“Where exactly are you?” Wendell’s voice was curt, businesslike.
“I don’t know,” Billy wailed. “I’d been drinking a little bit. It’s dark, and there aren’t any houses around.”
“Pull it together, goddamn it,” Wendell said. “What road are you on?”
“The county road. Maybe six, eight miles from town.”
“Did you pass the Pak-n-Sak?”
“Yeah. I guess it’s a mile or so back.”
“I’m leaving the island now. I’ll pick you up there in half an hour, but make sure you don’t let anybody see you.”
“I won’t.”
* * *
He was hiding behind a Dumpster in the Pak-n-Sak parking lot when the black Jeep pulled in. Billy jumped into the front seat and Wendell sped away.
“How much farther?” Wendell asked.
Billy’s head was throbbing, and he pressed bloody fingertips to his temples. “Not sure.”
“A mile? Two?” Wendell gave him a sideways glance. “Jesus, you’re a mess! There should be some wet wipes in the glove box there. Clean yourself up.”
Billy did as he was told. “I think it’s not too much farther. Better slow down. Wait. Yeah. Right up there. That’s the tree.”
Wendell pulled the Jeep a few yards off the shoulder of the road and cut the headlights and then the engine. Billy started to get out of the Jeep.
“Stay here,” Wendell said.
Moonlight illuminated the maroon Olds, and he could see the silhouette of the dog, still crouching by a lifeless form. Billy didn’t want to see any more. He closed his eyes and slumped down in the seat.
Ten minutes later, Wendell was back in the car. He pulled back onto the roadway and headed toward town.
“How was Heidi?” Billy asked as they pulled away.
“Heidi? Who the…”
“The dog,” Billy said quickly. “Cal’s dog. She jumped in the car with us. She was in the backseat when it happened. Is she okay?”
“What do you care?” Wendell’s eyes were trained on the road. “It’s taken care of.”
They rode in silence.
“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” Wendell said suddenly. “Listen up, Billy, because this is important.”
“I’m listening.”
“My boat is at the marina in town. I’m taking you back to the island, and I’ll drop you at your place. You look like shit, by the way. Is anything broken?”
“My head is killing me. I might have a concussion. And maybe a cracked rib?”
“You’ll heal. Unlike your friend back there. You’re gonna stay in your house, not see anybody until the cuts and bruises are gone.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m gonna take care of it. When the police call about the accident, you’re gonna tell them Cal must have borrowed the Olds without your permission. He knew you always hid the keys under the floor mats. How do you happen to know that guy anyway?”
“He was my AA sponsor,” Billy said.
Wendell gave him a sharp look. “I wondered why you were on the wagon.”
27
Riley tiptoed out of the darkened house on Friday morning. The sandy road was damp with dew as she walked east toward the village. The island was still slumbering, but she heard birds twittering awake in the treetops and, as she walked, sunlight began to filter through the deep green canopy overhead.
She stopped once in the middle of the road, closed her eyes, and inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of pine needles, wisteria, and even the faintest tang of skunk. “Live in the moment,” she whispered. “That’s all you can do. Just live in the moment.” Today was the day she’d decided she would make the arrangements for Wendell’s memorial. His body still hadn’t been released, but what did that matter? It was a chore that she wanted to put behind her.
As she mounted the wooden stairs of the Mercantile, lights flickered on inside, and a young woman in jeans and a turquoise Mercantile T-shirt unlocked the door and gestured for Riley to come inside.
The old worn floorboards creaked beneath her feet as she passed the shelves of gourmet groceries toward the back of the store, following the irresistible smell of fresh-ground coffee and baked goods.
Riley stood in front of the display case, eyeing the temptations. There were rows and rows of cookies, frosted cupcakes, and brownies. A swinging door from the kitchen opened, and a baker in a black T-shirt and a white apron emerged with a large sheet pan balanced on one shoulder.
When he lowered the pan to the marble countertop, she realized the baker was actually Nate Milas. Without looking up, he slid the glass display case door open and began arranging muffins on flat baskets.
