Mystery Writers of America Presents the Rich and the Dead

by Inc. Mystery Writers of America

  Meigs thanked him, trotted back to Notre Paradis, and asked to use Laurent’s computer. He googled the Emelina. One hundred and sixty-seven feet long, the boat had been sold in Monaco and was expected to winter in St. Barths. He jotted down the owner’s information and tucked it into his pocket, then started off for the Marquesa Hotel. A chat with George Vesper was in order.

  The Marquesa’s lobby was caviar to Meigs’s hotel’s scrambled eggs. The soft hiss of a waterfall and the rustling of the uplighted palm fronds masked the scooter traffic outside. Vesper was splayed in a chaise near the poolside bar. He beckoned over a server dressed in blue Bermuda shorts and ordered a super single malt bourbon that Meigs had never heard of.

  “Mr. Vesper?”

  The man glanced up, his face blank.

  “I’m Detective Meigs, Guilford Police Department. Following up on the reported disappearance of Sheila Brown.”

  Vesper pinched his lips together in a tight frown and said nothing. Meigs couldn’t tell if he recognized him from the altercation on Duval Street. If he did, he wasn’t acknowledging their connection.

  “Do you happen to know the owner or the crew of the Emelina? That’s one of the yachts that were moored a nine iron from your cruise ship yesterday.”

  The waiter approached and settled a drink on the glass table next to Vesper. Vesper didn’t even look at the man, never mind thank or tip him.

  “Can’t say that I do,” Vesper answered, taking a swallow of the gold liquid. “What does that have to do with Sheila?”

  “Any chance that she would have had friends on that boat?”

  “Sheila?” Vesper threw back his head and roared with laughter. “That girl lived from tip to tip. No way she’d have pals that wealthy.” Then he sat up and scowled. “Why do you ask?”

  “Might she have been connected with one of the crew members? Maybe cadged a ride out of town?”

  Vesper’s face turned from red to purple. “If that no-good bastard boyfriend…” He chugged the rest of the drink as he scrambled to his feet, now hulking over Meigs.

  “Was anything missing from your cabin after Sheila went shopping?” Meigs persisted.

  Vesper took off his glasses and glared. “Look, this has all been a big mistake. I should have told you right up front. We had an awful row that morning, and she said she was taking the first plane home, which was fine with me, only she took my ruby ring and the cash in my wallet, too.”

  “I’m sure Chief Barnes can radio the Coast Guard, have a chat with the captain, and see whether Sheila’s on board. Insist she return your belongings.”

  “Never mind that,” Vesper growled. “I can take it from here. I’ll settle this with her at home.”

  “As you like,” said Meigs, starting back toward the lobby. “I’ll fill in the chief. He may wish to follow up. I would imagine the IRS might have some questions, too.”

  “This is none of your damn business,” Vesper sputtered after him. “What’s a Connecticut cop doing working a Key West case anyway?”

  Meigs left the Marquesa, loaded back into his golf cart, and returned to the police station and asked to speak to the chief.

  “I came across some information on that missing persons case,” he said to Chief Barnes. “If you contact the pilot of the Emelina yacht, I suspect you’ll find that Sheila Brown stowed aboard with a large sum of cash. The cash may have come courtesy of cooking the books at Vesper’s furniture business. It’s kind of a tradition in Connecticut.” He smiled. “Stew Leonard, Martha Stewart, even former governor John Rowland. Some of the wealthy folks in our state aren’t quite satisfied with what they’ve got. So they stretch the rules to suit them.”

  “That’s an awfully big leap,” said the chief.

  “Not really,” said Meigs. “Vesper just didn’t seem like a cruise ship kind of guy. And the magic of Disney? I don’t think so. Then I noticed the Grand Cayman Island was included on the itinerary. Suppose Vesper had made substantial illegal gains and intended to bank the money offshore. The Disney cruise would be a terrific cover. But his companion figured this out and disappeared with his cash. No wonder he was upset.”

  Chief Barnes shook his head. “That’s a hell of a lotta supposition.”

  “Your cat man saw Sheila stow aboard the Emelina after sunset,” said Meigs. “While he’s working his felines, he watches everything.”

