by Karen Swan
‘Bobbi, you couldn’t possibly have known. There was nothing you could have done. The police don’t think it was either opportunistic or manslaughter. Whoever did this knew they were going to do it. They had planned it. And if it hadn’t happened then, it would have happened elsewhere. He was a marked man, Bobbi.’
Bobbi was quiet for a few moments, her eyes fixed on a hairline crack at the top of the wall. ‘The police still think it was someone he knew through his business.’
‘I know.’ The local papers were feeding off titbits, anything to keep the story on their front page every day. Murder simply didn’t happen in the Hamptons.
‘So then maybe I knew him. I’m in the same business. Kinda.’
‘No! Now you listen to me. You’ll only frighten yourself talking like that,’ Ro said forcefully, remembering her own fear as Florence had asked her if she’d thought the murderer had seen her at the window. ‘You’re a creative. He was a wheeler-dealer realtor. There’s very little overlap in what you do other than you’re both trading in bricks and mortar. Besides, from what the papers are saying, I wouldn’t be surprised if the police already have a good idea of possible suspects. Did you read the piece in the Montauk Herald?’
Bobbi shook her head, focusing intently on Ro’s words.
‘Oh.’ Dammit. She didn’t want to say too much, risk upsetting Bobbi now of all times.
‘What did it say? Tell me.’
‘Well . . . it’s come out that Kevin upset a lot of people with his tactics when it came to getting commissions.’
‘How?’ A trace of irritation lined Bobbi’s voice.
‘It seems he didn’t simply wait for people to come to him wanting to sell; he liked to be more proactive. Apparently he was known to the regulators for trying to “induce” people to sell. But after Sandy, he became a whole lot more productive than that: he spent the first weeks in the immediate aftermath in the area, convincing the worst hit in the Montauk Harbor wharves to sell to him. He told them he knew Senator McClusky and that the senator had told him, in confidence, he was reporting back to Congress that Montauk – under the terms of local policy for strategic retreat – shouldn’t qualify for federal aid for redevelopment.’
‘What? But he’s all over the media saying the opposite.’
‘I know, and the senator’s madly disputing this conversation ever took place, but . . .’ She shrugged. ‘That was what Kevin told those people. It’s how he got them to sell. He said their businesses and homes were worthless and were to be left to the ocean, but that he alone would help them – he’d buy them out as a philanthropic gesture.’
‘Why would he do that? He didn’t have that kind of money.’
Ro shrugged. ‘Well, that’s what everyone’s asking, now that it’s all coming out. You see, no one knew that he was going round saying the same thing to everyone. He made every vendor sign a confidentiality agreement: each one thought he was doing them – and them alone – a favour.’ She watched Bobbi’s expression carefully, knowing that this wasn’t painting her boyfriend in a flattering light. ‘He bought up the entire area, paying peanuts for every premises, while they all thought he was the good Samaritan.’
‘So? He was enterprising,’ Bobbi said defiantly, her dark eyes shining. ‘Even if he did stretch the truth, those business owners were probably all more than happy to take the money and run; they’re on a hiding to nothing out there on that point. I don’t see how that justifies his being murdered.’
‘No. Of course not! There’s never justification for murder. I’m just saying . . .’ Ro sighed, trying to tread lightly. ‘He was an unscrupulous businessman, a man with enemies. Those people in Montauk may just be the thin end of the wedge, the ones we know about. Who else did he swindle?’
They sat quietly together, Bobbi absorbing Kevin’s underhand tactics that made her ambition – dating a client! – look positively bucolic.
Bobbi looked at her, a look of unbearable sadness written across her face. ‘I just can’t shake the feeling that I know.’
Ro put her arm around Bobbi’s shoulder. ‘You don’t, sweetie. You’re just very emotionally involved in a tragic situation. It’s normal to feel like you could have prevented it or done more. But the die was cast long before you and Kevin hooked up.’ Downstairs, she heard Hump coughing ‘discreetly’ in the hall. Ro squeezed her lightly. ‘And we really have to go.’
