The Weekenders

by Mary Kay Andrews

  “Thank God you’re home. I’ve been trying to call you all morning,” Roo said. “Your mama and Maggie went into town first thing this morning, and I’m the only one here. You’ve got a visitor waiting.”

  “I’m at Parrish’s. Could you please tell whoever it is that I’m not up for company today? I’ll sneak around to the back door. Just tell them I’ve got a headache or something.”

  “I can’t,” Roo said, her voice fraught with anxiety. “Come right away and bring Parrish with you. It’s a G-man!”

  * * *

  As soon as Parrish pulled the golf cart up to the front steps at Shutters, Aunt Roo came scuttling out of the dim recesses of the porch. She met Riley at the bottom step.

  “I told him you were staying with a friend, and I didn’t know when you’d be home, but he said he’d just wait,” Roo said. “What do you think the FBI wants with you, Riley?”

  “Probably just some questions about Wendell’s death,” Parrish said.

  “Oh. Right.” Roo seemed disappointed. “He’s mighty young looking. I didn’t think they hired boys that young to work as G-men, so I made him show me his badge. It looks like the real thing, though.”

  “Tell him I’ll be right in, would you please, Roo?” Riley said.

  “So it’s true,” Riley said, as soon as her aunt had gone inside the house. “The feds really are looking into Wendell’s business dealings.”

  “You don’t know that,” Parrish warned. “Maybe it really is about his murder.”

  “You’re not talking to my elderly aunt, here,” Riley said. “The FBI doesn’t normally get involved in homicides. I remember that much from my reporting days. I can’t do this by myself. Will you come with me? You’re a lawyer. You know how to deal with this kind of stuff.”

  “I haven’t practiced criminal law in years and years,” Parrish reminded her.

  “You’re a lawyer, that’s all I care about.” She turned pleading eyes on her best friend.

  “All right.” Parrish relented. “Have you got any money?”

  “What? No! You know I’m broke.”

  “Give me a dollar,” Parrish said. “That’s my retainer. Now you’re my client and everything you tell me is privileged. If you really want me to help, you need to just keep quiet and let me see what we can find out from him.”

  Riley took out her change purse and dumped the contents into her friend’s outstretched palm. “Here’s seventy-five cents. I’ll have to owe you the rest.”

  * * *

  The visitor was in the living room, seated on an oversize tufted Victorian sofa. He stood when the two women walked into the room. He was compact, with an athletic build and neatly combed brown hair, dressed in pressed and starched blue jeans, an open-collared shirt, and a navy-blue blazer. He was very young, Parrish decided. Like, right out of the academy young.

  “Mrs. Griggs?” He looked from Parrish to Riley, unsure who was whom. He split the difference and extended a hand with a business card between the two women. “I’m Special Agent Aidan Coyle. Sorry to drop in unannounced. I tried to call ahead, but your phone didn’t seem to be turned on.”

  “I’m Riley Nolan.” Riley took the card, gave him a nod, and handed it to Parrish. “And this is my good friend, Parrish Godchaux, who also happens to be my attorney.”

  “Oh.” Agent Coyle offered a weak smile.

  “What can we help you with, Agent Coyle?” Parrish asked, as the three of them took seats on Evelyn Nolan’s grandmother’s supremely uncomfortable velvet and horsehair sofa.

  He removed a cell phone from his inside coat pocket and placed it on the carved mahogany tea table. “Do I have your permission to tape this conversation?”

  Riley looked at Parrish, who took out her own phone and placed it beside the FBI agent’s phone. “As long as you don’t mind if we do the same thing.” She tapped an icon on the phone’s screen and sat back in her chair.

  Special Agent Coyle was only a few years older than her son, David. This was one instance where her middle-aged status might be to her advantage. “Go ahead.” She nodded at the phone, as though she were agreeing to loan him the family sedan for a trip to the Steak ‘n Shake.

  “Well, uh, the agency is interested in Mrs. Griggs’s, that is, Ms. Nolan’s husband’s dealings with Coastal Carolina Bank.”

  Parrish crossed her legs and leaned forward. “And why is that?”

  “Why are we interested? Uh, because the bank failed.”

