The Perfect Couple

by Elin Hilderbrand

  Shooter doesn’t press. He steps out, and Celeste shuts the door behind him.

  Saturday, July 7, 2018, 5:15 p.m.

  NANTUCKET

  Nick has just heard from the Chief: His interview with Featherleigh Dale is suddenly very important. Tag Winbury, the father, is still a person of interest but the Chief isn’t convinced he did it.

  “He admitted he took the girl out in the kayak,” the Chief said. “He said she jumped off, on purpose, and he yanked her back up by the wrist, which is consistent with the ME’s report. He admitted to pouring the shots, so a reasonable explanation is he slipped a mickey into one of the shots, but forensics found nothing in the bottle or the shot glasses. He didn’t know about the cut on her foot. He said she must have cut it after they got back to dry land. We need to check with Featherleigh about the cut. And Tag said Merritt drank a glass of water that Featherleigh Dale got from the kitchen.”

  “Water?” Nick said. “There wasn’t a water glass at the scene.”

  “Exactly,” the Chief said. “So maybe he’s lying. Or maybe…”

  “Someone got rid of the water glass,” Nick said. The mother, Greer Garrison, had been in the kitchen at some point, getting champagne. Nick still has a feeling she’s hiding something. “If Greer knew about the affair…”

  “And the baby…” the Chief said.

  “Maybe she slipped a pill into the drinking water,” Nick said. “And then went back and cleared the glass. Ran it through the dishwasher on the power-scrub cycle. But how would she know Merritt would then go for a swim?”

  “Maybe the father and mother are in it together,” the Chief said.

  “Both of them?” Nick said. “The night before their son’s big wedding? A wedding they’re paying for?”

  “Another thing,” the Chief said. “Tag Winbury is a smart guy. If he’d used the kayak ride to drown our girl, he would have made damn sure he locked the kayak up when he got back. Right? To cover his tracks?”

  “Are we overthinking this?” Nick asked. “Was it just an accident?”

  “Be thorough with Featherleigh,” the Chief said.

  “You know me,” Nick said. “I’m a bloodhound.”

  Nick is waiting in the interview room when they bring Featherleigh Dale in. He hears her squawking a bit out in the hallway: She’s going to miss her flight to JFK. She needs to get back to London. Luklo swings open the door to the interview room and ushers Ms. Dale inside. Nick stands.

  He and Featherleigh Dale regard each other.

  She says, “Well, you’re a tasty morsel, aren’t you?”

  Luklo smirks and Nick extends a hand. “Ms. Dale, I’m Nick Diamantopoulos, a detective with the Massachusetts State Police. I just have a few questions and as soon as we’re through here, assuming we’re satisfied with your answers, I’ll have Officer Luklo get you back to the airport and on your way.”

  “If I had known the detective would look like you,” Featherleigh says, “then I would definitely have committed a crime.”

  “If you’ll just have a seat,” Nick says.

  Featherleigh wheels in her roller bag and sets a handbag bursting with stuff—a paperback novel, a hairbrush, an open bag of pretzels, which spill all over the floor—on top of the suitcase, then she grabs a smaller clutch purse from within the bag and brings it with her to the table, where she proceeds to put on fire-engine-red lipstick.

  Nick waits for her to get settled and thinks, This woman is too disorganized to kill anyone, even accidentally. But maybe he’s wrong. Featherleigh Dale is in her mid-forties. She’s a bit chunky, she has hair halfway between blond and red—it looks like she changed her mind in the middle of a dye job—and she’s wearing what looks like a jumpsuit issued by the air force in 1942, minus the sleeves.

  “Can I get you anything to drink?” Nick asks.

  “Not unless you have a decent chardonnay,” she says. “You interrupted my lunch.”

  Nick takes a seat. “Let’s get started, Ms. Dale—”

  “Feather,” she says. “My friends call me Feather.”

  “Feather,” Nick says, and he nearly smiles. There used to be a transvestite prostitute on Brock Avenue in New Bedford named Feather. He pauses to remind himself that this is serious business and he needs to be thorough. “Let’s start with how you know the Winburys.”