She gave a discreet cough. “What can I get you?—” he started, and then stopped when he realized that Riley was the customer.
“Well, hello,” he said. “Welcome to the Mercantile.”
“What are you doing here?” she asked. “Don’t tell me you’re a baker now.”
“Nah. I’m just free labor. I help my mom out here some mornings when she needs an extra set of hands. One of our college kids who works the morning shift can’t come in until eight today.”
The kitchen door swung open, and Annie Milas bustled through, carrying cartons of milk and half-and-half, which she set on the countertop coffee station.
“Hi, Riley,” she said, joining her son. She was at least a foot shorter than Nate, her silver hair pushed back from her face with a knotted blue bandana, and an easy smile.
“Did Nate tell you about today’s muffin specials? Blueberry oatmeal, apple raisin, banana maple, and strawberry cream cheese. And I’ve got orange marmalade and bacon cheddar scones that should be out in about five minutes.”
“They all sound amazing,” Riley said. “But for now I think maybe just a fruit cup—and a large coffee.”
“You don’t know what you’re missing,” Annie teased.
Riley took her order out to the porch and found a small round table facing the water. She sipped her coffee and thought about the day ahead. As she was spooning up the last strawberry in her fruit cup, Nate appeared on the porch carrying an insulated coffee carafe and something wrapped in wax paper, which he presented to his only customer.
“Mom wanted to know if you’d help her out by giving this a taste. It’s a dried cherry and pecan scone. She’s testing a new recipe.”
“Twist my arm,” Riley said. The scone was still warm from the oven. She nibbled an edge. “Mmm. Tell Annie she’s got a winner. I wouldn’t change a thing.”
“I’ll let her know. I don’t really get the whole concept of a scone. I’m a biscuit and sausage gravy man myself.” He took the chair opposite hers and poised the coffeepot above her mug. Riley nodded, and he poured a refill.
“How’s Maggy doing? Is she still under house arrest?”
“I think I’ll grant the poor kid early release. Her grandmother has been on her case, and she’s really missing her dad. She’s had a pretty miserable week.”
He looked at her closely. “How about you? Have things gotten any better in your world since I saw you the other day?”
“No,” she said flatly. “My house is going on the auction block.”
He didn’t act surprised. “Will you try to bid on it?”
“I’m not sure I can.…”
Before Riley could explain, Annie Milas pushed the door open and stuck her head out. “Nate, sorry to interrupt, but Wayne just called from Southpoint. He says it’s urgent.”
“It’s always urgent,” Nate said, standing up. He turned to Riley. “Thanks for the input on the baked goods.”
“I better get back to the house myself. Thanks for the scone, Annie. Two thumbs up.”
Nate followed his mother into the Mercantile. Customers had begun wandering in, looking for caffeine and carbs. Summer Fridays were insanely busy, and today looked like it would be even busier than usual.
Annie glanced over at Nate. “Did you tell her?” She nodded to
ward the porch and Riley, who was polishing off the rest of her scone.
“I didn’t get a chance,” Nate said. “Every time I think the time might be right to let her know, something comes up.”
He pointed toward the bay, at the approaching ferry. “Wayne was calling to say we’re short a deckhand today. I better get over to the landing.”
He leaned over and gave his mother a peck on the cheek.
* * *
Miles Kenton’s bulk filled his leather wingback chair. He was about Riley’s age, she knew, because the Kentons had a summer cottage on Belle Isle, and his father, Miller, had been friends with Riley’s father, W.R. But the funeral home director looked much older, with his shiny bald head, rumpled suit coat, and suspenders.
“Your sweet mama called to let me know I’d probably be hearing from you today,” he said.
“Yes,” Riley said. “She’s been a busy little bee helping with arrangements.”
Miles gave her a benevolent smile. “You know, it’s been my family’s privilege to bury three generations of Nolans. And I knew Wendell from Kiwanis. He was a fine man. You have my condolences.”
