The Weekenders

by Mary Kay Andrews

  And, of course, in the ten years since they’d bought the house, Parrish had remodeled and refurnished it to magazine-worthy perfection. She’d covered the concrete block exterior with cedar shingles that had weathered to a soft silver, added a peaked-roof portico over the front door, put in divided-light windows, and painted the trim a deep green, Now the bunker looked like a snug New England cottage.

  “Here.” Parrish thrust a frosted tumbler with a piece of skewered lemon and a mint leaf into her hand.

  “Thanks.” Riley sipped and grimaced. “Kinda strong there, girlfriend.”

  “Desperate times, desperate measures. What’s happening over at the Shutters? I know Evvy is driving you crazy.”

  Riley fluttered her hand. “Not just Mama. It’s everybody. The word about Wendell is officially out. The casserole brigade started up this morning around eight and it has not let up. We have enough food to feed Pharaoh’s army, and it just keeps coming. Mama’s fridge and Billy and Scott’s at the firehouse is full, so Roo took a bunch of stuff over to the carriage house. And the phone’s been ringing off the hook…”

  She pulled her cell phone from the pocket of her shorts. “The voice mailbox on this thing is full too. I know people mean well, and I should at least listen, but honestly, I just can’t take one more ounce of sympathy.”

  Parrish put her hand out. “Gimme that thing. I’ll listen, write down the messages from people you care about, erase the ones from the pests.”

  “Would you? That would be great.”

  Parrish went into the house and came back with a yellow legal pad and pen.

  She stationed herself at the glass-topped wicker table and started taking notes while Riley slowly sipped her drink.

  “Your cousin Jacky called. You’re in her prayers. She wants to know when the funeral is going to be.”

  “Me, too,” Riley said. “I’ll call her when we’ve got everything set.”

  Parrish nodded and continued with the note taking.

  “Julie, your neighbor on St. Mary’s Street. Sends her love. Wants to know if you need anything.”

  “Julie?” Riley wrinkled her brow. “I haven’t talked to anybody in Raleigh. How does she know about Wendell?”

  “Dunno,” Parrish said. She listened for another five minutes and put the phone down. “Word’s out up there, that’s for sure. The book-club girls want to know where to send flowers, and the principal at Maggy’s school also sends condolences.”

  “How in the hell?… It’s only been a day.”

  “Bad news travels fast,” Parrish pointed out.

  She picked up the phone again, listened for a moment, scribbled something on the legal pad, listened again, and scribbled some more before setting the phone carefully down on the tabletop.

  “Uh, Riles? You’ve got three phone calls from reporters here.”

  “What?” Riley stopped swinging abruptly. “Who called? What do they want?”

  Parrish consulted her notes. “Some guy from the Wilmington paper. His name’s Bert … something. He left a number, wants you to call. Says he’s working on Wendell’s obituary.”

  “No way,” Riley said. “Who else?”

  “Nancy Olivera—from the Raleigh News and Observer. Same thing, says she’s working on an obituary.”

  “I can’t figure out how they know about Wendell,” Riley said. “This is so bizarre. When I worked at WRAL, we’d get tips from the funeral home, or sometimes the cops, when there was a suspicious death, but I haven’t even called a funeral home yet. And I can’t believe the sheriff would go around notifying the media.”

  “Don’t reporters check police reports to find out stuff like this?”

  “They used to,” Riley said. “But things have changed since I got out of the business. Newspapers have skeleton staffs these days. No way some reporter from Wilmington or Raleigh just happened to check the police reports in little bitty Baldwin County. Somebody must have tipped them off.”

  “Speaking of WRAL, you have a call from them, too.”

  Riley’s shoulders relaxed a little. “Probably somebody I worked with back in the day, calling to offer condolences.”

  “You know a woman named Kelsey Kennedy? She sounds young. Like maybe she’s still in kindergarten.”

  “Everybody who works in television today is just barely out of kindergarten,” Riley assured her. “That name sounds familiar, but I don’t know why.”

  She chewed on a piece of ice while she thought. “You must mean Kasey Kennedy. She really is a kid. Or she was. She was an intern the last summer I worked at the station. That’s kind of nice that she called, I guess.”

