by Greg Herren
She was remarkably tall, and her white hair was tucked into a bun perched on the back of her head. Her glasses were thick, making her brown eyes seem much more enormous than they actually were. Her face was wrinkled, and some loose skin hung from underneath her chin. Her hands were brown with protruding blue veins, but her nails were perfectly manicured. She was wearing a loose-fitting dress of white cotton, but her figure was still quite trim and her bare legs looked strong. She was wearing brown leather sandals on her feet.
She was still peering at me like I was a bug under a microscope. “You’re quite a bit different than the last one, aren’t you?” she finally said with a snort, just as the silence was getting a bit uncomfortable. “I suppose Carlo wanted something different. Lord knows he wasn’t going to find another Timothy Burke! That one was far too good-looking for his own good, if you ask me. But he certainly went pretty far in the other direction.”
I could feel the blood rushing to my face.
She noticed, and rolled her eyes. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded—I’m an old bitch, but I’m not that mean.” She reached down and unhooked her dogs from their leashes. “There you go—you wanted off so badly, go on with you now!” She looked over at me. “You can unhook Minette—they just want to run and play, you know.”
I knelt down and unhooked Minette’s collar from her leash, and the three dogs took off for the beach, barking and playing.
“Come on up to the house with me and have some tea,” she commanded, tucking her hand through my arm. “I’ve been dying of curiosity ever since I heard the news that Carlo had remarried. I knew his parents, you know,” she went on, “I’ve known him and that sister of his since they were babies, and I’ve watched them grow up. Seems like just yesterday Joyce brought that fortune-hunting gigolo home.” She laughed, and it was a nice sound.
We sat down at a table on her back veranda, and she pressed an intercom button and ordered a pitcher of iced tea. She smiled at me. “So how are you finding life here in the Hamptons? It must be a bit overwhelming for you.” She clicked her tongue at me, narrowing her eyes. “Dorian Castlemaine was insisting that you must be some kind of gold digger yesterday when we were playing bridge, and that is, I’m afraid, the general consensus around here. But Dorian can be a nasty bitch—a bit of a snob, that one is, always seems to forget she wasn’t exactly born with a silver spoon in her mouth either—it was her curves and her pretty face that landed her a rich husband and a house in the Hamptons, not her pedigree.” She peered at me again over her glasses. “But with you right here in front of me, I’m afraid I just can’t see that. No, you’re not a gold digger at all, are you, young man?”
“No.” I bristled a little bit. “I had a job—”
“Working for that dreadful magazine in the city,” she cut me off. “But then, all magazines are dreadful these days—and one must make a living, I suppose, when one doesn’t come from money.” She smiled at me. “I know it’s rude and terribly snobbish, but people with money always assume people only marry into our class for money. As I pointed out to that rude bitch—who, like I said, married for money herself and is no better than she should be—Carlo Romaniello is a very handsome man, what the young people would call a hunk, so the probability of love was very high, even if you only knew him for a week before getting married.”
“It was rather quick,” I admitted. “But I do love him. I don’t care so much about the money, to be honest. I’d almost rather he didn’t have quite so much.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, young man. The story that money can’t buy happiness is a lie told by people who don’t have any money so they can feel better about their little lives. Don’t ever turn your nose up at money.” She laughed again. “It definitely has its advantages.”
I shook my head. “I’m not used to, you know, not having to look at price tags. Carlo thinks its funny. And living in Spindrift is like living in a hotel.”
“You’ll get used to it—you’ll be surprised at how quickly,” she replied as a uniformed woman brought a tray out and set it down on the table in front of us. “That’s all, Doris, thank you.” The woman nodded and went back inside the house. “Be a dear boy and pour us a glass, will you? This damned arthritis is brutal on my hands.”
I obliged. The tea was delicious, and I said so.
