All three fields were in use Friday night. The spectators arrived hungry and stayed ravenous through each game. I worked the grill and fryer while Jennifer Whitley took orders and did everything else. By eight thirty, my skull was pounding and my feet throbbed. I blotted my forehead with a paper towel.
“Four more cheeseburgers!” Jennifer called out from the counter.
I dug beef patties out of the freezer and tossed them on the grill, then rolled hot dogs around with the spatula so they wouldn’t burn. The buzzer for the deep fryer went off, and I lifted out the wire basket to drain the sludge-brown, much-used-and-re-used oil from the fries.
“I need two cheese steaks, double on that cheese,” Jennifer said.
The strong scents of sauerkraut and grill fumes were making my head spin. I’d skipped dinner and was glad I had. If nothing else, my upside-down life was doing wonders for my figure.
Jennifer came up behind me and grabbed a couple of hot dog buns. “Are they ready yet?”
I used tongs to snatch the wieners off the grill and flip the burgers. The steak wafers looked a little crunchy. I covered the burnt edges with lots of cheese and hoped no one would notice.
Jennifer returned for the burgers and cheese steaks. “These are the last of the orders. I’ve been telling everyone we shut down the grill for the night.”
“Bless you,” I said and went to the counter to help peddle candy.
“We have to clean the grill before we leave,” Jennifer reminded me.
I doused the grill with water. While the gunk sizzled, I grabbed paper towels and went to work on the oil splatters near the deep fryer. Jennifer closed up the counter and tallied the money in the register. When she finished, she came back to help clean up the kitchen.
“I covered your husband’s memorial service at the high school,” I said, completely out of the blue.
“Covered the service?” She eyed me suspiciously. “For that column in the Town Crier?”
I nodded. “How are you holding up, Jennifer?”
“I’m doing okay.” She seemed mildly uncomfortable with the subject. “I take it one day at a time. What about you? It’s been less than two months since your husband walked out on you. How are you doing?”
The semi-grieving widow sure knew where to jab a red-hot poker.
“You’ve heard,” I said.
Jennifer pulled a plastic trash bag from a drawer and emptied the wastepaper basket. “Bad new travels fast in Tranquil Harbor.”
“Everyone knows everything about everyone else in a small community,” I agreed.
She spun the garbage bag and worked a twist tie around the top. “I guess you’re referring to Jason and that colossal whore of a guidance counselor?”
It dawned on me that except for the dead husband thing, she and I were more or less in the same boat. “That and Neil boinking his partner.”
Jennifer tossed the bulging bag near the back door. “Do you realize if Neil turned up dead anytime soon, you’d be the prime suspect?”
“With good reason. I fantasize about him meeting a horrible death,” I admitted.
I took a scouring pad from the rim of the sink and attacked the grunge around the deep fryer with enthusiasm. Jennifer used the spatula to scrape watery sludge from the grill.
“In case you’re wondering, I didn’t kill my husband,” she said.
“I never thought you did,” I told her truthfully.
“But some people do.”
“And some people don’t.”
“Does anyone on the faculty think I did it?” she asked me.
“I haven’t spoken to them yet.”
“Do you intend to?”
“I’m not an investigative reporter,” I assured her. “I’m only writing about the murder.”
“Just between us,” Jennifer confided, “I think you should know that Jason and I were married for nine years. My husband slept around for most of those years. He’d have a fling, break it off, and have another. It isn’t like I suddenly couldn’t stand his cheating one second longer. Betty Vernon wasn’t Jason’s first affair—and she wasn’t his last, either.”
The comment caught me by surprise. “Who was his last?” I asked.
“I don’t know for sure.”
“But you have your suspicions?”
“More like a nagging feeling,” she said. “Didn’t you have nagging feelings just before Neil walked out on you?”
“Not even a hint,” I told her. “He worked long hours. At times he acted a little distant. I thought we were in a rut or something. It never occurred to me he was cheating. Of course, I’ve been told I’m dense.”
“I hope you have a good lawyer.”