  “And that was because of Wendell Griggs?” Parrish cocked one eyebrow, questioning how that could be so.

  “Mr. Griggs and his, uh, interests, had a substantial loan portfolio with Coastal Carolina Bank. Those loans, which are in default, represented a substantial percentage of the bank’s debt,” Agent Coyle said.

  “Of course, we’d like to be as helpful as we can. Did you know anything about Wendell’s dealings with that bank?” Parrish asked, looking directly at Riley.

  “Not until I learned that Wendell had taken out a mortgage on our home here on Belle Isle with them. I’d never heard of Coastal Carolina Bank until then,” Riley said.

  “You weren’t aware of the mortgage? Even though your name is on the document?”

  “That’s what she just said,” Parrish pointed out.

  Coyle frowned. “You didn’t sign loan papers for a mortgage for the home at Sand Dollar Lane, in the amount of two million dollars?”

  “I did not,” Riley said firmly.

  “What can you tell me about Oceanview Partners?”

  “Nothing. I’ve never heard of it before.”

  Agent Coyle consulted a notebook he’d pulled from his pocket. “Fiddler’s Creek Enterprises?”

  “There’s a Fiddler’s Creek here on the island,” Riley said.

  “Belle Isle Landings Corp.?”

  Parrish was making notes of her own, on the back of a magazine she’d spotted on the coffee table. “Agent Coyle, are these corporations that Wendell Griggs was involved in?”

  He appeared not to hear her question. “Ms. Nolan, how involved were you in the financial dealings of Belle Isle Enterprises?”

  Riley started to answer but Parrish cut her off. “My client was not involved in the day-to-day dealings of the company and, in fact, she and her husband were estranged at the time of his death, so she really can’t answer any of these questions.”

  The FBI agent considered Riley for a long moment. “Are you friends with a woman named Melody Zimmerman?”

  “Melody Zimmerman?” Riley shot Parrish a questioning look. Parrish shrugged.

  “I wouldn’t say we were friends. More like acquaintances,” Riley said.

  “What’s Melody Zimmerman got to do with this?” Parrish asked.

  “She works at Baldwin Community Bank, right? The one that took over Coastal Carolina?” Riley asked.

  “That’s our information,” Agent Coyle said carefully. “Would you say she was a friend of your husband’s?”

  Parrish put a hand on Riley’s arm before she could answer. “Ms. Nolan doesn’t really know who her late husband was or wasn’t friends with, because they were estranged, as I told you earlier.” She stood up and looked down at the FBI agent, like a schoolteacher losing patience with a wayward student.

  “Was there anything else we can help you with?”

  “I guess not,” the agent said, putting his notebook and phone away. “You have my card, so if you remember anything about those companies I asked about, maybe you could give me a call?”

  “Of course,” Riley said.

  29

  “What the hell was that all about?” Riley asked, when the FBI agent had puttered away on his rented golf cart.

  “It sounds like the feds are interested in Wendell’s role in that bank failure,” Parrish said. “Why was he doing business with a small local bank like that, anyway?”

  “I really don’t know,” Riley admitted. “We always did all our personal banking at Wells Fargo.”

  “And what
’s up with the question about Melody Zimmerman?”

  “She’s something important at Baldwin Community Bank. And she worked at Coastal Carolina before the new bank took it over,” Riley said. “She also told me she worked with Wendell on some real estate deals, including the mortgage on our house. They were friends from Kiwanis.”

  “That’s pretty interesting,” Parrish said. “Hey. You don’t think there was anything going on between Wendell and Melody—right?”

  “Melody?” Riley dismissed the notion. “She doesn’t exactly strike me as the home-wrecker type. Anyway, she’s totally not Wendell’s type.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I don’t know. She’s attractive enough, in a quiet kind of way.…”

  “You’re right. Wendell was a major star-fucker. He always wanted to be orbiting around whoever was the main attraction in a room,” Parrish said. “Nobody would ever say that about Melody Zimmerman.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t romantic,” Riley said slowly. “Maybe it was strictly business. The question is—what kind of business?”

  “That’s for the FBI to find out,” Parrish said sternly.