  On the way home from the police station, Meigs stopped at the Lost Weekend package store for a six-pack of Red Stripe beer. Back in his room, he changed into his cat man T-shirt and took a beer out onto the back deck.

  Maybe this vacation thing wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe tomorrow he’d buy a ticket for the Conch Train and another for a tour of the Little White House, in memory of Alice.

  FOUR DAYS LATER, as Meigs finished packing for home, Chief Barnes texted him, “Coast Guard located the Emelina in the British Virgin Islands. Sheila and bf onboard with 3 hundred K cash. Thx 4 the assist.”

  Meigs texted back, “ur welcome.”

  Then he called the taxi company for a ride to the airport, specifically requesting a bird-free cab. Still, he wasn’t surprised when a golden retriever the size of a donkey lumbered out of the van’s passenger seat and began to sniff his luggage.

  “Don’t you even think of it,” he shouted.

  LAMBORGHINI MOMMY

  BY HARLEY JANE KOZAK

  The party that led to the murder was held in December at Tina and Howard Skate’s estate. The party’s title, in florid font on the embossed invitation, should’ve clued me in to the kind of night I was in for; for starters, it was long—the Forty-third Annual White Alder Academy Holiday Gala for Major Donors. The party itself was longer and, until the last four minutes, remarkable only in its dullness. But that’s the thing I have with galas, soirees, fetes—they seem like a good idea when I’m RSVP’ing and then the big day arrives and it’s always, What the hell was I thinking?

  Bunny, fellow mommy and my best friend at White Alder, wouldn’t let me bow out. “You cannot un-RSVP,” she said. “It’s rude. Also, you need to socialize. You haven’t had sex in two years.”

  “There’ll be sex at this gala?” I asked.

  “A prerequisite for having sex,” Bunny said, “is meeting someone with whom you’d like to have sex. That won’t happen at soccer practice. You need a party worth waxing for.”

  “What if my former husband is there? Or his ghastly grandmother?”

  “That house is so big,” Bunny said, “you could live in it three weeks and never meet the inhabitants. It’s how the Skates stay married. If Stephen’s there, you’ll see his big head a mile away and move to another wing. But dress up, okay? Last week the fourth-grade room mom asked me if you were Jillie’s nanny.”

  So I dressed up in a little black Vera Wang left over from my past life. I looked okay, and all evening I tried not to think about how I’d rather have been home playing Scrabble with Jillie. I glommed onto Bunny and Bunny’s husband Rick and chatted up the headmaster and the other moms. I didn’t see Stephen. I didn’t have sex with anyone. The big excitement was getting lost on my way to a second-floor bathroom.

  I was back downstairs in the foyer, making a respectable 10:30 p.m. exit, when I heard the line that would change my life.

  “Well, well. If it isn’t the hottest mommy in the Lower School pickup lane.”

  I turned. Several people were being handed coats by a maid, one of them talking to me—a tipsy one, judging from his flushed face and one-hundred-proof breath.

  “Uh…,” I said.

  “Oh, yeah, play dumb.” He grinned. “But you don’t drive a car that sexy to stay under the radar.”

  To my surprise, I felt pink with pleasure. “You find Toyotas sexy?”

  His smile faltered. “You’re not—? You don’t drive the Lamborghini?”

  “Toyota Highlander.” I added hopefully, “Hybrid.”

  “Wow.” He was stunned. “You seriously look like someone else.”

  “Som
eone who drives a Lamborghini.” I pointed outside. “Think I could convince the valet guy?”

  “Heh.” He laughed weakly. I started to introduce myself, but he was already looking past me, out to the porte cochere. “ ’Scuse me. There’s my BMW.”

  He squeezed by me out into the night, and I dropped my “Hello, I’m new to White Alder; it’s my first year” smile. In fact, I frowned. In my peripheral vision, I saw Helene Hochstetter, my ex-husband’s grandmother, burrowing into her mink. She’d no doubt overheard that exchange with her big Hochstetter ears. Who in Southern California needed mink? I thought, handed my own coat by the maid. I struggled with my sleeve, feeling wallflowery, wishing I’d carpooled with Bunny and Rick.

  And then someone behind me was helping me into my coat. “I think you could convince the valet guy,” a voice said. “Go on. Drive off in a hot car.”