  Featherleigh, now Feather, waves a hand. “Known them forever,” she says.

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, let’s see… Tag Winbury went to Oxford with my older brother, Hamish, may he rest in peace, so I’ve known Tag since I was a kid. I reconnected with the family at my brother’s funeral, and after that, our paths kept crossing. I own a business finding antiques for people like Greer, people who have more money than God and don’t mind plunking down thirty thousand quid for a settee. I found her some salvaged windows from a church in Canterbury. Those went for ten thousand quid apiece and I’m pretty sure she’s still got them in storage.”

  “So you have a business relationship with the Winburys, then,” Nick says.

  “And personal,” Feather says. “We’re friends.”

  “Well, yes,” Nick says. “You came over from London for the wedding. How well do you know Benji and Celeste?”

  “I know Benji a little bit,” Feather says. “Celeste not at all. Just met her last night. Her and her friend. Shame what happened.”

  “What happened?” Nick says.

  Feather’s eyes widen. “Have you not heard? The bride’s friend, Merritt, drowned. The maid of honor. I thought that was why you had questions.”

  “No, right, it is, I do,” Nick says. Her disarray is throwing him off his stride. “I meant, what happened last night? You were part of the group that sat out under the tent drinking rum, correct?”

  “Mount Gay Black Barrel,” Feather says. “Out of Barbados. You know, I’ve been to the estate where it’s made. I love the stuff.”

  “Who exactly was sitting at the table with you?” Nick asks.

  “Tag, Thomas, myself, and Merritt,” Feather says. Then she adds gravely, “The deceased.”

  “So you say you just met Merritt last night,” Nick says. “How did that come about?”

  “It came about the way those things do at a party,” Feather says. “I noticed her right away. She was pretty and stylish and she had natural confidence. I love confidence.” Feather beams at Nick. “You have natural confidence. I can see it. It’s a very attractive trait in a man.”

  “So you noticed her from afar,” Nick says. “Were you properly introduced?”

  “Not until later,” Feather says. “Much later, in fact—after the party was over.”

  Nick makes a note and nods. He senses Feather needs only the slightest encouragement to keep talking.

  “I was desperately seeking another drink. The young kids went into town—bride, groom, best man, Thomas—but no one thought to invite old Feather, and I just wasn’t ready to go back to my inn. I tried to wrangle a bottle of booze out of the catering help but that didn’t work, so I went on a hunt.”

  “A hunt,” Nick says.

  “I was stealthy,” Feather says. “Because I knew if Greer saw me, she would put me right into a taxi.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Greer doesn’t like me, doesn’t approve of me. She’s old money, landed gentry, grew up on a manor called Swallowcroft, went to Wycombe Abbey, all of that. And she suspects I’m after her hubby. Ha!” Feather hoots. “He’s way, way too old for me.”

  Nick needs a verbal leash for this woman so she doesn’t go wandering off, although he makes a note: Greer suspected Feather + Tag??? “Back to how you met Merritt…”

  “So I was sneaking around a bit, tiptoeing, dodging behind bushes, harder than it looks because of motion-detector lighting. I figured if I could get to the pool house, I would find alcohol.” Feather taps a finger against her temple. “Clever bit of sleuthing on my part there. Anyway, I stumbled across the maid of honor sitting in Greer’s rose ga
rden. She was crying.”

  “Crying?”

  “I asked if she was all right. Yes, she said. Then I asked if there was anything I could do. No, she said. I was surprised because I’d pegged her for naturally confident and then there she was, like a little girl on the playground whose friends had all forsaken her. So I asked if she wanted to join in my caper.”

  “Caper,” Nick says.

  “Hunting for booze in the pool house,” Feather says. “And she said yes and came with me.”

  “Then what?” Nick says.

  “We opened the gate, we selected a couple of chaise longues, I slid the glass doors to the pool house open, and voilà—full bar! I made a couple of Grey Goose and tonics and brought them out. Merritt said she didn’t want hers, her stomach was feeling funny, and that was just fine by me. I had them both.”

