by Margot Hunt
The police officers exchanged a look, but Demer nodded.
“We’ll see you then,” he said.
Once the front door was closed and we were alone again, my husband looked anxiously at me.
“What’s going on? Why do the police want to talk to you?” Todd hissed, keeping his voice low so Liam and Bridget wouldn’t hear. Children have superhuman hearing when it comes to picking up on any brewing parental conflict.
“I have no idea,” I said. “But Howard’s death was...odd.” An understatement, to say the least. “I’m sure they have to investigate. Make sure there wasn’t any...I don’t know, foul play.”
Foul play. It was such a melodramatic phrase, like something out of an Agatha Christie novel. Murderous vicars and little old ladies who put arsenic in the tea.
“But why do they think you’d know anything about it?”
“I’m sure they don’t.” I shrugged. “But they obviously know that Kat and I are friends.”
“I don’t think you should speak to the police without having an attorney present.”
“What? Why? I’m not a suspect,” I said.
“How do you know?”
“Because that would be insane,” I said. I shook my head. “Look, I’m sure they have to investigate, even when the death was clearly accidental. It’s certainly nothing to worry about.”
“Then why are the police at our door at eight in the morning,” Todd pointed out.
“I have no idea, but there’s no reason to overreact,” I said, turning away. “I have to go check on the kids. If I don’t pay attention, Liam eats all the toast and none of his eggs, and Bridget doesn’t eat anything at all.”
My husband grabbed my arm and spun me back toward him. He leaned forward, his face close to mine, and whispered, “What’s going on? Did Kat have something to do with Howard’s death?”
His breath was hot and smelled of coffee. I pulled my arm out of his grip and took a step back. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course she didn’t.”
Todd wasn’t sure if he should believe me. I could tell by the way he was searching my face, looking for some trace of a lie in the way I blinked my eyes or clenched my jaw.
Like a visitor to the island of Knights and Knaves, Todd wanted to try his hand at ferreting out the liars.
I felt a stab of fear and hoped I was more convincing when I spoke to the police.
2
Jupiter Island was a long, narrow barrier island north of Palm Beach. There were only a few access points to reach it from the mainland, which I assumed was by design to ensure the privacy of its well-heeled residents. I approached it from the south, driving up US Highway 1, taking a right just past the Jupiter Lighthouse, then heading north up the island on Beach Road.
I drove past the tall condo buildings of Palm Beach County. They abruptly stopped, signaling that I’d passed into Martin County with its more stringent zoning laws. I passed through the Blowing Rocks Preserve, where the road was lined with short palm trees and bushy sea grape shrubs. Just past the preserve and tourist parking, the private houses began. Some were visible from the road, others sheltered behind gates and privacy hedges. All were large and ostentatious. The houses to the east fronted the Atlantic Ocean, while the ones to the west faced the Intracoastal Waterway. Each property had a twee white sign set by the curb, displaying the family name or the name of the house—Sand Castle or Shangri-La—or the more practical, if somewhat pointed, Service Entrance.
Kat’s house was on the left about a mile past the preserve, set back at the end of a gravel drive. I wondered if she was home, and I thought about stopping and checking on her before I went to the police station. I’d called her twice on my way over to the island, but she hadn’t picked up. This wasn’t entirely unusual. Unlike most people of the modern world, Kat had only a tenuous connection to her cell phone. She didn’t always pick up when I called, and she frequently ignored texts for hours, or even a day.
We’d spoken only once, briefly, since Howard’s death. Kat had been in London to meet with several artists whose work she was considering carrying in her gallery. She’d called me from Heathrow while she was waiting for her flight home. Kat had been subdued, which wasn’t surprising. The police had tracked her down at her hotel in London only hours earlier to notify her that Howard was dead. The housekeeper had found his body lying facedown on the back patio.
“Are you okay?” I’d asked.
“No,” she’d said. “But I will be. At least, I think I will.”