Bobbi sighed, her shoulders rolled forward, her back humped, all her yoga poise and Pilates control and New York fighting spirit gone. She stood up, wobbly on her coltish legs, pale beneath her tan, and Ro hooked her arm through Bobbi’s and led her down to where Hump was waiting for them. Ro had never even said hello to the man, but it was time to say goodbye.
Florence was outside the bookstore the following evening, just as she’d said she’d be, at 7 p.m. sharp. She was talking animatedly with another couple, her short white hair swept back from her face, her grey eyes vibrant and dancing as she made her point with extravagant hand gestures, her anthracite linen tunic swaying with her movements. No one passing would believe that she’d been – just a few days earlier – recuperating in hospital from a near-fatal accident (although Ro still believed there’d been nothing accidental about it no matter what Ted had said).
Melodie was standing a short distance away, with a separate group, all hanging on to her every word. Ro quickly checked out her hair.
‘Rowena!’ Florence called her over, and as she approached, she overheard her saying to her companions, ‘This is the girl I was telling you about.’
They all shook hands and made small talk, the group quickly swelling to almost twenty people, until Melodie checked her watch and clapped her hands quietly and they obediently followed her towards the first gallery: Robert Ingermann’s, in a studio behind Starbucks, off Main Street, which specialized in graffitied collages. Ro walked slowly along with Florence at the back of the group, insisting Florence held on to her arm. She was feeling energetic and bullish in spirit, but several weeks of almost complete bed rest, Ro knew, would have taken more strength from her than she yet realized.
As forewarned, Brook was already in there, wearing cream trousers and a panama, drinking the first glass of vintage champagne and holding forth with Robert on prices for Pollock. Ro hoped he would give Florence a wide berth tonight and not corner her with town politics. Florence needed a night out and a night off.
Not that Brook stood much chance of getting anywhere near her. They had no sooner stopped walking than Florence was encircled by a group of mature-student women gardeners, all eager to hear more about her guerrilla seed-bombing of the dunes.
‘I’ll get us some drinks,’ Ro said to Florence, who smiled back apologetically.
Ro wandered to the drinks table and took a couple of glasses of rosé, stopping in front of a giant canvas that had ‘Ecstasy’ spelled out in newspaper print and overlaid on a blue and white striped background. She wasn’t quite sure what to make of it; personally, she preferred a pretty watercolour landscape that made her daydream.
Handing Florence her drink – over the heads of the faithful – Ro wandered around the room, one hand soothingly holding on to the straps of the camera round her neck. It seemed to her that everything was ludicrously overpriced, and she was sure she could have achieved the same results herself with a newspaper and a tube of Pritt stick. She walked around slowly, finishing her drink slightly too quickly – nerves – and getting a refill, reading every information card that had been positioned beside each piece and occasionally checking her brochure as though she was considering paying for one of them.
She stopped in front of a giant mural of a 1960s likeness of Audrey Hepburn, her back to the viewer, dressed only in neon-pink knickers, with the line ‘The sexiest curve on a woman is her smile.’
‘Isn’t it wonderful?’
That voice. Ro didn’t need to turn her head to know that Melodie had come to stand beside her. Thank God. She had been standing here on her own for almost twe
nty minutes – although, she was surprised to realize that it didn’t bother her as it once would have done.
Ro laughed. ‘Yeah, right!’
The laughter gurgled in her throat as she took in Melodie’s expression.
‘Oh God, you were being serious. I’m so sorry. I . . .’ She swallowed, mortified. ‘I . . . uh . . . It’s just not really my thing, But I can see, maybe, how . . . uh . . .’ Audrey Hepburn in pink knickers? That cheesy line? Was she kidding? First the hair, now this . . . Ro felt the foundations of her world begin to shake.
Until Melodie winked.
‘Oh God! Melodie! You cow,’ Ro hissed, slapping an arm over her body and folding over with laughter. ‘I so thought you were serious. You totally had me.’
‘I know. I’m good, right?’
‘The best. Bloody hell, I was dying on my feet.’
Melodie leaned in, lowering her voice. ‘We only stop by here because Robert’s one of Brook’s biggest cohorts. He’s loaded and wants to put his money where Brook’s mouth is. He keeps urging Brook to run for senator next term.’ She rolled her eyes dramatically.