“You’d think one couldn’t ruin iced tea, but you’d be surprised,” she commented. She glanced at the watch on her arm. “I’d offer you something stronger but it’s still too early.” She peered off toward the Beach. “I’m glad Minette has you now. Since Timothy died”—she paused for a moment, and cleared her throat—“since Timothy died no one’s really had time for her, you know. I don’t think Carlo much cares for dogs—he’s never had one, which is all I need to know—and I’ve worried about her over there with no one to play with her or keep her company. I’ve thought about asking Carlo for her, you know, to take her back—Charlie and Hetty would be delighted to have one of their pups back, and I love dogs, can’t get enough of them—but he’s been hardly back at Spindrift since—well, since you know.” She fixed her eyes on me again. “But now you’re there, and you clearly love her, so I don’t have to worry about her anymore.”
I smiled back at her but didn’t say anything.
Of course, I was thinking, of course the dog was Timothy’s. Everything was his before it was mine.
“I didn’t realize Minette was—was his.” I said.
“It doesn’t make a difference, does it?” she asked.
“No, of course not.”
“Then forget about it.” She waved her hand. “He wanted one of Hetty and Charlie’s pups in the worst way—and then once he had her, he never seemed to have any time for her. If I’d known—” She made a face. “But now she has you—and I can tell, you love her. And that’s all that matters.”
“She’s wonderful,” I replied, taking a sip of the tea. “She—she makes me feel less lonely, since Carlo’s away.”
“So, what did you think of your tennis lesson?” she asked.
“How did you—”
She laughed and pointed upward. “The widow’s walk. I can see everything that goes on at your house from up there. I like to go up there and watch the neighborhood sometimes—it keeps me from feeling lonely.”
My heart went out to her. “Oh, dear, do you get lonely?”
She made a face. “Don’t be feeling sorry for me, boy.” She rapped the table with her knuckles. “My husband’s dead this many years and my children are grown and moved away, but I have plenty of friends in this town.”
I smiled back at her. “So you use loneliness as an excuse to go up there and spy on your neighbors?”
She laughed. “I like you, boy, I think I’m going to like you a lot.” She leaned forward and narrowed her eyes. “But you didn’t answer my question. Did you enjoy your tennis lesson?”
“Chris is a good teacher,” I replied with a smile. “I learned a lot, and I’m really looking forward to the next lesson.”
“See that tennis is all that he teaches you.” She made a face.
“What do you mean?”
She sniffed. “You surely can’t be that naïve, can you?”
I gaped at her. “Are you saying…”
“I wonder sometimes if Chris Thoresson was the one who killed Timothy,” she mused, resting her chin on her hands and leaning forward.
My heart flipped over inside my chest. “But Timothy drowned—he went for a swim in the ocean and—”
“You don’t believe that ridiculous story?” She chortled, and went into a laughing spasm. When she finally was able to get herself under control, she gave me a shrewd look. “Timothy knew how to swim, child. He worked as a lifeguard as a teenager—he trained with the Olympics in mind when he was young. How does someone like that drown?” She shook her head. “No, Timothy was murdered, as sure as we’re sitting here. Was it coincidence that all the servants at Spindrift—even that awful Carson—had the day off the day he
drowned?”
“But—the autopsy—the coroner ruled it an accident.”
“His body had been in the water for over a week when it washed ashore.” She replied, whistling for the dogs. “The fish had been at him. There’s no telling what kind of evidence the coroner missed—or the water ruined. Have you ever heard the phrase ‘the rich are different from you and me’?”
I nodded. “F. Scott Fitzgerald.”
“There’s a different kind of justice for the rich than for most people.” She stood up as the dogs came running up. She opened the door and let Hetty and Charlie into the house, while Minette jumped up into my lap. Her legs were wet—the dogs had been in the water.
“I walk the dogs at this time every day—you’re more than welcome to join us if you like,” she said as she shut the door, dismissing me.
I put Minette’s leash back on her and walked the length of the hedge down to the beach. My heart was pounding. Timothy—murdered? It couldn’t be possible. She’d also alluded that Chris and Timothy had been more than teacher and student.
