airport in the state,” Marty says. “Only Logan is busier.”

  “Logan?” Featherleigh says.

  “The airport in Boston,” he says.

  “Ah, right,” Featherleigh says. “Well, I’m flying standby to JFK on JetBlue.” She checks her phone. “I really hope I get on.” She winks at Marty. “You don’t have any pull, do you?”

  “With the airlines?” Marty says. “No.”

  This admission sends Featherleigh right into the electronic abyss of her phone. She sips her large glass of chardonnay, then starts scrolling. Marty regards the second half of his Reuben, the cheese now cold and congealed, and his coleslaw, which has grown soupy. Before he loses Featherleigh entirely to the seductive allure of Instagram, he says, “So what was so bad about your stay?”

  Featherleigh sets down her phone and Marty feels a childish triumph. “I couldn’t begin to explain.”

  “Try me.”

  “I came all the way from London for a wedding. Now, mind you, I had no interest in attending the wedding, but this man I’ve been seeing was going to be there so I said yes.”

  Marty hears the phrase man I’ve been seeing and what’s left of his enthusiasm flags. Even someone not-gorgeous-but-okay-looking like Featherleigh has found someone. Where are all the half-decent-looking-but-not-attached women? Marty wonders. Tell me!

  “And then, for reasons too awful to explain, the wedding was canceled—”

  “Wait a minute,” Marty says. “Were you going to the wedding out in—” At that moment, Marty’s phone starts ringing and a discreet check of his screen shows that it’s the chief of police. Marty has to take the call. He holds a finger up to Featherleigh. “Excuse me one moment,” he says. He relishes the opportunity to show Featherleigh that he really is sort of important. “What can I do for you, Chief?” he says.

  “We’re looking for someone else now,” the Chief says. “And we have good reason to believe she’s at the airport, trying to fly standby. Female, early forties, blondish hair, name is Featherleigh Dale.”

  Marty’s mouth falls open and the phone nearly slips from his hand but he manages to compose himself and offer Featherleigh a smile.

  “I’m on it, Chief,” he says.

  TAG

  He shakes hands with the chief of police and tries to strike the appropriate tone: mournful yet strong, concerned yet guilt-free. When Greer woke up Tag, jostling his shoulder and saying, “Celeste’s friend Merritt, the friend, the maid of honor, Tag, she’s dead. She drowned out front. She’s dead. The paramedics are here and the police. Celeste found her floating. She’s dead. Jesus, Tag, wake up. Do something,” he’d thought he was ensnared in a bad dream. It had taken several long seconds for Tag to realize that Greer was real and that what she was saying was true.

  Merritt had drowned. She was dead.

  Not possible, he thought. He had dropped her off on the beach after the kayak ride. She had stormed off—upset, yes, but still very much alive.

  On solid ground. He’d thought she’d gone to bed.

  Tag isn’t sure what the police know.

  Do they know about the affair?

  Do they know about the pregnancy?

  They’ll find out Merritt was pregnant as soon as they hear from the medical examiner, but will they learn about the affair? Whom did Merritt tell? Did she tell Celeste? Did Celeste tell the police? Tag’s first instinct upon hearing the hideous news was to find Celeste and remind her that the future of the Winbury family rested with her discretion. But Celeste had been taken to the emergency room to be treated for anxiety and she hasn’t returned to the house—which is, Tag suspects, a bad sign.

  Tag leads the Chief to his study. Benji walked out after Tag admitted that it had been Merritt he’d taken on the kayak, and Thomas vamoosed as well. But both of his sons know better than to say a word to the police, Tag is confident of this. Their well-being is contingent on his well-being.

  Tag says to the Chief, “Can I offer you a drink?”

  The Chief lifts a hand. “No, thanks.”

  Tag settles in the chair behind his desk and offers the Chief one of the two chairs facing the desk. This makes Tag feel in control of the situation, as if it were Tag who i
nvited the Chief in for a chat and not the other way around. Perception is reality, Tag thinks. Why not put the Chief in the hot seat?

  “What have you got?” Tag asks.

  “Excuse me?” the Chief says.

  “A young woman is dead,” Tag says. “And it happened on my property, or very nearly. Now, maybe it was an accident. Maybe Merritt had too much to drink and drowned. But if you have any evidence that something else is going on, then I deserve to know about it.” Tag hardens his gaze. “Don’t I?”

  “No,” the Chief says. “You don’t.”