“Lucinda Maynard. I heard she’s terrific.”
“If she’s your lawyer, you can’t be that dense,” Jennifer said.
“Why did you put up with Jason for so long?”
She gave it some thought before answering. “I guess for Jay-Jay. Maybe for security. Who knows? You get used to being married. I didn’t want to be alone.”
I knew exactly what she meant.
The hours spent with Jennifer Whitley hadn’t given me anything to write about. The quiet, gentle baseball mom wouldn’t be canonized for sainthood anytime soon, yet I doubted she was capable of murdering anyone.
I called Rhodes’s cell phone the minute Jennifer left for home to discuss my impression of the widow, but could barely hear him with the static.
“What’s wrong with your phone?” he wanted to know.
“I don’t know. It worked okay before,” I told him. “Maybe it’s your phone.”
“What?”
“I said … oh, forget it!” I yelled.
“Come on over,” he said.
He gave me his home address: 117 Bay Boulevard, Apartment 8C. I knew the building. It was the tallest, most expensive condo tower on the waterfront—where Theda Oates lived and where my soon-to-be ex, Neil Caruso, currently resided.
I drove straight from the field to the waterfront, too tired to stop at home to change first. Grease splattered my T-shirt, and my jeans were streaked with sauerkraut juice. I refused to check my appearance in the rearview mirror. What difference would it make if my hair got curly? I would still look awful even if, by some miracle, my hair went arrow straight.
My ailing Ford Escort looked like a poor relation to the Jaguars, Lincolns, and Mercedes-Benz two-seaters in the dark, eerie parking lot on Bay Boulevard. There were fifteen floors and over a hundred units in the building, including four sprawling penthouses. A wise profiteer on Tranquil Harbor’s zoning board had either managed to overlook the height ordinance placed on waterfront structures, or the developer had received a miraculous variance without the customary public hearing.
Inside the building, the graceful lobby with its gleaming Italian marble floor made me feel like a scullery maid. Two women stepped off the elevator while I spoke to the doorman. They looked like models from the Neiman Marcus insert in the Sunday paper.
“Mr. Rhodes says to go on up,” the doorman told me after phoning him. “Use the center elevator, Miss. It’s faster.”
Apartment 8C was a corner unit at the very end of a carpeted hallway. I rang the buzzer and nearly collapsed when Rhodes, shirtless, opened the door.
“Um … ah, um …” I sputtered.
“That’s what I like about you, Colleen. You’re never at a loss for words.”
“You shouldn’t have dressed up on my account,” I said, stepping inside.
“You shouldn’t have either.”
I looked down at my clothes and regretted not stopping at home to change. “I was working a deep fryer all night. What’s your excuse?”
“I was on the treadmill. I can throw on a shirt if you’re uncomfortable.”
“I’m not fazed by bare-chested men,” I told him.
My father had gone shirtless every summer. Growing up, Dick had roamed the house in nothing but his drawers. Even Neil, who could be caught in his boxe
rs going to and from the bathroom, the kitchen, and wherever else he tended to wander in the morning, had never made me blush. Their chests were just chests. Ken’s upper torso was like a work of art. I kept hoping he would chuck the towel draped around his neck so I could get a better view, but it wasn’t to be. The towel stayed put. I went to the living room and sat down on the edge of the long leather sofa.
Rhodes eased himself into a matching recliner. “Let’s get down to business. What did Jennifer Whitley have to say?”
“Jason Whitley had been carrying on with other women for years,” I began. “Jennifer knew about the affairs from the start. Whitley’s last, or next to last, was Betty Vernon, the guidance counselor up at the high school. There was someone after the guidance counselor, but Jennifer isn’t sure who it was. I think Jennifer stopped loving her husband a long time ago, but she didn’t sound like she hated him.”
“Did Whitley have any life insurance?”
I shook my head. “I didn’t think to ask. There’s no way I could have introduced a question like that into polite conversation anyway. She did seem impressed that Lucinda Maynard is my lawyer.”