“Thank you,” Riley said.
“Had you and Wendell discussed any kind of plans?”
“We hadn’t discussed anything lately,” Riley said in what she was sure was the understatement of the day.
“Will you be wanting Wendell buried in the family plot on the island?”
Riley considered the idea briefly, then nodded. If nothing else, the family plot, under a moss-hung oak tree in the churchyard on Belle Isle was free. Free was key right now.
Miles nodded. “Your mother mentioned a nice mahogany casket—maybe something with brass fittings, along the lines of the Mercury model she chose for your father?”
“No.”
“No?” Miles raised an eyebrow.
“My mother isn’t making Wendell’s arrangements,” Riley said firmly. “I am. And I don’t want any mahogany casket. I don’t want a casket at all. I want Wendell cremated. We’ll have a small memorial service in the Chapel in the Pines, and that’s it.”
“Surely you’ll want to have family calling hours here, say from two to four, the evening before the service?”
“Absolutely not,” Riley said.
Miles shifted his bulk, and the springs in the chair squeaked a mild rebuke. “We’ll respect your wishes, of course, but for a man of Wendell’s stature in this community, it’s usual for folks to drop by and pay their respects to you and your family. You might not think so, but it’s really a comfort to the family in situations like yours.”
“Folks have already dropped by. In droves,” Riley said. “I’m exhausted by their kindness. Overwhelmed. As to my situation, you know that the sheriff believes Wendell was murdered. So nothing about this death is usual. Also, for now, economics is a factor.”
“Your mother indicated she’d be taking care of all expenses,” Miles said, frowning at the unwelcome topic of money.
Riley’s mind flashed back to her bare-bones bank account. “All the more reason to keep things simple.”
“I see.” He picked up a pen and made some notes. “Of course, you’re the widow, so we want to honor your wishes. Although, from knowing Evelyn, she is not going to be happy about your choices. Now, we can handle the cremation as soon as the coroner releases the remains, and then you can decide when you would like the service. We’ll need to have some floral sprays at the chapel. And you’ll want some type of urn. If you’ll step into the other room, I can show you some different choices.”
Riley rested her hands lightly on the desktop. “Miles? Let me be clear about something here. I don’t want a casket. I don’t want any floral sprays. I especially don’t want an urn. I cannot imagine any circumstances under which I would want to display the ashes of my deceased husband. As far as I’m concerned, you can put Wendell Griggs’s ashes in a Duke’s Mayonnaise jar, and we’ll bury that in the family plot. Okay?”
Miles Kenton’s lips pursed, and then suddenly, unexpectedly, he grinned.
“A Duke’s Mayonnaise jar? That’s a good one. That would put your mama in an early grave for sure.”
* * *
Friday afternoon, the Carolina Queen was at full capacity. Nate designated himself a floater, making coffee behind the concession stand, loading and unloading the baggage bins, and taking a turn in the pilothouse.
He was surprised to discover he actually enjoyed interacting with the passengers, especially those who were embarking for Belle Isle instead of returning to the mainland.
People were mostly in vacation mode, happy and relaxed. There was an infectious air of anticipation from the weekenders who chatted about their plans: golf dates and beach outings, tennis matches and family reunions. The younger kids, sensing the excitement of their elders, raced up and down the metal stairs between decks, leaning over the railing, exclaiming about the dolphins following in the boat’s wake and the looming spire of Big Belle on the horizon.
Longtime islanders greeted him by name, asked for the local fishing report, congratulated him on his return to the island, and asked after his mother.
Nate had been apprehensive about returning home, wondering if he’d feel out of place in his childhood home after so much time away, but today, he began to wonder if maybe it really was possible to go home again. He cautioned himself, though, warning that the events of the upcoming weeks could totally change his perspective on life on a small island.
* * *
The two men who shared a booth in the main deck were both in a pensive mood.
“Parrish said Riley made Wendell’s funeral arrangements today,” Ed Godchaux told Scott Moriatakis. “I hate to speak ill of the dead, but what a bastard he turned out to be.”