  “Did Merritt stay with you?” Nick asks.

  “Yes, she stayed. We talked. Turned out we had a lot in common.”

  “Did you?”

  “We were both involved with married men,” Feather says. “I mean, what are the chances of that?”

  Not so slim, Nick wants to say, but he needs to tread carefully here. Feather seems to be genuine but he has been at this long enough to suspect it might be an act.

  “Did Merritt say anything about the man she was involved with?” he asks.

  “Only that he was married,” Feather says. “And was apparently a real bastard. Pursued her, pursued her, pursued her… then dropped her like a hot potato. Won’t leave his wife, no way, nohow. And I’ll tell you, that all sounded much too familiar.”

  “But Merritt didn’t say who the man was?”

  “She didn’t tell and neither did I,” Feather says. “We were there to commiserate, not confess.”

  “Did she say if the man she was seeing was at the wedding?” Nick asks.

  “At the… no. She lives in Manhattan. Why would… are you thinking she was seeing a married man at the wedding and he was the one who killed her?”

  Nick needs to redirect. “What happened when you left the pool house?”

  “We decided to walk back to the main house,” Feather says. “And we happened across Tag and Thomas and their bottle of Black Barrel.”

  “Did they seem surprised to see you two?” Nick asks.

  Feather tilts her head. “Did they? I don’t remember. Tag asked if we were up for a nightcap. We said yes.”

  “So you’re sitting around under the tent drinking rum and what happens?” Nick asks.

  “What do you think happens?” Feather asks. “We get drunk.” She pauses. “Drunker.”

  “Was Merritt drinking?”

  “I assume so?” Feather says. “Don’t quote me on that because, remember, she had a queasy stomach. After a while, Thomas’s wifey called him upstairs and I figured the party was breaking up. But Tag is a night owl and he seemed game to keep going awhile longer and Merritt asked for water. I got it for her, actually.”

  “You got Merritt a glass of water?” Nick says.

  Feather nods.

  “Did you put ice in the water?” Nick asks.

  Feather’s eyes roll skyward, as if the answer to that question is written on the ceiling. “I can’t recall. I’m sorry. Is that important?”

  “Did anything else happen while you were inside getting the water?” he asks. “Did you see anyone? Do anything?”

  Feather nods. “I took a piss.”

  “You went to the bathroom,” Nick says. “Was that before you poured the water? Or after?”

  Feather stares at him. “After,” she says. “I left the water on the counter. I mean, I didn’t bring it into the loo with me.”

  “But you didn’t see anyone else in the kitchen?” Nick asks.

  “No.”

  “Did you hear anyone?”

  “No,” Feather says. “Fan was on. In very posh houses, you know, they don’t listen to one another tinkle.”

  “No one followed you in from outside?” Nick asks.

  “No,” Feather says.

  “And when you brought Merritt the water, did she drink it?” Nick asks.

  “Drank it down like she’d eaten a pound of rock salt.”

  “Do you remember clearing her glass?” Nick asks. “Because the water glass wasn’t on the table this morning. But the shot glasses were.”

  Feather shakes her head. “I’ve got no memory of clearing the glass or not clearing the glass. If I had to guess, I’d say I left it there, thinking the housekeeper would get it in the morning.”

  Nick makes a note: Housekeeper?

  “And how did the party finally break up?” Nick asks.

  “We ran through the bottle of rum,” Feather says. “Tag said he was going to his study for another. Right after he left, Merritt said she was going to bed. So I was in the tent by myself for a while… then I decided I’d better skedaddle. I didn’t want to stay up late drinking with just Tag.”

  “Why not?”

  “It wouldn’t look good,” Feather says. “If Greer caught us…” Feather pauses. “I’m terrified of that woman.”

  “Are you?”

  “Everyone is terrified of her,” Feather says. “She says one thing but you can just tell by looking at her that in her mind she’s thinking something else. Novelists are notorious liars, you know.”

  “Are they?” Nick asks.

  “Aren’t they?” Feather says. “They lie for a living. They make up stories. So it stands to reason that this tendency runs over into their personal lives.”