  * * *

  Evelyn and Maggy came back from town on the midafternoon ferry. Mr. Banks had been washed and groomed and had Carolina-blue toenails and a blue-and-white Tarheels bandana around his neck. Maggy had a sleek new haircut, too—with a hot-pink streak on the right side.

  “Look what Mimi let me do!” Maggy exclaimed, walking into Riley’s bedroom.

  “Mimi let you dye your hair pink?” Riley gave her mother an astonished look.

  Evelyn stood in the doorway gazing fondly at her granddaughter. “Peg Meecomb’s granddaughter Ainslee has a new shop in town, and I wanted to give her the business. I hope you don’t mind. Ainslee says all the girls are getting their hair done that way.”

  Riley couldn’t decide what was more surprising—that her mother had indulged Maggy in such a radical hair style—or that she was seeking Riley’s permission—even retroactively.

  “Sure,” Riley said. “I think it’s cute. What’s the name of Ainslee’s shop? Maybe I’ll get my hair dyed pink, too.”

  “Mom!” Maggy shrieked. “You can’t. I’ll kill myself.”

  “Joking,” Riley said quickly. “Just a joke. I would never.”

  “You better not. Gabrielle Martin’s mom went out and got her nose pierced. It’s like she thinks she’s young or something. And Gabrielle was, like, totally humiliated.”

  “I can promise you right now, I will never get my nose pierced,” Riley said.

  “Okay. Cool.” Maggy bounced off the bed. “So … am I off restriction now?”

  “Yes. As long as you can be respectful and follow the rules here. And did you thank your grandmother for taking you and Banksy into town today?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Maggy said. “Thanks again, Mimi. You rock!” She turned to her mother. “I’m gonna meet Annabelle at the pool. Is it okay if we just get dinner at the snack bar?”

  “Make sure you eat all your exchanges and test your blood,” Riley said. “And I want you back here before dark. Understood?”

  “Got it.”

  * * *

  “My God!” Riley rolled her eyes. “I don’t know how anybody survives the emotional roller coaster of raising a teenaged girl. Yesterday she was a zombie. Today, it’s like I have my old Maggy back.”

  “Get used to it,” Evelyn said dryly. “You were the same way at that age.”

  Evelyn lingered in the doorway, looking apprehensively at her daughter.

  “For goodness’ sakes, Mama, come on in,” Riley said finally. “It’s your house, you know.”

  “Just for a minute,” Evelyn said, sitting down with her spine ramrod straight. “I think I need a nap after all the excitement of the past week.”

  “That was very sweet and generous of you, treating Maggy and Banks to a new hairdo today.”

  “Ainslee promised it’ll wash out in a few days. It’s just some kind of organic beet-juice dye. Anyway, it’s nice to see her smiling again,” Evelyn said. “I’m afraid I’ve been kind of hard on Maggy lately. And you.”

  “We’ve been kind of hard on each other,” Riley said. “And I’m sorry about that. It’s been a difficult time for us all. Since Wendell died, well, I’ve had to face some pretty ugly truths about the things he did. I’ve been dreading telling you, because I know you thought of Wendell as your son but, believe me, Mama, he wasn’t what you thought. He wasn’t what any of us thought.”

  Evelyn’s expression changed. Her jaw tightened. “If this is about the foreclosure, I’m sure that was all a mistake. Wendell would never do anything to leave you in dire straits. If you like, I’ll go into Wells Fargo with you next week, and we’ll get it straightened out. The branch manager there has known our family for years.”

  “I wish it were that simple,” Riley said. “But it’s no mistake. And there’s more. My trust fund…”

  “That’s enough,” Evelyn snapped. “I won’t listen to this. Wendell wouldn’t have done those things. Your daddy was a wonderful judge of character. He trusted Wendell, knew he would always take care of you, would run the family business the way it should be run after he was gone.”

  She jumped up, eyes blazing. “Whoever killed Wendell, that’s the person responsible for all of this. And in the meantime, I won’t have you dishonoring your husband’s fine name. Wendell was Maggy’s daddy. She worshiped that man. If you want to help your daughter get through her grieving process, you’ll stop going around saying horrible things about Wendell Griggs.”

