Long Island Iced Tina

by Maria DiRico

  “Huh?” Mia responded, genuinely clueless.

  “Left. Port is left, starboard is right. Sorry you had to learn that on the last day of your life.”

  “Not as sorry as I am,” Mia muttered. She turned the wheel to the left as she carefully accelerated. Her heart beat wildly. She wasn’t sure which was more terrifying, the threat of death or handling the sleek racing boat.

  “Straighten the wheel. Straighten it!” Abigail yelled this as they headed toward a manmade jetty. Mia adjusted course, gripping the wheel so hard that her knuckles turned white. “Go slowly,” Abigail instructed. “People will get suspicious if we zoom out of here.” She gave Mia’s back a hard poke with the gun. “And don’t get any ideas about zooming out of here to knock me off balance.”

  “It never occurred to me,” Mia said, depressed that Abigail had thwarted her plan. She held tight to the wheel as the boat slowly motored through the estate’s cove toward the Sound. To circumvent the terror threatening to overwhelm her, Mia started to talk. “I know the heist was an inside job.”

  Abigail gave a mirthless laugh. “Bravo. You’re a genius. From day one, everyone from reporters to law enforcement to our estate staff, legal and illegal, figured that out. But no one could never figure out who the insider was. My money made sure of that.”

  “Spencer.”

  “And his mistress.”

  Another link in the chain. “Tina.”

  “Spencer wasn’t always a drunk. But he was always a philanderer.” Abigail spit out the word like it was toxic. “They met on one of her flights to London. He was on his way to visit another mistress. Instead, he hooked up with Tina. My British security team outed him to me. My father had just moved me up the Miller ladder. I didn’t want the distraction of a divorce, so instead I let Spencer stay in the marriage but cut his allowance to a pittance. If he wanted to finance his sluts, he’d have to do it on his own.”

  “That sucks.”

  “I know.”

  Abigail sounded hurt and aggrieved. Show her sympathy, Mia told herself. If we’re like girlfriends sharing stuff, maybe she won’t off me. “I’m sorry he put you through that. My husband cheated on me, so I know how painful it is.” Mia adjusted her body just enough to block Abigail’s vision of the boat’s throttle, then lowered the speed imperceptibly. The longer they stayed in the cove, the better her chance of escaping. “So, Spencer came up with a plan to steal some of your father’s paintings and sell them to pay for other women? Wow. That is cold.”

  “Stone cold.”

  “Humor me,” Mia said, praying Abigail would. “I want to see if I can figure this out. Spencer steals the paintings with Tina’s help—”

  “And with the help of her mercenary ex-boyfriend, Castor.”

  “Right. The paintings are stolen and sent to a fence in Europe. But somehow, they disappear. Spencer doesn’t get the money he banked on, then finds out his girlfriend Tina kept one painting to herself that she managed to sell. He gets depressed and starts drinking.”

  Abigail, amused, rested her back against the side of the boat. Her casual attitude in the face of the deadly deed she intended to commit reminded Mia of the entitled uber-wealthy clientele at Korri Designs. They were a class of citizens who blithely breezed through life as if buckets of money gave them a free pass on all of the world’s horrors. If nothing else, it enabled a deeply embedded state of denial. And a great commission on the company’s name-droppy status products. “You’re sharper than you look and sound,” Abigail said. “This is fun. Keep going.”

  Mia lowered the boat’s speed another imperceptible notch. “We’re at Cow and Woman reappearing. Let me think . . . let me think. You’ve got lots of money. You track it down and buy it back.”

  “Bingo!” Abigail raised her gun and shot it into the air. It didn’t make a sound. “Silencer.”

  “I know. I’ve seen them before.”

  “Of course you have. Continue.”

  “The next step would be exposing the painting to Tina, which had to involve Justine Cadeau.”

  “Her father, Pierre Cadeau, was the original fence in France, another fact uncovered by my security team. Unfortunately for Spencer, Pierre, who was something of a gourmand, died of a heart attack before he could reveal where he’d squirreled away the paintings until it was safe to move them to market. Even my team has been unable to track them down.”

  “Ah. I never would have guessed the part about the fence being Justine’s father.”