  Tag opens his mouth to say—to say what? It doesn’t matter because the Chief leans forward in his chair and says, “When did you last see Ms. Monaco?”

  Tag blinks. His instinct is to lie—of course his instinct is to lie!—because the truth is too incriminating.

  “I saw her last night,” Tag says.

  The Chief nods. “At what time?”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  “All right,” the Chief says. “Where were you when you last saw her?”

  “I was… out back.”

  “Can you be more specific, please?” the Chief says. “What were the circumstances surrounding the last time you saw Ms. Monaco?”

  Tag takes a moment. He has had all day to consider various answers to this question, but now he’s floundering.

  If he lies, they’ll catch him, he thinks. And he is innocent. Where Merritt’s death is concerned, he is innocent.

  “We were out back under the tent, drinking,” he says. “A group of us. Myself, my son Thomas, a friend of the family named Featherleigh Dale, and Ms. Monaco.”

  “And how would you describe Ms. Monaco’s mood at that time?” the Chief asks.

  Tag thinks about this. He had bidden Bruce Otis good night and had planned to go to bed—but Thomas had arrived back from town by himself. Abby had called and insisted Thomas come home; when he’d gone up to check on her, however, she’d been asleep.

  “Or she was pretending to be asleep,” Thomas said. “It’s like she’s trying to catch me at something.”

  “Catch you at something?” Tag said. He flashed back to the evening he ended things with Merritt, when he saw Thomas sitting alone at the bar at the Four Seasons. And so instead of going to bed, Tag grabbed a bottle of good rum from the bar in his study. As his favorite auntie, Mary Margaret, used to say, When you don’t know what else to do, get drunk. Tag would have a heart-to-heart with Thomas; it was long overdue.

  “Come on out to the tent with me,” Tag said.

  Thomas had needed no further enticement. He set up one of the round tables meant for the reception and brought over four folding chairs—thinking, Tag supposed, that the others might join them when they got back from town. Tag had just been pouring the shots when Merritt and Featherleigh appeared out of the shadows. It was almost as though they’d been lying in wait. Tag was spooked to see Merritt but she’d offered him an apologetic smile and Tag thought he’d seen acquiescence in her eyes. She would do as he asked: Take the money, end the pregnancy, walk away. He knew she didn’t want a baby.

  “Would you ladies care for a nightcap?” Tag asked.

  “Answer to my prayers,” Featherleigh said.

  Merritt hadn’t spoken, although she did take a seat next to Tag, and when he set a shot in front of her, she didn’t protest.

  He had been a little uncomfortable about how chummy Merritt suddenly seemed to be with Featherleigh Dale. What were they doing together? And why was Featherleigh still at the house? She was staying at an inn downtown. She had waited until the last minute to book and so she ended up in a real dump, as Greer described it; maybe that was why she was hesitant to leave.

  “Merritt seemed to be in fine spirits,” Tag says to the Chief. “I mean, I guess. I really didn’t know her well.”

  “Didn’t you?” the Chief asks.

  Tag’s gut twists. Now is the time to ask for an attorney. He had considered calling Sergio Ramone the second he found out Merritt was dead, but in his mind, hiring an attorney is as good as admitting you’re guilty. And Tag didn’t kill her.

  He didn’t kill her.

  “I had nothing to do with Ms. Monaco’s death,” he says. “Not one thing.”

  “Were you having an affair with Merritt Monaco?” the Chief asks.

  “I was,” Tag says. “But I ended things weeks ago.”

  “Did Ms. Monaco tell you she was pregnant with your baby?”

  “She said she was…”

  “Okay, then,” the Chief says. He leans forward in the chair. “I’m going to guess that when you heard that news, you weren’t too happy. I’m going to guess you would have gone to great lengths to keep that news quiet.”

  Tag sinks into himself. Could he throw himself on the mercy of the Chief, maybe appeal to him man to man? One look at the Chief tells Tag that the guy is honorable. He’s wearing a gold wedding band. He has probably been married twenty-five or thirty years and never so much as glanced at another woman.

  “I would have gone to great lengths to keep that news quiet,” Tag admits. “If I were even certain the baby was mine. Merritt was seeing other men. There’s an Irish bloke named Robbie who bartends at the Breslin in New York City. It might have been Robbie’s baby.”