“I wish you didn’t have to be on your own right now.”
“I usually hate the flight back from Europe, but I’m sort of glad that I’ll have this time to pull myself together. There will be so much to do once I get home,” Kat said.
“Have you spoken to Amanda?” I asked. Kat’s daughter was in her first year of medical school at Emory, in Atlanta.
“I’m going to wait until I get home,” Kat explained. “She’s studying for a big test in her anatomy class. I don’t want to upset her.”
“You probably won’t be able to avoid upsetting her,” I said as gently as I could.
“I know, but I’d like to at least put off telling her until after her exam is over.” Kat sighed. “Marguerite was apparently hysterical. It must have been awful for her, finding him like that. What does it mean when the housekeeper has shed more tears for my dead husband than I have?”
“It probably means you’re in shock,” I said.
Kat’s flight had been called then, and she had to hang up. I hadn’t spoken to her since. I’d tried calling and texting her a few times, but she hadn’t responded. I knew she was probably busy planning the funeral and dealing with her relatives. Stopping by now, uninvited, at a house in mourning seemed intrusive. I drove by.
I arrived at the Jupiter Island Public Safety Department. It was located in a charming yellow building with green shutters, lush landscaping and neat hedgerows, and across the street from one of the holes of the Jupiter Island Club’s pristinely manicured golf course. I parked my ancient Volvo in a small lot just to the left of where the island’s two fire trucks were housed.
I checked my phone, but Kat still hadn’t responded. I sent her a text:
At Jupiter island police. They asked me 2 come in 4 interview about Howard. Not sure what’s going on, but will try to be helpful. Hope ur ok. xx.
I dropped my phone into my bag and climbed out of my car into the Florida sunshine. It was an unusually warm morning, and I had dressed for it in a light blue linen shirtdress and flat brown sandals. But the fabric was already starting to wilt in the heat, and perspiration beaded on my forehead. There was a flagpole in front of the building with an American flag at full mast. A light breeze caused the pulley to bang with a metallic rhythm against the pole.
As I entered the police station, a frigid blast of air-conditioning hit me. The waiting room area was small and, apart from some chairs and a table scattered with magazines, empty. Jupiter Island did not appear to be a hotbed of criminal activity.
I walked up to the middle-aged woman sitting at the reception desk. She wore a floral dress rather than a police uniform, and her glasses hung around her neck on a beaded cord. There was a small brass dish shaped like a pineapple and filled with candy on her desk.
“How can I help you, dear?” she asked.
“I’m here to see Detective Alex Demer. My name is Alice Campbell,” I said.
“Of course,” she said, smiling up at me. “He’s expecting you.”
I had deliberately not asked for Oliver. I hadn’t liked her, and I hoped she wouldn’t be there for the interview. But then I remembered the whole good cop–bad cop phenomenon. Maybe she’d been purposely rude so I’d open up to the more sympathetic Demer. Or was that just something from the movies?
The receptionist told me to take a seat, but I waited only a few minutes bef
ore Detective Demer came out to greet me, holding a paper coffee cup in one hand. His height should have made him imposing, but for some reason, he wasn’t. Perhaps it was his rumpled suit or his ugly tie, or the fact that his eyes looked tired and bloodshot. I wondered if his unkempt appearance was a result of living out of a hotel or if he always looked like this. Did he have a wife at home who did his laundry and picked up his dry cleaning? Or did he live in a bachelor pad with dirty dishes piled in the sink? I glanced at the detective’s left hand. He wasn’t wearing a wedding band.
“Mrs. Campbell, thank you for coming in,” he said, extending the hand that wasn’t holding the coffee cup.
I stood and shook his hand. “Of course.”
“Come on back. I’m working out of the conference room,” he said, nodding toward the hallway he’d just emerged from.