  Abigail shrugged. “That one was a toughie. I’ll give you a pass on it.”

  The moon emerged from cloud cover and a shaft of light illuminated Abigail’s silvery hair. Let someone see us, please let someone see us, Mia thought as the boat drew further and further away from the shore. The irony that she was facing a watery death like the one that felled her husband Adam wasn’t lost on her. “What I don’t get,” she said, stalling, “is why you used the painting to scare the hell out of Tina.”

  Abigail gave a snort. “That’s not obvious? I did it to send a message. You don’t know me, but I know you and I know what you did. And I’m watching you.”

  “Why wait twenty years to send that message?” Mia wondered.

  “That’s how long it took me to track down the painting and buy it back. Those Russian oligarchs can be tough negotiators.” Abigail, impatient, poked Mia in the side with her gun. “Okay, now I’m bored. Let’s move this along. I know you’ve been slowing the boat down. That’s over. Time to pick up the pace. Gun the motor.”

  Reluctantly, Mia obeyed the order. The boat left the relative comfort of the cove for the open Sound. “One last thing,” Mia said, desperate. “What’s Castor Garvalos’s connection to all this? Why did you hire him to cater the party tonight?”

  Abigail’s smug self-confidence disappeared. The news was apparently a revelation to her and not a good one. “What-how-what do you mean?” Dumbfounded, she tripped over words.

  “You didn’t know he’s here? How about that.” Despite the dire circumstances, Mia couldn’t pass up the chance to gloat.

  “The party was Larkin’s baby. I forced Spencer to make himself useful and help—” Abigail stopped mid-sentence as something dawned on her. Anger mottled her face, twisting it into a malevolent expression. “Spencer,” she spit out. “He brought on that snake.”

  “Wouldn’t he be afraid you’d notice?”

  “Of course not,” Abigail said scornfully. “He knows I’d never commingle with the help.”

  You wouldn’t, you sick, obnoxious snob. “He’s obviously up to something,” Mia said, grasping at the chance to use the unexpected twist to her advantage. “I’ll turn around so you can deal with him before it’s too late.”

  “No, keep going!” Abigail shouted. “First you, then him.”

  It was too late. Mia had already yanked the boat to starboard toward shore. But she cut the turn too sharp and the boat whipped around in a circle, bouncing hard back and forth as it cut against its own wake. “I don’t know what I’m doing!” Mia screamed.

  “Slow down and straighten the wheel!” Abigail screamed back as she fought to keep her gun focused on her captive. Mia reduced the thrust and managed to straighten the boat, pointing it toward the dock. “The other way,” her captor yelled. “And gun it!” Mia did so. The lightning-fast boat shot out of the cove into the Sound so fast it terrified her. She instinctively pulled back on the throttle. “We’re finally getting somewhere,” Abigail said, exasperated. “Head to starboard.”

  “What’s that again? I already forgot.” Mia wasn’t lying.

  “Right.”

  “Why can’t they just say left or right? It’s nuts.”

  Abigail gave a guttural grunt. “Lord help me. Dumping you in the ocean cannot come soon enough. Then I can move on to Spencer.”

  “About that,” Mia said, seizing a possible opening. “What do you think he’s up to?”

  Abigail furrowed her brow. “Hmmm . . .”

  It was the
brief moment of distraction Mia needed to put a final plan into action. She threw the throttle into reverse and gunned the engine. Abigail cried out as she flew backward. Her gun also went flying, into the depths of Long Island Sound. The crazed woman let loose a stream of vile language.

  “I’d rather die in a crash than let you kill me,” Mia, holding tight to the steering wheel, yelled back at her.

  “Too bad that’s not going to happen.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Mia saw a crazed Abigail coming toward her, hands extended, ready to wrap around Mia’s neck and choke her to death—the same way Mia assumed Tina had met her fate. She thrust the throttle into forward, praying the act didn’t strip the boat’s gears. The boat shifted direction so sharply it lifted Mia off her feet, but she managed to maintain her grasp on the steering wheel.

  Abigail wasn’t so lucky. The force of the direction shift caught her off balance. “Aghh!” she screamed as she tumbled off the side of the boat into the Sound.