“I feel the same way,” Scott said. He hesitated. “Frankly, I never liked Wendell.”
“You know, we actually liked him the first couple of years they were married. He seemed like a good match for Riley. Had a decent golf game, fit right in with most of our friends, and he was a good dad to Maggy. And, of course, Evelyn and W.R. were crazy about him,” Ed said.
“Yeah, Wendell Griggs was the son W.R. always wished he’d gotten instead of Billy,” Scott pointed out. “Wendell was the whole package as far as W.R. and Evelyn were concerned—a big, good-looking former jock they could parade around the country club and count on for a grandchild. He was all the things their own son couldn’t be.”
“I never thought of it that way,” Ed admitted. “I think that, deep down, those two probably were proud of Billy’s talent and his music, but they were from that generation that just couldn’t accept having a son who didn’t want what they wanted from life.”
“I’ve always believed that’s why Billy started drinking. It was always clear to him that no matter what he did, he could never measure up to his old man’s expectations,” Scott theorized. “So why try?”
“God, the things we parents do to fuck up our kids,” Ed said with a sigh. “And, mostly, we do it out of love. I frankly don’t know how David turned out as well as he has. Parrish and I had no idea what we were doing. In fact, at the time, she wasn’t even sure she wanted to have a child, because she was so focused on her career.”
“Lucky you,” Scott said bitterly. “Billy and I would have loved to have a family. It’s not at all uncommon for couples like us to have kids now, but that whole thing came too late for us. I’m looking at turning sixty in a couple of years, and Billy’s nearly forty. We’re too old now to be changing diapers and joining the PTA.”
“I hear ya,” Ed said. He glanced at the families milling around the crowded lounge. “I see these gray-headed fellas like me, pushing strollers and trying to keep up with their new young trophy wives, and it makes me tired thinking about it.”
“Me, too,” Scott said.
The Carolina Queen’s horn gave a long loud blast, the signal that docking would start in five minutes. Around them, voices rose in happy anticipation and peop
le began gathering their belongings in preparation for arrival on Belle Isle.
“Right on time,” Scott murmured. “Let the fun begin.”
28
On Saturday morning, Riley dropped by Parrish’s to update her on the plans for Wendell’s service.
“All you have to do,” Parrish said, “is show up and play the we-we card.”
“Which is what?”
“The widow card. That’s what my mama used to call it, after my dad died. Widows get a hall pass for at least the first year after their husbands are gone. You’re expected to be helpless, dazed, and confused. Nobody’s supposed to upset you, and you’re allowed to cry anytime you want. That’s called playing the we-we card. And nobody did it better than my mother.”
“I don’t have to play it. I’m already living the dazed and confused part,” Riley said. “And I’ve just about cried my tear ducts dry.”
“Hang in there,” Parrish said, giving her a hug. “We’re gonna get you through this, together. Evelyn’s not going to make things easy, though.”
“She tried to dictate the arrangements,” Riley said. “By the time I got to the funeral home, she’d already called Miles Kenton and picked out the casket.”
“Dear, thoughtful Evvy,” Parrish said. “What exactly did she have planned?”
“You know. Mahogany casket with bronze mounts, funeral sprays, two days of family visitation. Your standard overblown three-ring circus. If Mama had her way, we’d have Wendell lying in state under the gazebo on the village green.”
The two friends shuddered in unison.
“I put the kibosh on all that crap,” Riley said. “Wendell will be cremated, we’ll have a short, simple service in the chapel, and then private interment in the family plot. It sounds cold, I know, but I just want this ordeal over with.”
“You leave it to me,” Parrish said firmly. “If you want, I’ll take care of everything.”
“Really?” Riley felt herself tearing up. “That would be amazing. Mama will have a fit, but…”
“I can deal with Evelyn, and she’ll never know what hit her.”
Riley’s cell phone rang. “It’s Roo,” Riley said to Parrish. “Hello?”
The Weekenders Page 19