  Parrish tapped her pen on the notepad. “I don’t think she’s calling with condolences. Says she’s working on a story about Wendell’s questionable financial dealings, wants to know if it’s true the FBI is involved.”

  The iced tea glass slipped from Riley’s fingers, shattering on impact.

  “I’ll get the broom,” Parrish said, handing her the phone.

  Riley touched the phone’s Message Replay button and listened.

  “Hi, Riley? This is Kasey Kennedy at WRAL? I don’t know if you remember me, but we worked together several years ago. Anyway, I’m soooo sorry about your husband. And this is kind of touchy, I know, but I just have to tell you, I’m working on a story about your husband’s business dealings with a bank in Southpoint. And I understand the FBI is investigating? So if you could call me back, I’d really appreciate it. I’m kind of on a deadline, too. I know you know how that is!”

  * * *

  Parrish busied herself sweeping up the glass and mopping up the spilled drink.

  “The FBI?” Riley put the phone back on the table. “And some bank in Southpoint? This is crazy.”

  “You have no idea what she’s talking about, right?” Parrish asked, sitting beside her on the swing.

  “No! And it can’t be true. I’d have heard something.” Riley clasped and unclasped her hands, trying to stop them from shaking.

  “What are you going to do?”

  Riley grabbed the phone. “I’m going to call that little bitch and threaten to sue her ass for slander if she so much as repeats one word of this shit. And then I’m calling Jim Swearingen, the station manager. He’s known me forever. He’ll put a stop to this crap.”

  Parrish gently took the phone out of her friend’s hand. “Don’t. Don’t call the reporters. Don’t call the station manager. I’m not your lawyer, but when you get a lawyer, she’ll tell you the same thing. I know it’s hard, but just button your lip, okay?”

  “My God,” Riley said, staring at Parrish. “What if it is true? What if Wendell really was involved in some kind of shady stuff? Maybe the house foreclosure is connected? The FBI—Parrish.”

  “I know. Scary. But we’ll get it figured out. You want some lunch? I picked up sandwich stuff at the Mercantile.”

  “Food. Ugh.” Riley grimaced. “I better get home.”

  “How’s Maggy today?”

  “Okay, from what I can tell, but she’s such a funny kid. Yesterday, she was completely undone. Wouldn’t come out of her room, wouldn’t talk to anybody. Then, early this morning, she calmly announces she’s going fishing with the Billingsley kids. Like nothing had happened.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather have her doing that than sitting around brooding?”

  “Yeah. I’m glad she finally made friends with some kids on the island. It’s just … I worry, you know? She and Wendell were so close. Much closer than she and I are. I think she’s still in shock. And I am, too. Oh my God. The FBI. What am I going to tell Maggy? What’ll I tell Mama? If it’s true…”

  “Maybe it’s just gossip,” Parrish said, thinking back uneasily to the pillow talk she’d shared with Ed earlier in the day.

  “As if this day couldn’t get any worse, I’m taking Maggy over to Southpoint this afternoon to view Wendell’s body.”

  “Really?”

  “She’s adamant that she wants to say g
ood-bye to her Daddy,” Riley said. “And I don’t have the heart to say no. So that’s the fun we’ve got in store for the rest of the day. Whee!”

  “Call me later and let me know how it went,” Parrish said. “In the meantime, I’ll light a fire under Ed to find you a lawyer.”

  15

  “Mrs. Griggs?” The social worker who met them in the hospital lobby wore dangly turquoise earrings and a white lab coat unbuttoned over a lime-green blouse and coral slacks. Her skin was smooth and unlined. The name badge pinned to her coat read DIANE LOPRESTI, M.S.W.

  “That’s right,” Riley said. She gestured toward her daughter. “And this is Maggy.”

  “Please call me Diane.” She shook both their hands. Her grip was firm and cool, and the gray eyes behind her wire-rimmed glasses were kind, but not pitying.

  “We’re going to go down to the hospital’s basement,” Diane said, noticing Maggy’s tank top. “They keep it pretty chilly down there. Can I get either of you a sweater? I keep extras in my office.”

  “I’m okay,” Maggy said.

  “All right. Did the sheriff tell you what to expect today?”