“I’m impressed, too. I heard all about the Maynard woman when I first came to Tranquil Harbor. Nice move, Colleen.”
“A friend referred me,” I told him.
“Do you think you can pull another kitchen duty with Jennifer Whitley? Maybe find out if she ever consulted with a lawyer?”
“There isn’t much time to chat when we’re working.”
“Then we’ll leave Jennifer Whitley up in the air for now and move on. Maybe you should arrange an interview with that algebra teacher—the one running the basketball camp.”
“Sure,” I said. “I can ask questions like ‘what age groups can sign up for the camp,’ and ‘by the way, did you happen to kill Jason Whitley?’ ”
“You might want to be a little more subtle.”
Ken Rhodes appeared to think something over, and conversation ceased. I pulled my eyes from his pectoral region long enough to take in the décor. Beyond the terrace door was heavy, black wrought iron patio furniture. The living room furniture consisted of leather and wood pieces—all non-cluttered male stuff. The focal point of the room was a monstrous wall-mounted TV that looked almost as big as the screen at the Cineplex.
“There’s no way to build a story around the high school guidance office, so I guess talking to the Vernon woman is out,” he finally said.
“No, it’s not. My daughter’s marks are slipping. As it happens, Betty Vernon is Sara’s guidance counselor.”
“That’ll work.”
“I’m not sure what I should be asking her. Let’s face it, I always wrote the kind of light stories that people used to line the bottom of cat litter boxes.”
“Think of this as on-the-job training.”
“It’s beginning to feel more like baptism by fire,” I muttered.
“And it should. You’re getting good columns out of this.”
I never dreamed of becoming a fabulous investigative reporter, writing a bestseller, or having the honor of Poet Laureate bestowed upon me. My dreams were more ordinary—making a halfway decent living by writing, a little name recognition every now and then, maybe a one-on-one interview with Colin Farrell in a small Irish pub—everyday stuff.
I got up off the couch. “I’ll see what I can do. I’ve got to get going. My kids are beginning to think their mother walked out on them, too.”
“Just let me throw on a shirt, and I’ll walk you down to your car.”
“I’ll be fine,” I told him. “Don’t bother.”
“I insist,” he said.
I wasn’t about to argue. I didn’t feel safe in the parking lot, even if it was in the ritziest neighborhood in town. Night in the bay area was always dark and deserted in the winter and early spring, before warm weather brought out kids and cars and beachgoers.
Rhodes slipped on a shirt, and we went to wait for the elevator. I checked out the rug pattern in the hallway to avoid conversation. After a few silent, awkward minutes, the bell dinged, and the door slid open. I was vaguely aware of a couple standing off to the right when we stepped inside.
It took a few seconds to register the familiar faces. When it hit me, I wanted to crawl into the corner and die.
“Colleen?” Neil, my almost ex, said.
Though I knew they lived in the building, I never expected to see Neil and Theda on their own turf. My fantasies ran more along the lines of him coming to the house in the middle of the night and pounding on the front door, declaring his undying love for me. And I, ten pounds lighter and happily single once again …
In fact, Neil would have been nuts to beat down my door. Theda Oates, in her flowing, periwinkle garb and matching silk pumps, looked positively regal. They were both dressed to kill, on their way out for a night on the town. In comparison, I looked like the leftover junk brought out to the curb after a garage sale.
“Great,” I whispered under my breath.
“Colleen? What are you doing here?” Neil asked me.
“She’s working,” Rhodes volunteered when I failed to answer.
He punched the lobby button, and the car gave a slight shudder as it began to descend.
“Why would you be working so late at night?” Neil asked, eyeing Rhodes but directing the question to me.
“Hot story,” Ken answered with a wink.
I gave Rhodes a grateful smile and noticed he had never bothered to button his shirt. Theda Oates got an eyeful of Ken’s washboard abs. I hoped she made a mental comparison to Neil’s mid-life-crisis paunch and was eating her heart out.
“Who’s with the children?” Neil asked in a newly-acquired, upper-crust tone.