I followed him. The building didn’t look anything like the police stations did on urban cop movies, with the huge cement-floored rooms furnished with rows of industrial desks and perps handcuffed to chairs. Instead it looked like the office of an insurance company, with subdued furnishings and a low-pile beige carpet. We passed a few small offices, most of which were empty. Sergeant Oliver sat in one, and she looked up when we passed.
“Mrs. Campbell is here,” Demer said to her.
“I see that. I’ll be right in,” Oliver replied.
The detective led me to a small conference room and gestured for me to sit at a rectangular table with a shiny cherry finish. Sun was streaming in through two windows, and Demer adjusted the blinds so the light wouldn’t be in my eyes.
“Can I get you anything to drink?” he asked. “Coffee? Although I wouldn’t, if I were you.” He held up his Starbucks cup. “I’m not a coffee snob by any stretch, so you can imagine how bad it would have to be to get me to spend five bucks on this. We also have soda and bottled water.”
“Water would be great,” I answered.
“Sure thing. I’ll be right back.”
Demer left just as Oliver strode in. She had removed her suit jacket and rolled up the sleeves of her blue oxford button-down. Her face was bare of makeup, and the only jewelry she wore was a pair of small gold hoop earrings. She took a seat across from me, dropping a notebook on the table.
“You took your time getting here,” she said. The bad cop was officially on the scene.
I wondered if she was always this bad-tempered or if there was something about this particular case bothering her. Was it contempt for the extremely wealthy area her department policed? But if so, why choose to work here over a grittier but surely more exciting law enforcement agency, like in West Palm or even Miami? Or did her anger stem from Demer’s presence? Maybe she was angry that he had been brought in from Tallahassee to work on an investigation that she had expected to take the lead on.
I chose not to respond to her comment. Instead I looked back at her steadily, wanting to make it clear early on that I would not be bullied.
“I heard you’re some sort of a writer,” Oliver said, folding her arms over her chest.
I nodded. “I’m the author of a series of books of logic puzzles for children.”
“How’d you come up with that idea?”
“It’s my background. I was an associate professor in the mathematics department at the University of Miami.”
The sergeant’s eyebrows arched.
“But you’re not a professor now?” she asked.
“No.”
“Did you, like, get fired or something?” She gave a contemptuous snort. I knew she was purposely trying to needle me, but I didn’t know why. Either she was just an unpleasant person or she wanted to see how I’d react to her barbs.
I smiled without warmth. “I stopped teaching after my daughter was born.”
“And why was that?” Oliver leaned forward, her elbows braced on the table.
“Personal choice.” There hadn’t actually been much of a choice, but I wasn’t about to get into that now.
The door opened and Demer came in. He glanced from Oliver to me and back again.
“Everything okay in here?”
“Sergeant Oliver has been asking me about my work experience,” I said. “But I assume that’s not what you wanted to talk to me about.”
“No, it’s not,” Demer agreed. He handed me a bottle of water and sat down next to Oliver. The detective placed a folder on the table and flipped it open. “Thank you for taking time out of your schedule to come talk with us.”
“Of course. Although I’m still not sure how I can help you.”
“Why don’t you let us worry about that?” Oliver interjected.
I pressed my lips together and folded my hands in my lap. Demer’s eyes flitted in the direction of his partner. I sensed that he wasn’t on board with her interview technique. Maybe he didn’t like the good cop–bad cop dynamic any more than I did. Or maybe this was part of their act, too.
“As you know, we’re investigating the death of Howard Grant...” Demer began.
I nodded.
“As I’m sure you know, the cause of his death was unusual,” the detective continued. He glanced up at me. “I’m assuming you know how he died.”
“Yes.” I couldn’t help but shiver. “It was pretty awful.”
“How well did you know Mr. Grant?” Demer asked.
I paused, not quite sure how to answer this. I had actually spent very little time with Howard over the years. But Kat had confided so much to me about her husband and their marriage that in some ways I knew him intimately.