  Mia quickly put the boat in neutral. Her plan had worked but she spiraled into panic. She couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Abigail to drown. On the other hand— rescue her potential killer? Not a great idea. Mia decided to split the difference. She grabbed a life vest and threw it to Abigail. “Here. When I get to shore—without you, you murdering psycho—I’ll send help.”

  Abigail swam toward the boat, ignoring the life vest. “No need,” she called to Mia, an evil grin on her face. “I’m a great swimmer.”

  As the murderous mogul swam toward the boat with strong, sure strokes, Mia hurried back to the steering wheel. She engaged the throttle, gunned the engine, and sped away.

  Well, will you look at me, Mia thought as she raced back to the Miller dock. I guess I do know what I’m doing.

  CHAPTER 21

  An hour later, the Miller estate glowed even brighter. But now the illumination came from police floodlights, not fairy lights, although they gamely continued twinkling in the trees.

  As soon as Mia crashed the speedboat into the estate’s dock—gotta work on my braking—she’d stumbled onto land, grabbed a cell phone out of the hands of a cater-waiter taking a cigarette break, and summoned law enforcement. It turned out they were already on the premises. Mia had spotted Liam O’Dwyer driving past her and Jamie. He’d been hired by Larkin to confirm that the second security system she’d installed was working properly. His presence led to a comedy of errors that doomed the second robbery attempt. “Garvalos and Spaulding both thought the other one hired me to work the heist,” he told Mia as they watched officers load the two handcuffed men in the back of a patrol car. “I played along and alerted the authorities.”

  “You’re a hero,” Mia said.

  “Nah,” the guard said, waving off the compliment. But he looked pleased.

  Mia turned her attention to Jamie. An officer had discovered him bound and gagged in the back of Castor Garvalos’s personal Versailles van. “Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked, concerned.

  Jamie nodded. He touched a spot on the top of his head and grimaced. “I didn’t get knocked out. I just saw stars. I’m more embarrassed than anything. I guess I’m not great at snooping around. That Garvalos guy totally figured out what I was doing.”

  “But you went down fighting,” Mia said, trying to bolster his ego. “It took him and Spaulding to tie you up.”

  Jamie, unconvinced, gave a halfhearted shrug. Liam pointed toward the cove. “Talk about going down fighting.”

  Mia followed the direction of his finger. Several officers were struggling to subdue a drenched Abigail Miller-Spaulding, who’d been retrieved from the water. “Do you know who I am?” she screamed at them, following the question she deemed rhetorical with a stream of insults and invectives. “Spencer, where are you? Call my lawyer!”

  “Yeah, that won’t be happening,” Mia said as the officers finally dragged her out of the water and into custody. “Spencer is otherwise engaged. Hey, you know who I don’t see anywhere? Sandeep. The Versailles chef.”

  “Oh, he zoomed out of here as soon as the police pulled up,” Liam said. “The cater-waiters are trying to figure out how to close the party with one boss arrested and the other on the run. For what, I don’t know. He wasn’t involved in the old or new heist.”

  Mia searched the crowd of looky-loos and law enforcement officials. “Do you see Larkin anywhere? I feel bad for her. It’s gotta be hard watching both your parents be carted off to jail.”

  “Or not,” Jamie said.

  He gestured toward the estate drive, where Larkin chased after the patrol car driving away with her father and Garvalos. “Where are the paintings? Where are the paintings?” she screamed as she ran, along with a panoply of profanity that would have made her foul-mouthed mother proud.

  “This is one cuckoo crazy family,” Liam said, shaking his head.

  Mia watched Larkin chasing after the patrol car, shaking a fist at it as the vehicle disappeared down the long, manicured drive. Mia switched her focus to Abigail, who was spewing bile at her arresting officers, unable to shake a fist because her hands had been cuffed behind her back. “It’s like what F. Scott Fitzgerald said about the rich. They’re different from you and me.”

  Jamie, surprised, favored her with a smile. “Look at you, quoting F. Scott.”

  “I liked his book, The Great Gatsby,” Mia said. “It stayed with me.”