  Riley’s throat was dry. She coughed and coughed again. “Just that you’d be taking us to the hospital’s morgue. He, um, said the autopsy hasn’t happened yet.…”

  “That’s correct. So I’m going to take you into a room, and your husband will be on a sort of table, covered with a drape. We’ll be the only ones there. Does that sound all right?”

  Maggy’s eyes were the size of saucers. Riley took her hand and squeezed it.

  “Okay,” Maggy said.

  When the elevator stopped, they stepped into a tile-floored corridor, then paused a few yards down the hall, in front of a set of double doors. Diane swiped a plastic key card through an electronic reader and the doors swung inward to admit them.

  They walked slowly down another short hallway, then paused in front of a third door. The social worker repeated the key-card procedure. The door swung open and they were in a tile-floored room.

  The table was stainless steel. The sheet was white. Wendell Griggs’s face was a waxy gray.

  Riley felt her own breathing slow. She couldn’t look. But she couldn’t not, to convince herself that this was real.

  The first thing that struck her was that a stranger had combed Wendell’s hair, parting it on the wrong side. His beard was unshaven, at least a three-days’ growth shadowed his cheeks, chin, and upper lip. He’d always been so particular about shaving, keeping a razor at work, just in case of a late-day or early evening meeting.

  She stared. This had been a face she’d kissed, caressed, dreamt about. Not a classically handsome face, but strong, with a straight, prominent nose, a square chin, and cheekbones that looked as though they’d been sculpted with a hatchet.

  Riley had told herself dozens of times over the past few months that this thing they’d had, their love, passion, sense of partnership, had cooled, and finally extinguished itself. She’d quit caring, or so she’d convinced herself.

  It was all a lie.

  Now Wendell’s face, always mobile, agitated or excited, was flaccid, like old rubber. She felt burning bile rise in her throat and had to swallow, hard, to keep from gagging.

  Maggy grabbed her mother’s hand and held on tight. Riley gripped her daughter’s hand with both of her own, fearing that if she didn’t, she, the mother, the supposedly nurturing adult, would have bolted for the door.

  “Okay?” Diane asked.

  “Can I touch him?” Maggy whispered, turning to look at the social worker, who stood beside her, a hand resting lightly on her shoulder.

  “Do you want to?”

  “I don’t know.” Maggy’s lower lip trembled.

  “It’s okay either way.” Diane’s voice was gentle. She looked over Maggy’s head at Riley and nodded, then took a step backward. Riley released her daughter’s hand, then did the same.

  Slowly, hesitantly, Maggy reached out. Her hand was shaking, but her fingertips brushed Wendell’s cheek. “Daddy,” she whispered. Her shoulders shuddered as a sob escaped. “Oh, Daddy.”

  Maggy turned and Riley wrapped both arms around her weeping child. “He’s really dead,” Maggy said, lifting a tearstained face toward her mother’s.

  “I know,” Riley said. “I know, baby.”

  * * *

  In the car, on the way back to the Southpoint ferry dock, Maggy sat as far from her mother as she could, staring out the window at scenery she’d seen dozens of times before.

  “You hungry?” Riley asked.

  “No!” Maggy exploded. “What is wrong with you? You expect me to eat now? God! I wanna puke, just thinking about food.”

  The violence of the child’s reaction took Riley aback for a moment. Was this how it was going to be between them? Anger and hostility?

  She would have to deal with this the only way she knew how. With the lightest touch possible.

  “Me, too,” Riley admitted. “But we can’t let your blood sugar get out of whack, or I’ll have to turn around and go right back to that hospital. Mimi’s already pissed at me, you know. That would really put her over the edge.” She managed a shaky laugh. “If something happened to you, she’d kill me, and then you’d be an orphan, and you’d have to live with her until you go away to college.”

  “No way,” Maggy shot back. “If anything ever happens to you, I’m going to live with Bebo and Uncle Scott.”

  “Good luck with that,” Riley said.

  Maggy’s posture relaxed a little. “Okay. I’ll eat. Can I just get a burger on the ferry?”

  “Sure,” Riley said.

  “Mom? Mimi really is pissed at you. How come?”