“Certainly not you, Neil,” I answered.
The elevator stopped, and the doors opened. Rhodes led me to the building’s entry, where the doorman waited to be of service.
“I’ll be in touch, Colleen,” Neil called out after us.
I hurried to my car. My hands shook so badly that I dropped my keys twice.
Rhodes picked up the key ring from the ground and unlocked the door. “What a personable guy, Colleen! So warm and friendly.”
“Isn’t he something special?”
“What did you ever see in him in the first place?” Rhodes asked.
“I saw happily ever after.”
Rhodes laughed. “Well, so much for that! Be careful driving home. It’s dark down here.”
I remembered the little boy who got knocked off his skateboard by a hit-and-run driver just a few weeks before on another dark Tranquil Harbor night. “I will.”
“And stop by the office before you interview that teacher. Let’s go over some questions I’d like you to work into the conversation.”
“I’ll stop by on Monday.”
I drove home more curious than ever about Ken Rhodes. There was money somewhere in his background, that much was obvious. He might have been a hard-nosed reporter at a large daily newspaper at some point in his life, but he seemed too intense for our quiet suburban town.
I wondered if Meredith had been right after all with her hit-man reference.
8
Speculation on the Whitley murder ran amok at the Town Crier offices. Beat reporters, desperate for a story, haunted the county prosecutor’s office and were positive Jennifer Whitley had killed her husband.
“I don’t think so, unless she hit him in the head with a frying pan when he complained about dinner,” I told Margaret Allen, the seasoned reporter assigned to cover Tranquil Harbor, Cliffwood Beach, and nearby Keyport.
Margaret set me straight. “The police found a baseball bat in the dumpster near the concession stand down at the field when they were looking for Whitley’s personal effects. His briefcase is still missing. So are his car keys. There was blood on the bat and a few strands of light brown hair. How much do you want to bet they match up to Whitley?”
“Death by Louisville Slugger. How dramatic,�
�� I said, wondering why no one had bothered to tell me about the murder weapon.
“A nice, well-balanced metal bat. The kind the kids use,” she told me.
I knew that would narrow down Ron Haver’s list of suspects.
I roamed the newsroom and jumped from department to department to conduct an impromptu poll. Paying and Receiving, not the most imaginative of thinkers, thought Whitley’s murder was a random act of violence. Armchair detectives in the guise of copy editors were convinced a spurned lover did Tranquil Harbor’s Casanova in. Willy Rojas, along with Calypso Trent in advertising, agreed with the beat reporters: it had to be Jennifer Whitley. Meredith Mancini thought Whitley’s sparkling personality drove a Harbor Regional faculty member to homicide.
Mark Doran, the sports editor in the cubicle next to Meredith’s, felt compelled to add his two cents worth. “Maybe Jennifer Whitley did it for the insurance money.”
“What insurance money?” I asked. “Harbor teachers don’t have much in the way of life insurance. I hear it’s something like a year and a half of their first year’s salary. Do you know how low a first-year salary is for a teacher in our school district?”
“She probably had a separate plan that insured the guy to the gills,” he said.
“And hit him in the head with a bat and left him in the woods to collect on it?” I asked.
“She didn’t kill him there,” Doran said. “That guy was dumped.”
“Jennifer Whitley isn’t big enough to carry a body half a mile into the woods.”
“Then she had an accomplice. Maybe her boyfriend helped her.”
“What boyfriend?” I asked.
Willy Rojas joined in. “Think about it, Colleen. Her marriage was miserable, she wore a lavender suit to her murdered husband’s memorial service, and she’s more composed than any wife has a right to be under the circumstances. If your husband suddenly turned up dead, wouldn’t it rattle you?”
“If I got to speak at Neil’s memorial service, I’d be turning cartwheels across the floor,” I said.
Ken Rhodes came up the aisle with a coffee mug in his hand. “Move along, people. We have a paper to publish.”
I followed Rhodes back to his office and took my usual chair. “Did you know about the baseball bat?”
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