  She gazed at the Millers’ palatial estate, probably built around the time Fitzgerald wrote his classic novel. Maybe he’d stayed at this very home. Who knew? It might even have been the mansion that inspired Gatsby’s. Mia then thought about the massively dysfunctional family it now housed—or did house, until two members were accused of heinous crimes. The compact two-family home she shared with her grandmother, which would forever smell like marinara gravy because the scent was imbedded in the walls, looked pretty good to her at the moment. So did Belle View. The humble banquet hall might be a work in progress, but at least it wasn’t a superficial beauty hiding a “laundry” list of criminal activity, like Versailles on the Park.

  “I think the police are done with us,” Jamie said. “You ready to go?”

  “Yup.” The snobby gifting tent employees had bailed on their duties when the police showed up, leaving behind a clutch of gift bags. Figuring she’d earned them, Mia had claimed a bunch for her family and friends. She filled her arms with as many as she could, then motioned to the others with her elbow. “I’ll get these. You get the rest.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Jamie grabbed the bags Mia couldn’t carry, and the two marched off to his car.

  * * *

  Mia spent the following week recapping her story to the police and monitoring updates. A call from Pete vindicated her insistence that Versailles was a hotbed of suspicious activity. “We picked up Sandeep Singh as he was about to board a flight to Mumbai,” he told her. “That was some smuggling operation he had going.”

  “More art?”

  “Nope. Saffron.”

  “The spice?” Mia said in disbelief.

  “The expensive, in-demand spice. There’s less of it thanks to global warming, and international gangs figured out it’s easier to smuggle than drugs. Your friend Ron Karras is off the hook by the way. When Garvalos was giving up his chef’s little operation to us in hopes of a plea deal, he admitted that when he uncovered the saffron smuggling, he demanded Singh cut him in on the profits. They had a fight, Singh pushed him, he fell backward and hit his head on the hand of one of those lady statues in front of Versailles.”

  “That’s why she’s missing a middle finger.”

  “Yup.”

  Mia ran through the events of the last few weeks in her head. She had one last question. “Garvalos said he had an investor with deep pockets. I thought it might be Singh, but since Garvalos only found out about the saffron smuggling a few days ago, that doesn’t time out. It had to be either Spencer Spaulding or Tina. My money’s on her.”

  “Ding,
ding, ding, you answered correctly. Yeah, in his blathering about how he wasn’t a crook, he was merely an ambitious businessman, he brought up his plan to expand the event business, with funding by his late ex-girlfriend.”

  “Who liked the idea of buying Belle View because she knew it—and us—are dear to Minnie and Linda’s hearts, thus providing a big eff-you to them.”

  “Given that she’s passed on, we have no way of knowing what she was thinking, but I can see the twisted logic in that,” Pete said. “This whole thing’s gonna make for a great Steve Stianopolis mystery. I already got the title. Con Artist.”

  “Good one.”

  “Thanks. Do me a favor. Tell Cammie I’m up for a promotion. Which’ll come with a raise.”

  “Will do.”

  “And Mia . . .” Pete paused. “I have to say, you got some real insight into the criminal mind.”

  “I understand the criminal mind,” she said, “because I grew up with it.”

  Mia managed to dodge all media requests except for one. She allowed Teri Fuoco an interview. Thanks to the reporter’s crush on Evans, Teri was open to presenting Belle View in a less Mob-by light. Even better, Donny Boldano proved to be the hero of the day. Through his JFK connections, he managed to locate a manifest from long-defunct Odyssey Airlines that confirmed Tina Iles-Karras worked a flight twenty years prior where a casket was flown from New York to France—and signed for by Justine Cadeau’s father, Parisian art dealer Pierre Cadeau.

  Teri’s story was picked up by multiple outlets, which made Mia happy because it meant Teri owed her. And in both their worlds, favors were currency. Feeling magnanimous, she invited the journalist to an off-the-record small event at Belle View celebrating the birth of Nicole and Ian’s baby boy, Lucas. New grandfather Ron, celebrating his freedom as well as his grandson, provided a feast from his diner. This allowed Guadalupe and Evans to join the party, although Evans insisted on trying his hand at baking a cannoli cake, which won raves from the most skeptical Italians in attendance, including a “molto deliciozo” from Elisabetta.