  “Oh, honey. That’s just her way. Sometimes I get pissed at you too, in case you haven’t noticed. It’s a mother-daughter thing. Doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”

  “No, seriously. Tell me.”

  Riley glanced sideways. Maggy had pivoted in the seat and she was searching her face for the truth.

  “Okay,” she said, sighing. “She’s mad at me because I told her—before we knew about your dad—that we were getting a divorce.”

  Maggy closed her eyes and looked away. “So it really was true? You guys were breaking up?”

  “Afraid so. The plan was that we’d tell you together, this weekend. That’s why I was so upset when he wasn’t on the ferry Friday. I just thought he was ditching his responsibility.”

  “That is so lame that you would think that,” Maggy said angrily. “He promised me he was coming. I knew he wouldn’t break his promise. I knew something was wrong.”

  Something has been very wrong for a very long time, Riley thought.

  “Why did you want a divorce?” Maggy asked. “I know Dad didn’t want one. He told me.”

  “He told you that? When?”

  Maggy shrugged. “Awhile ago. He picked me up after school, right after Easter, and we went out for tacos, because he knew I was mad that he didn’t come to the beach with us.”

  How like Wendell, Riley thought. Letting their daughter believe the divorce was all my fault.

  She chose her words carefully. “Your dad and I hadn’t been happy together in a long time. We went to marriage counseling, but it didn’t do much good, partly because he didn’t make it to half the sessions.”

  “He said the marriage counselor was on your side,” Maggy offered. “That she said it was all his fault. So that’s why he quit going.”

  Damn Wendell Griggs. He was sabotaging her from the grave.

  “That was his point of view. My point of view was that he was never home. But neither of us was without fault. There was other stuff too, stuff that I don’t feel comfortable talking about to you right now, especially since your dad is gone. Okay? Can we leave it at that?”

  “Whatever.” Now Maggy was wearing her all-too-familiar stone-faced mask. Incredible that she’d perfected it at such a young age. But then, her daughter had always been precocious. She turne
d back toward the window. “You’re probably glad Dad’s dead.”

  “Hey!” Riley said. She made a sharp right-hand turn into the parking lot of a strip shopping center and put the car in Park.

  “Look at me, please.”

  Maggy turned to her with dead eyes. “What?”

  “That was a horrible thing you just said to me. I certainly am not glad about your dad. I was in that room back at the hospital, too. Remember? Wendell wasn’t just your dad. He was my husband. For almost twenty years. Things between us were complicated, it’s true. But I cared about him. I’m hurting, too. Don’t make this harder on us than it has to be. Please? I know you don’t believe me, but I’m on your side, Maggy. A hundred percent.”

  “You’re on my side?” Her arms were crossed, hands locked to elbows, over her chest.

  “Of course. Now more than ever.”

  “Great,” Maggy said. “Will you do something for me?”

  “If I can. If it’s possible.” Riley was instantly wary. Was this some kind of a trap? Since she’d been diagnosed with type 1 diabetes, Maggy had become expert at emotional manipulation.

  “The sheriff said it wasn’t an accident. So I want to know who killed Dad,” Maggy said. “Promise me you’ll find out who did this to him.”

  “Me? Maggy, you don’t know what you’re asking. I’m no detective. This isn’t CSI: Belle Isle. Anyway, we don’t even know yet whether it was an accident. We won’t know until the autopsy.”

  “Promise me,” Maggy said, her voice steely. “If you ever really loved Dad, then you’ll do it. Promise?”

  “I promise,” Riley said wearily. “I promise to do whatever I can.”

  “And you’ll tell me the truth? Even if Mimi gets pissed at you? Even if you think it will upset me?”

  “Can we just take this a day at a time?” Riley pleaded.

  “No. Do you promise?”

  “God help me, I do.”

  16

  Scott stood on the bottom stair of the firehouse, the strap of his battered Louis Vuitton carry-on dangling over his right shoulder, his laptop bag hanging over his left.

  He’d been upstairs packing when he heard the first soft notes wafting upward. Now, as he stood in the open-plan living room in the high-ceilinged old brick structure, he looked over at Billy, his back to the stairs, hunched over the gleaming baby grand piano, his long, tapered fingers drifting over the keys.