  Nick is intrigued by this answer. “Did you see Greer around at all, even for an instant, after the party? Did you see her in the kitchen pouring herself a glass of champagne?”

  “No,” Feather says. She gasps. “Why? Do you think Greer had something to do with what happened?”

  “You didn’t see her?” Nick asks.

  Feather shakes her head.

  “Did you see Merritt again that night?”

  “No,” Feather says.

  “So the last time you saw Merritt was when she left the tent saying she was going to bed.”

  “Correct.”

  “At any point during the night, did Merritt cut her foot?” Nick asks.

  “Cut her foot?” Feather says. “No.”

  “Was she wearing shoes when you were doing your stealthy hunting?”

  “Yes,” Feather says. “Silver sandals. Gorgeous. Merritt said she had gotten them for free from the company and I asked if she could get me a pair for free and she asked what size I wore and I said ten and a half and she said, ‘Done.’” Feather’s eyes start to water. “She really was a lovely girl.”

  “Yes,” Nick says. “I’m sure she was.” He writes: No cut. Sandals. He knows there were silver sandals on the scene, under the tent, which Merritt must have left behind when she went for the kayak ride. Nick finally feels like he can see what happened last night… except for a few critical details.

  “Okay, so when you… skedaddled, where did you go? Did you call a taxi and go back to your inn?”

  “Mm-hmm,” Feather says.

  “I’m sorry,” Nick says. “I need you to give me a yes-or-no answer.”

  Feather hesitates.

  Okay, then, Nick thinks. Here it is. “Feather?”

  “Yes,” she says. “Yes, I did.”

  “And what time was that?” Nick asks.

  “Couldn’t tell you.”

  “But it was late,” he says.

  Feather shrugs.

  Nick locks eyes with Feather and gives her his best smile. Nick’s sister, Helena, calls this smile “the kill,” because it usually gets him whatever he’s after. And Feather succumbs to it. She cocks an eyebrow.

  “Are you single?” she asks. “Because if you are, I could be convinced to stay another night.”

  “Did you call the taxi right away?” Nick asks. “Or did you stay in the tent? Or did you do something else?”

  “Something else?” Feather says.


  “The manager of your inn,” Nick says, “told our officer that you returned to the hotel at quarter past five this morning. And we have a time of death for Ms. Monaco somewhere between two forty-five and three forty-five. Working backward, then, she likely entered the water between two thirty and three thirty. Now, if you didn’t reach your inn until quarter after five…”

  “The manager is mistaken,” Feather says. “It was earlier than five. Hours earlier.”

  “But you said only a moment ago that you didn’t know what time it was,” Nick says.

  “Well, I can bloody well tell you it was earlier than five o’clock!” Feather says.

  “We can easily check the security cameras,” Nick says.

  Feather hoots. “That place does not have security cameras!” she says. “You’re trying to trick me!”

  “They had a break-in last year,” Nick says. “Nothing was taken, but Miss Brannigan, who runs the inn, was understandably skittish, so she installed cameras.” Nick closes his notebook, grabs his pen, and stands. “I’ll send Officer Luklo out to request the camera footage.”

  He turns, wondering how many steps away he’ll get.

  Two steps, as it turns out.

  “Wait,” Feather says. “Just wait.”

  “Do you want to change your answer?” Nick says.

  “Yes,” Feather says. “Do you have a cigarette?”

  “Quit five years ago,” Nick says. “Saved my own life. It’s a filthy habit.”

  “Filthy,” Feather agrees. “But sometimes nothing else will do.”

  “I have to agree with you there,” Nick says. He sits back down. “I do sometimes bum one when I’ve been drinking bourbon.”

  “You’re human, then,” Feather says. She tears up. “And I’m human too.”

  “That’s exactly right,” Nick says. “You’re human and human beings make mistakes and act in all kinds of ways we shouldn’t.” He pauses and very slowly opens his notebook. “Now, why don’t you tell me what happened. You didn’t call a taxi, did you?”

  “No,” Feather says. “No, I didn’t. I went into the house and fell asleep.”