  I turned again. This stranger appeared sober, although his tie was askew, flashing its Dolce & Gabbana label. I wanted to fix it. “I wouldn’t know how to drive a Lamborghini. Do they come in automatics?”

  “It’s what’s known as a supercar,” he said. “And friends don’t let friends buy supercars in automatic. But you wouldn’t have to drive it. Pick me up hitchhiking, and I’ll drive it for you.”

  “I don’t pick up hitchhikers.”

  He buttoned my coat for me, three buttons, right up to the neck. He had green eyes. “Ah, but you used to. Back in your misspent youth. Didn’t you? And I bet you hitched a few rides yourself. I bet you were good at it.”

  “I was. I did.” I smiled involuntarily for the first time all night.

  From the porte cochere, the valet guy called, “Ma’am? Your Toyota.”

  On impulse, I took the stranger’s hand and shook it. Only he didn’t let go, he pulled me in and kissed me on my cheek up by my ear.

  “New kid on the block,” he whispered, “don’t be a stranger.”

  Smells nice, I thought. Bet I never see him again.

  I thought wrong.

  THE INVITATION TO Leighton Donaldson’s birthday party popped out of the envelope in a burst of confetti that covered the front seat of the Toyota. “Come to my bowling party!” it cried in iridescent pink. “I’m turning double digits!”

  I glanced at the rearview mirror at my daughter. “It’s this Saturday. We missed the RSVP date. How long has this been in your backpack?”

  “Leighton just gave it to me today in computer lab.”

  “I don’t know Leighton. Is she a new friend?”

  “Kind of. Can I go?”

  “Yeah, if it’s not too late to let them know. Sometimes they need a head count, for the bowling alley or whatever.”

  “It’s not at a bowling alley, Mommy. It’s at their house. And it’s not a drop-off party. The parents are supposed to stay. Leighton told me.”

  My daughter was right on both counts. Leighton’s mother called three minutes later while I was still in school traffic. “I’m Tracy Donaldson,” she said. “I just need Julie’s shoe size. We found the invitation wedged between the car seats, and Leighton felt terrible—she really wants Julie to come. And you come, too. I’ll have grown-up food. Feydeau’s catering.”

  Whoever Feydeau was. “Thanks,” I said, staring at the license plate in front of me: TROFEE2. “We’d love to come. Oh, and it’s Jillie, not Julie.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “My daughter. It’s Jillie, short for Jillian. People call her Julie all the time, though.”

  There was a long pause. “Oh.”

  AN HOUR LATER I was in the checkout line at Gelson’s Market about to blow the rent money on organic grapes. “There was something weird about it,” I said to Bunny in front of me. “What if she meant to invite a Julie, not a Jillie, and only on the phone did she realize her mistake?”

  “Tracy Donaldson?” Bunny snorted. “She just doesn’t like being corrected.” “What was I supposed to do? Have her call my kid Julie?”

  “You were supposed to change Jillie’s name to Julie.” She nodded toward our offspring, doing homework in Gelson’s café corner. “Wait until she sees how pretty Jillie is. This will get ugly.”

  “Why isn’t little Richie going? Is it girls only?”

  “Little Richie hates Leighton. She threw up on him in preschool, and in first grade, he gave her head lice—intentionally, Tracy says—and now they shun each other.” Bunny opened an unpaid-for Lindt chocolate ball, offered it to me, and then popped it in her mouth. “But I want to hear about the McMansion. It cost six million of Junior Donaldson’s money and six years of Tracy’s life, and the rumor is, now Junior wants out of the marriage, and Tracy’s screwed.”

  “Why?”

  “Prenup. Oh, and check out Feydeau. Tell me if he shows up himself or if it’s just his staff.”

  “What’s he look like?”

  “Were you raised by wolves? He’ll be in a toque hat. He looks like the Pillsbury Doughboy.”

  I was no more excited about this party than I’d been about the gala, but Jillie wanted to go and there was nothing I wouldn’t do to make my nine-year-old happy, to foster friendships, to ease the “I miss my old school” melancholy. It wasn’t just her school. She missed her old house. Her old life. But I couldn’t fix everything.

  As to the question of whether Jillie’s invitation had really gone missing in the Donaldsons’ car or whether we were last-minute guests, I forgot about it.