Who would want him dead?
I froze as I came around the hedge.
If Timothy had been having an affair—and Carlo found out about it…
“Don’t even think like that,” I scolded myself. “She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Timothy drowned, and it was an accident. Even the best swimmers get cramps.”
I couldn’t help but look up, though—and I could see the widow’s walk on top of her house. Yes, anyone up there had a clear sight line into Spindrift’s backyard.
Had she—seen something the day he died?
Minette started pulling at her leash, and I looked down at her. “What is it, girl?” I asked, and followed her sight line.
A man I didn’t recognize was opening the door to the—Timothy’s—studio.
Curious, I let her pull me along in the direction of the studio. I peered in through one of the windows, but it was tinted dark so I couldn’t see in. I turned the knob and opened the door. “What are you doing here?” I asked, only then realizing it might be foolish to confront a trespassing stranger.
But rather than barking, Minette was whimpering and going into paroxysms of such joy that it was obvious she knew the man.
“And who,” he asked, standing up to his full height, “might you be?”
I caught my breath as I got a good look at him. He was an extremely good-looking man—if you liked that type. He had thick, wavy blond hair that was darker underneath and at the roots, wide green eyes, a heavy brow over a strong nose, and broad shoulders. His lips were thick, and he had a crooked front tooth. He was also tall—he had to be around six three or four. He was wearing a black cable-knit pullover shirt that stretched tightly across his strong chest, and khaki shorts that exposed tan, well-muscled legs.
Before I could answer, he smiled and said, in a rather nasty tone, “Let me guess—you must be the new Mrs. Romaniello.” He cocked his head to one side. “Not much like the old one, are you?”
Minette had been straining at her leash since we’d gone inside the studio, so I let go of her leash. My face started getting hot, and the traitorous spaniel dashed across the room and leaped on the stranger. He knelt down to let her lick his face and he scratched her back. He looked back up at me. “I’m sorry—that was offensive, and the last thing in the world I want is to offend you—you simply caught me off guard.” He stood back up, and Minette came back over to me, wagging her tail and her tongue sticking out. He walked over to me and extended his hand. “My name is Taylor Hudson.”
I told him my name as I took his enormous, strong hand in mine. He shook it gravely, his eyes twinkling. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Hudson,” I replied. “But you still haven’t told me what you’re doing here. You are trespassing, you know.”
“Yes, I suppose I am now,” he replied, scratching his forehead. “I’ve been away for over a year, and I suppose I need to get used to the idea that I may not be as welcome at Spindrift as I used to be. Your husband was never particularly fond of me—he made that very clear on more than one occasion. I was a friend of Timothy’s, you know, and I kind of got used to coming and going as I pleased. Timothy and I went way back.”
I stiffened at the mention of Timothy. “How long did you know him?”
“Since we were kids,” he said with a smile. “You could say we grew up together in a one-horse town in the Florida panhandle.” He sat down on a sofa and crossed his legs. “I got back to town just this past weekend.”
“I’m sorry, his death must have been quite a shock for you.”
“Yes, it was.” He shook his head. “I’m still trying to wrap my mind around it, frankly. It’s bad enough that he’s dead—but I just can’t believe Timothy drowned. He was at home in the water as a fish, you know.”
This was the second time in less than fifteen minutes someone had said this to me, but I kept my face rigid as I sat down on a chair. Minette jumped up into my lap. I started stroking her silky fur, careful not to let him see or notice how nervous I was. “Where have you been for the last year? You didn’t come back for the funeral?”