  “I wish I could,” Riley whispered. But Evelyn was out the door and down the hall. A moment later, the familiar slam of her bedroom door reverberated through the house.

  30

  Saturday evening, Riley was sprawled out on the flowered chintz sofa in the library, engrossed in a book she estimated she’d first read when she was Maggy’s age. It was a Helen MacInnes international espionage novel and, even without the spidery handwriting proclaiming it the property of Earline Riley on the flyleaf, she knew it had been her grandmother’s.

  Despite her gentle ways, Nanny had been a voracious reader of mystery, suspense, and spy novels. The pine bookshelves in the library were lined with her Book-of-the-Month selections; heavy on the likes of Margery Allingham, Daphne du Maurier, Victoria Holt, and Phyllis A. Whitney.

  How many Saturday nights in her youth had she spent in just this same position, reading these same comfortingly familiar stories of murder and intrigue? As a bookish preteen, Riley had found these fictional worlds endlessly fascinating, but now that she’d been unwillingly thrust into such a world, all she wanted was out.

  The front door opened and closed with a bang. “Mom, I’m home,” Maggy called out.

  “Did you have fun with Annabelle?” Riley called.

  “It was okay.” Maggy’s footsteps receded.

  Riley read on. At ten, Evelyn returned home, poked her head in the library, and announced that she was headed to bed.

  “I’m gonna read for a while, and then I might take a ride around the island, just to get out of the house,” Riley said. “Okay?”

  Evelyn shuddered. “I wish you wouldn’t go out this late. You know, as long as the person who killed Wendell is at large, I don’t think I’ll ever feel completely safe here again.”

  “I’ll lock up the house, and I’ll have my phone with me. And I’ll take a heavy flashlight. And a can of Mace. Okay?”

  “Go ahead,” Evelyn muttered. “Nobody pays attention to me.”

  * * *

  She’d known her destination as soon as she got in the golf cart. If she hadn’t already known the spot by heart, the sight of a handful of faded and crushed roses was enough of a reminder that Maggy, too, had been drawn to this spot.

  Riley stood on the seawall at the marina and gazed down into the inky waters of the bay.

  She hurried back to the golf cart and sat, her hands shaking so violent
ly she was afraid to drive. Suddenly chilled, she lifted the backseat bench and riffled through her mother’s assorted golf paraphernalia until she came up with Evelyn’s pink windbreaker again. After donning the jacket, Riley clenched her hands tightly in her lap, closing her eyes, waiting to reclaim her composure, before she drove back toward the village.

  Not wanting to attract attention to herself, she pulled the cart around to the back entrance of the Belle Isle Enterprises building.

  It was a simple, nondescript, white wood-framed building, circa 1940s. Her great grandfather hadn’t believed in showy, and her own father, W.R., hadn’t seen any need to upgrade the company headquarters. Wendell had commissioned a design from the same architect who’d designed the Sand Dollar Lane house for an impressive two-story building that he felt would be more appropriate for the company headquarters, and had made plans to tear down the old building four years ago, but the shaky economy had put that scheme on hold.

  Back here, there were none of the quaint, vaguely period streetlamps or fanciful façades that composed the rest of the shops in the village. Instead, an industrial-strength halogen lamp was mounted on the roof, sending a pool of harsh light onto the pavement below.

  Riley sat in the cart and tried to think of a plan to gain entry into Wendell’s office. To her own chagrin, she realized he’d never given her a set of keys to the office. She’d searched Shutters for an extra set of keys, to no avail, and no key chain had turned up in the effects the hospital had given her along with Wendell’s billfold and wristwatch.

  She thrust her hands into the pockets of her mother’s borrowed jacket. The fingers of her right hand closed on something metal.

  When she withdrew her hand from the pockets she saw that she was holding a key ring. There was no fob, just three plastic bar-coded cards—she had to hold them up and squint to read the fine print: Harris Teeter, the Baldwin County Public Library, and Ace Hardware. There were three keys as well, all bearing faded labels in Evelyn’s distinctive flowery handwriting. Shutters. Golf locker. Office.

  Riley grinned. Bless Evelyn Nolan’s orderly, obsessive-compulsive soul.