  Until I saw the car.

  THE LAMBORGHINI WAS yellow, the yellow of the rubber gloves my cleaning lady wore back when I had a cleaning lady. The dads approached it like it was Stonehenge, speaking in hushed tones of “aggressive graphic elements” and “maximum torque.” It occurred to me that the way to get middle-aged men keenly interested in their offspring’s parties was to park a supercar in front of an eight-car garage.

  “Hey, Tracy!” a man called, but when I turned, a look of confusion replaced his smile. “Sorry,” he mumbled, and Jillie and I kept walking across golf course–quality grass toward imperious doors. My daughter was uncharacteristically shy, forgetting herself to the point of holding my hand until we rang the doorbell. A maid took our wrapped gift and directed us to the backyard. We moved through rooms too grand to identify—ballrooms?—and outside. Canyons surrounded the house, making me want to sing “The Hills Are Alive with the Sound of Music,” but I restrained myself because these people weren’t show people. Or even showy people. The staff wore black, and parents were in weekend casual, ironed polo shirts and high-heeled sandals. We all looked overdressed against the stark backdrop, which was more Old West.

  “Which Indians lived here in the olden days?” I asked Jillie.

  She squinted up at me. “What?”

  “Didn’t you learn that for your California Mission report?”

  “Mommy, this is a party. Chumash, okay?” She spotted her friends, and they yelled her name and she ran to them, relieved.

  Across the fire pit, inspecting the lagoon, was the guy, my guy, the one from the Skates’ gala who’d helped me into my coat. I was about to go hit him up for some snappy repartee when I saw Tracy.

  It’s disquieting to see your own double.

  Watching her move toward me with my own disproportionately long arms and legs, I had the sense that if she moved her limbs, mine would move in response. Did she feel that, too?

  “You must be Jillie’s mom. I’m Tracy,” she said with outstretched hand.

  Sure enough, my hand stretched toward hers in a mirror image. “I’m Sarah,” I said, but Tracy summoned a waiter, who slipped me a champagne flute. And the spell was broken. Her arms, legs, and midriff were bare and tan, and mine were not. Her nails were long, square cut, and French manicured. Our hair, long, black, poker straight, was parted on opposite sides.

  “Try the lamb kebabs,” she said. “I had to practically sleep with Feydeau to get them. He doesn’t approve of winter lamb. I can’t believe I haven’t met you. You were at the major donor gala, weren’t you?”
>
  “Yes, I—”

  “I enjoy that event. Much more intimate than the Spring Benefit or the Halloween Hoedown. Are you loving White Alder? What school did you come from?”

  “Warner Avenue.”

  A tiny line appeared between her brows. “I don’t think I know it.”

  “It’s public,” I said.

  Her face froze. It was more even featured than mine with a straighter nose and better makeup.

  “It’s in Bel Air,” I said. “So no gang violence or metal detectors.”

  “Oh.” Her face relaxed. “You lived in Bel Air.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you move?”

  “My husband got the house in the divorce.”

  “Really? You must not have had a good lawyer.”

  I never expected to feel protective toward my divorce lawyer, but there you go. “The house was a wedding present from his grandmother,” I explained. “And he’d been living in it before our marriage, so I thought it would be rude to ask for it. Not that I had the money to buy him out.”

  “So he bought you out?”

  This was an odd getting-to-know-you conversation, but boundaries were never my strong suit, so I plunged onward. “Not exactly. His grandmother said that if I let him keep the house, she’d pay tuition at White Alder. She’s on the board of directors. I traded a great public school in a neighborhood I couldn’t afford for a great private school out in the”—I almost said “sticks,” but resisted—“countryside.”

  “So you moved to Calabasas. Gated community?”

  “Townhouse.” I may as well have said “trailer park.”

  Tracy regarded me thoughtfully, sipping champagne, leaving a trace of lip gloss on the flute. “So did you get anything out of the deal? Besides White Alder?”

  I took a sip of my own champagne. I’m no judge, but I was guessing Cristal. “Full custody,” I said.

  SOME TOPICS, EVEN for those with weak conversational boundaries, aren’t suitable for children’s parties. Like the grim details of a marital demise. Like how it feels to take a hit in the face, to experience brain-numbing pain at the hands of a husband.