  “But she told you it was yours,” the Chief says. “Doesn’t matter if it was Robbie’s. She was threatening you. She was threatening to expose your affair. I’m sure that must have been scary for you, especially this weekend, when you were surrounded by family and friends. Your son’s getting married; seems pretty unfair for her to choose this time to air your dirty laundry.”

  Tag hears the phony sympathy in the Chief’s voice, even as his words ring true: It was unfair.

  “I told Merritt that after the wedding I would write her a check. I wanted her to terminate the pregnancy.” He holds up his hands. “That’s bad, I know. But it’s a far cry from killing her.”

  The Chief stares at him.

  “Do you really think I’d be daft enough to drown a woman I was sleeping with, a woman who claimed to be pregnant with my child, and leave her to wash up in front of my house on the morning of my son’s wedding? I wasn’t that desperate. I was worried, definitely, but I wasn’t desperate and I didn’t kill anyone.”

  “You did take Ms. Monaco out for a ride on your kayak, though, correct? The kayak we found on the beach? Your wife and your daughter-in-law both said you’re the only person who uses the kayaks.”

  “Yes,” Tag says. “Yes, I did.”

  “Even though it was the middle of the night,” the Chief says. “Did that not seem like a desperate measure to you? Reckless, at the very least?”

  “She said she needed to talk to me,” Tag says. “Away from everyone, away from the house.”

  “And what happened while you were out on this kayak ride?”

  “I was paddling for an island beach out by Abrams Point but it was dark and I was having a difficult time finding it,” Tag says. “And when we were out in open water, in the middle of nowhere, the kayak tilted to the right and I heard a splash. Merritt had jumped off.” Tag leans forward. “You have to understand, Merritt was unhinged. She was hormonal, emotional, mentally unstable. She admitted that the only reason she wanted to keep the baby was that it gave her leverage over me. Then she leaped off the boat like a crazy person. I had to paddle back around and haul her up by the wrist.”

  “By the wrist?” the Chief says.

  “Yes,” Tag says. “And as soon as she was back up in the kayak, I paddled like hell for home. She got out on the beach and headed off. I thought she was going to bed.”

  “You didn’t tie the kayak up,” the Chief says. “You left it overturned on the beach. Which I understand is out of character for you.”

  “It was unusual,” Tag says. “But I worried that if I hung around to tie up the kayak, she would reappear, there would be more drama, she would raise her voice, people would hear us.” Tag drops his head into his hands. “I
just wanted her to leave me alone.”

  “Exactly,” the Chief says. “You just wanted her to leave you alone.” He puts his hands on the desk and leans forward. “The medical examiner found a heavy-duty sedative in Ms. Monaco’s system. So let me tell you what I think. I think you were pouring the girl shots and you slipped her a mickey. Then you invited her out for a kayak and you accidentally on purpose capsized and she never made it back to the boat. Or maybe you did as you say, and you pulled her up by the wrist. Maybe you let her pass out on the kayak and then you dumped her off closer to shore so that it looked like she went for a swim and drowned.”

  “No,” Tag says. “That is not what happened. I didn’t drug her and I didn’t dump her anywhere.”

  “But you do admit you were the one pouring the shots,” the Chief says. “Right?”

  “Right, but—”

  “Did she have anything else to drink?” the Chief asks.

  “Water,” Tag says. “Water! Featherleigh went to the kitchen at some point…” Now Tag can’t recall if it was before or after Thomas went upstairs. Before, he thinks. Thomas can vouch for him. But no… no, it was after. Definitely after. “And Featherleigh brought out a glass of ice water.”

  “Really,” the Chief says. He makes a note on his pad.

  “Yes, really,” Tag says. This suddenly seems like the detail that will save him. He had been wary when Merritt asked for the water because it seemed to indicate she was concerned about her health—or the health of the baby—and then Tag realized that he hadn’t actually witnessed Merritt doing either of the shots he’d poured. He wondered if she’d thrown them over her shoulder. Featherleigh had been only too happy to fetch water for her new best friend, and while she was gone, Merritt told Tag she needed to talk to him alone. “Featherleigh brought Merritt a glass of water. Merritt drank the whole thing.”

  “She drank the whole thing?” the Chief says. “Nobody else had any?”

  “Correct,” Tag says. He relaxes back into the chair. Maybe Featherleigh slipped Merritt a mickey, or maybe they popped pills earlier in the night. Featherleigh is a wild card. Tag would have categorized her as harmless but it’s not beyond her to have accidentally wreaked this kind of havoc.