‘How depressing that it has to hijack your night,’ Ro said, remembering Melodie’s own words that she wasn’t defined by her husband’s job. Wasn’t this exactly a case in point?
‘Tell me about it. But then, I feel like a bad wife for not supporting him and . . .’ She shrugged. ‘I figure, how much does it really hurt for me to try and oil the wheels? And at least the champagne’s vintage.’
‘You are too selfless, Melodie. Sometimes you need to be a little more selfish –’ she nodded towards Audrey ‘– for all our sakes.’
Melodie laughed, but it wasn’t her usual sound – it was high and hollow, drawing Ro’s attention more closely. As ever, she looked exquisitely exotic, wearing a fluid teal silk-jersey harem all-in-one suit with gold mesh cuffs, her dark hair exploding in a riot of frizzy curls behind her headband, but her skin didn’t have its usual just-buffed, gold-dipped lustre, and she seemed a little on edge, her eyes constantly flitting around the room, making sure everyone had a drink, the canapés were warm, chequebooks were being opened.
‘You look tired,’ Ro said quietly. ‘Is everything all right?’
Melodie looked surprised. ‘You’re sweet to notice. I’m not sleeping well at the moment. Brook’s all wound up about the federal-aid application and he’s talking about it every waking minute. I’ll just be so glad when the damned proposal gets voted through and we can get back to our own lives.’
‘I bet.’
Melodie dipped her head lower to Ro’s, her hand on Ro’s arm. ‘An amendment to my previous advice the other day: never marry an older man or a politician,’ she said quietly. ‘And definitely don’t marry an older politician.’ She laughed her exhausted laugh again.
A beep came from Melodie’s watch and she smiled. ‘Oh, thank God. We can get out of here and go see some real art. That’s where the fun really begins. A lot of the regulars have learned to skip this stop and join us at the next one.’
Ro finished her drink in one go and they wandered outside, everyone joining them like sheep as they walked back onto Main Street and towards the old pharmacy, Melodie’s arm looped proprietorially through Ro’s this time. She looked around for Florence, but she was walking in a slow huddle with another group and seemingly in her element to be part of the wider world again.
The light was fading fast as night blew in and the street lamps were beginning to glow. There were plenty of people still milling in the streets. It was after eight now and some of the boutiques had only just closed; other people were enjoying window-shopping in the cooler temperatures, hands and noses pressed to plate glass as they eyed python-print dresses and fluoro bracelets, moss-stitch cotton sweaters and pressed shorts. The well-dressed, lightly lubricated group attracted plenty of stares from the kids in the queue at the cinema, even absorbing a few more passers-by along the way as they headed to the next gallery.
From the windows, Ro could see this one specialized in bronzes that didn’t look bronze at all, but rather had been powder-coated in matt colours. Most of the forms were from the natural world and true to life – much to Ro’s relief – such as a trio of baby owls on a branch, a leopard sleeping in a tree, a dolphin mid-dive, an antelope mid-skip . . .
‘I’d better be a good hostess now,’ Melodie said reluctantly, squeezing her arm.
‘Of course. I can’t hog you all night.’
Ro accepted another glass of wine – sauvignon, this time – and sipped it quickly as she looked at the sculptures thoughtfully. Now this was art. This she could do.
She walked slowly round a life-sized bronze of an antelope, its skittishness captured in the frisk of its legs, the angle of the head, eyes dark and unreadable and innocent. She held the camera up to her eye, not to take a picture, but to gaze at it through the lens.
‘I don’t think photographs are allowed,’ a female voice said beside her.
‘Oh, it’s OK. I wasn’t going to . . .’ Ro looked up, startled to find Julianne beside her.
Julianne looked back at her with faint surprise too, dull recognition glimmering in her kohled eyes, although Ro looked a different breed from the girl she’d been when buying beers at the Maidstone on the night of Fourth of July, now she was groomed for the night in an olive-green miniskirt and a fluffy cream waffle jumper.
‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ Ro said quickly, her eyes flitting like butterflies around the space. Where was he? Was he here?
‘I love it. So . . . sculptural,’ Julianne murmured, clearly trying to place her.
‘Well, yes,’ Ro answered, thinking how Marina would never have said anything so stupid. She smiled vacuously and tried to move off like a seasoned networker, but Julianne stopped her with a question.
‘We’ve met before, haven’t we?’ Julianne asked, turning her body towards Ro and compelling her to stay put.
‘Um . . . oh yes, yes, I think you’re right. Was it the . . . ?’ She put her finger to her chin and stared up at the ceiling, trying to convey an impression of an overloaded social diary. ‘Oh, was it the Independence party at the Maidstone?’
‘Yes. I think so.’ Julianne nodded slowly, the expression in her eyes cooling. ‘And the fundraiser in Southampton too. You wore the red dress.’
The red dress? ‘That’s right.’ Ro nodded, looking around the room for Melodie, or Florence: rescue. She didn’t find it – quite the opposite. Her eyes were stopped in their tracks by Ted Connor, who was watching their fledgling conversation from across the gallery with two full glasses of wine in his hands and was clearly oblivious to anything his companion was saying. She hadn’t seen him since the Southampton fundraiser either and their conversation, everything they’d said – and more particularly, everything they hadn’t – swam through her mind.
She watched as he abruptly held up the two full glasses by way of apology to his companion and began to wind his way through the crowd towards them. She turned back to Julianne quickly. Not even manners could keep her here. ‘Well, it’s just lovely to see you again, but if you’ll excuse me, I was on my way to say goodbye to my friends. I’m not feeling too good.’
Julianne took a step back as though she’d said she had the plague. ‘Of course.’
Ro turned and moved into the crowd, just moments before she saw – in the reflection of the window – Ted appear at Julianne’s side, his eyes on Ro’s retreating back. She felt chased by him, somehow. Tracked and hunted.
She darted over to Melodie, who was in full flow with the group of overeager women who had taken Florence hostage earlier.
‘I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go,’ she said, talking over them all.
‘No,’ Melodie cried, clasping her by the hand. ‘But we’re only just getting going.’
‘I have a headache.’
Melodie nodded sympathetically. ‘Poor you, Ro. Wine can affect some people like that.’
‘Yes, I think I need to lie down a
nd try to get a good night’s sleep.’
‘You need to come back to yoga properly. That would sort you out. You slept soundly when you came to my classes – I could see it in your aura. Everything about you relaxed. But now—’ Frowning, she took both Ro’s hands in hers and waggled them. She tutted. ‘All your channels are blocked. I can’t read you. No wonder your head hurts.’
The women all looked at Ro pityingly, as though they too could see her blocked channels.
‘I’ll try and get there on Monday, I promise.’ Ro leaned forward and kissed her on each cheek. ‘Enjoy. This is a brilliant evening. Brilliant. Yet another string to your already overloaded bow.’
‘Well, Brook has his committees; I have mine,’ she shrugged lightly.
‘Have you seen Florence? I need to say goodbye to her too.’
‘Yes. Actually, she was talking to Brook last time I saw her – surprise, surprise.’ The flinty edge sounded in her voice again. ‘He accompanied her outside for some fresh air. I think the heat in here was getting to her.’
‘Oh, I hope she’s not overdoing it.’ Ro looked around, concerned. It was warm in here. ‘Anyway, look, I’ll see you tomorrow maybe?’ Checking the coast was clear again, she moved silkily through a small channel that had opened up between bodies.
‘Ro—’ She heard a man behind her say, a hand managing only to brush her fingertips – the touch like an electric volt – as she slipped through the door.
Way too close!
‘Florence!’ she cried loudly, propelled by panic and striding towards Florence and Brook with exaggerated bonhomie.
‘Oh, Ro, there you are.’ Florence smiled, taking Ro’s new vigour as a consequence of the free wine. ‘Brook and I are just wildly disagreeing on my proposals to the Town Board at the next meeting.’
Brook lifted his hat lightly, bending down to kiss her on each cheek. ‘And how are you, Ro?’