He smiled. “Timothy got me a gig as a personal companion to a lady he knew from his modeling days in New York, and we were touring the world.” His face darkened. “I got the news about him when we were in Paris, and of course I would have rushed back, but,” he shrugged his massive shoulders, “I hardly saw any point. He was dead, and he never put much store by funerals and memorials and that sort of thing.” He looked around the room. “If you ever happen to come across a gold medallion with a dolphin on it, would you mind returning it to me? It was on a chain of gold links.” He looked sad. “I won it in a swim meet when I was a teenager—but I gave it to Timothy because if he hadn’t been sick he would have won it. We used to give it back and forth to each other, but he had it when he died and I was, of course, in Europe.”
I bit my lower lip. I knew the medallion he was talking about—Timothy had often been photographed wearing it. “If I see it, of course,” I said.
“I can almost feel him here, you know.” He got up, walked over to a stack of framed prints against a wall, and started flipping through them. “He loved this place.” He smiled and pulled one out, turning it so I could see it.
It was a black-and-white print of a nude man lying in the sand while a wave broke around him. It took me a few moments to realize it was Taylor.
I blushed and looked away from the photo.
“Timothy wanted everyone to pose for him,” he said, picking it up and looking at it. “Would you mind if I took this?”
“I—I’m sure no one would mind,” I stammered, careful not to look at it again.
“Well, I’d best be on my way,” he replied, tucking the print under his arm. “If you find that medallion, please let me know.”
“How would I reach you?”
He placed a business card on the desk. “This has my cell phone number and my e-mail address. It was quite a pleasure to meet you.” He winked and walked out the door.
I stayed there for a few minutes after he walked out.
I knew what he meant about feeling Timothy—the sense of him was very strong in this place.
When I couldn’t stand it anymore, I grabbed the dog and headed back to the house.
Chapter Eight
I had just come back in from taking Minette for her morning walk and was sitting down to breakfast when Carlo got back from his trip.
I was exhausted. I hadn’t slept well, tossing and turning the entire night. I couldn’t put what Nell Chamberlain had said out of my mind—much as I wanted to dismiss her implications, I just couldn’t. Of course, that would have been much easier to do had Taylor Hudson not confirmed her statement about Timothy being a great swimmer. I’d taken dinner in my room, and spent the night online reading everything about Timothy and his death that I could find. Nowhere was there the slightest indication that anyone suspected his death had been anything other tha
n a tragic accident. I was able to download a PDF of the autopsy from a gossip site, and while most of it was unintelligible medical jargon to me, it was clear that the cause of death was from drowning—his lungs had been full of water. Unfortunately, the autopsy report was also full of exhaustive detail about what had happened to his body while it was in the water for the eight days—his eyes were gone, and the fish had eaten his fingers and toes, and been at other parts of his body as well.
There was one thing that didn’t make sense to me—when his body had washed ashore, he’d been wearing knee-length board shorts.
Timothy had given up his modeling career except for his own underwear line—it seemed odd to me that he wouldn’t have cared about the tan line he would have gotten from board shorts. On the other hand, he wasn’t tanning in them—he’d just gone for a swim. I also knew, from photo shoots at Street Talk, there were a lot of ways to cover up the wrong kind of tan lines.
Getting nowhere with that, I Googled Taylor Hudson. He’d been honest with me—he was from the same small town in the Florida panhandle as Timothy. They’d been friends, and after Timothy had started getting some fame as a model, he’d helped Taylor get started in the business, getting him signed with the same agency. They’d even done some shoots together—but Taylor’s career never quite caught fire the way Timothy’s had. He wasn’t as photogenic or handsome, and when Timothy had stopped modeling after marrying Carlo, Taylor’s career pretty much dried up.
I couldn’t help wondering why Taylor had never had his crooked front teeth fixed. In almost all of the images I was able to find of him online from his modeling days, he never showed his teeth. That had to have held him back somewhat.
I finally went to bed around midnight, trying to no avail to sleep, finally giving up when Minette started whimpering to go out around seven. I threw on some clothes, washed my face and brushed my teeth and hair, and took her down to the beach. I took off her leash and let her run free while I simply stared out at the ocean, wondering what happened to Timothy out there that fateful day.