“I knew Howard, of course, and we would occasionally be at social events together,” I said carefully. “But Kat was the one I was friends with—is the one I’m friends with. I knew Howard only because he was married to Kat.”
“So you consider yourself and Mr. Grant to be, what—social acquaintances?” Demer asked.
I nodded. “I suppose that’s the best description.”
“Were you ever alone with him?” Demer continued.
“No.” Then I hesitated, realizing this wasn’t quite true. “I mean, there were a few times when I was at their house and Kat would leave the room for one reason or another. But we never spent any significant time alone together.”
“Would you say that Howard Grant was a heavy drinker?” the detective asked.
“Yes.”
“How would you define that? What a heavy drinker is, I mean,” he qualified.
“I’m not an expert on the subject, but from what I observed, I’d say that Howard was an alcoholic,” I told the detective. “Almost every time I saw him, he was drinking.”
“But you just said that you saw Mr. Grant only at social events,” Oliver cut in. “Times when drinking alcoholic beverages wouldn’t be unusual.”
“That’s true. But even then, he drank quite a bit more than I would consider a normal amount. And Kat and I are close. She was concerned about how much he drank.” It felt odd disclosing this confidence—Kat and I had always guarded each other’s secrets—but I didn’t see any way around it. “Wasn’t he drinking the night he died?”
“At the time of his death, Mr. Grant had a blood alcohol level of .30. Do you know what that means?” Demer folded his hands on the table and looked steadily at me.
“That sounds high.”
“It is. For a man his height and weight, he would have consumed around eleven drinks in a three-hour period. Most people would have passed out by that point.”
I nodded. “I guess that’s how he fell off the balcony.”
“But, see, that’s the thing we keep going back to. Why was he even out on his balcony? If he’d had that much to drink, so much that he should have passed out, why was he outside in the first place? Did he suddenly get the urge to go look at the stars?” Demer said.
“And more to the point, how did he fall over the rail
ing?” Oliver chimed in.
I frowned. “You just said he was so drunk, it was surprising he was even conscious. Maybe he leaned over the railing and blacked out.”
I shifted in my seat. I might not have liked Howard, or been close to him, but I certainly didn’t enjoy conjuring up the gruesome image of him toppling off the second-story balcony of his and Kat’s lavish Mediterranean-style house. The thought of his body falling heavily to the patio below, smashing against the Italian travertine, and the ambient lights around the pool illuminating his blood as it spread outward from his broken body made me queasy.
“Have you ever leaned over a railing?” Oliver stood. “The automatic tendency would be to brace yourself like this.” She demonstrated falling forward and splayed her hands out in front of her, catching them on the table. “It would actually take some effort to go over the railing. Even if you were drunk.” She shrugged. “Especially if you were drunk, since your coordination would be impaired.”
“So, what...you think Howard jumped?” I asked, arching my eyebrows. “You think he committed suicide?”
“No.” Demer leaned forward slightly, his brown bloodshot eyes fixed on me more intensely than I was comfortable with. “We definitely don’t think Howard Grant committed suicide.”
This stark statement hung between us. I felt a frisson of fear.
“Let’s start from the beginning,” Demer said. “How long have you known Katherine Grant?”
3
Three Years Earlier
“Attention, passengers on Flight 523 to West Palm Beach. We are experiencing mechanical difficulties with the aircraft that will cause a delay in our departure time. We will update you as soon as we get additional information. Thank you for your patience.”
I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply through my nose. It was the third time a delay had been announced over the crackling airport intercom.
“How much longer are we going to be stuck here?” Liam whined.
“Forever,” Bridget moaned.
I privately agreed with my daughter that it certainly did feel like we would be stuck there forever in airport purgatory. The terminal at JFK was crowded with holiday travelers. Everyone looked grumpy as they slumped on uncomfortable seats, their luggage and possessions scattered around them. When the announcement had begun, the herd had raised their heads hopefully, ears pricking up. At the news of another delay, shoulders sagged and groans rang out all around.
