Death in a Cold Hard Light

by Francine Mathews

  Tess grinned and kissed Merry on the cheek. “In the past two days I made a ton of money, and I get to take the next three months off. Who wouldn’t celebrate?”

  “Three months,” Merry murmured. “That’s just—indecent, Tess. Nobody takes three months off, anymore.”

  “Except Peter.”

  “That doesn’t count,” Merry protested. “He’s never really working. You have to be bone-tired to appreciate three months’ vacation. And you, Tess, are positively glowing.”

  It was true; work, or something else—her marriage, perhaps?—agreed with Tess Starbuck da Silva. Merry had rarely seen her look better. She was approaching forty-five, the mother of an eighteen-year-old son, and she managed a restaurant and catering business all by herself. But her odd yellow eyes—tiger’s eyes, Will called them—were alive with fun, and her face, though lined, radiated warmth. Tess wasn’t beautiful, as she may have been at twenty; but she was happy And somehow that was enough to make her infinitely attractive.

  “I’ll tell you a secret,” she said now, leaning toward Merry. “I’m pregnant.”

  Merry’s jaw dropped. “You’re kidding! That’s wonderful, Tess. I’m so happy for you both. Rafe is such a great dad.”

  “Yes he is. As Will can attest.”

  Merry slipped one of the phyllo triangles off a plate and eyed Tess’s abdomen. “So how are you feeling?”

  “Better than I expected.” Tess turned swiftly as Will passed with a trayful of wineglasses, and took one for Merry. “I hope this suits. Rafe seems to have disappeared.”

  A shout of laughter filtered toward them from the Greengage’s bar, and Merry smiled. “He’s probably sharing the good news with his fishing buddies.”

  “Then we can sit and talk.” Tess drew her toward a pair of Windsor chairs arranged near the dining room’s comfortable hearth. “I’m glad you came, Merry But I’m sorry it’s at the expense of your vacation.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Peter stayed in Connecticut?”

  “He should be in New York by now.” Merry glanced at her watch. “In fact, he should be fifth row center at Carnegie Hall, listening to the Emerson String Quartet. He’s been looking forward to it for months.”

  “I take it he wasn’t thrilled you left.”

  “He was utterly furious.”

  “And now you’re feeling guilty.”

  “Is it that obvious? Of course it is.” Merry set down her glass and reached for the fire iron. Prodded a log until it rolled a flaming underbelly skywards, the glow reflecting in her green eyes. “The damnable thing is, Tess, that I had only two choices. I could feel guilty about ignoring my dad, or guilty about abandoning Peter. And I chose to abandon Peter.”

  “Inducing guilt is usually a woman’s trick,” Tess observed.

  Merry laughed. “Probably both of them would be appalled at this manifestation of their feminine sides.”

  “Men never understand the sense of obligation women feel to the people they love—how it drives us and shapes our days. Riddles us with conflicting loyalties.”

  “Oh, Peter understands it. He accused me of valuing my father’s good opinion more than I value his.”

  “And do you?”

  Merry looked away. “I’ve been asking myself that all weekend. It’s not that I value it more—” She hesitated, then went on. “It’s rather that I can’t control the impulse to perform. I’ve been trained to do that. It’s almost involuntary.”

  “I don’t understand. Trained by your father, or by your job?”

  “Ever since my brother Billy died—you’ve heard about that?”

  Tess nodded. Billy had died saving Rafe’s life in Vietnam.

  “—I’ve been trying to replace him. Trying to be my father’s … not son, exactly, but his heir, I suppose. I don’t know why I bother. I never will be.”

  “Billy couldn’t have handled that killer last spring any better than you did, Merry,” Tess said quietly.

  Merry felt suddenly exposed in the glare of the other woman’s awareness, and drew a shuddering breath. “Let’s not even go into that. It was hardly my finest hour.”

  “A lot of people would disagree.”

  “A lot of people don’t know the whole story.”

  “They know you were almost killed. That means something to nearly everybody on this island.”

  Merry reached for her wineglass and took a sip. “Yeah. It means I got lucky. Three other people didn’t. And I feel responsible for them—and for their families, Tess—every goddamn day. I see their faces at night when I turn out the light. And I can’t help knowing that I failed. My father knows it, too. He must think about it each time he has to give me a case.”

  Tess frowned. “But you got the guy in the end. Has he been tried yet?”

  “Sometime this summer.”

  “Will you have to testify?”

  “Of course. Lawyers from both sides have already deposed me. I had to go to Boston just last week for three solid days of questioning, before I was free to spend some time with Peter. It just never ends.” She was gripping her wineglass so tightly the stem suddenly snapped between her fingers.

  “Oh, God, Tess—I’m so sorry—”

  “Never mind.” Tess took the broken glass gently from her hands, and set the pieces on a cocktail napkin. “Mexican blown wineglass, eight ninety-five at Crate and Barrel. We break a dozen every week, believe me.”

  “I’ll replace it—”

  Tess waved this away. “I didn’t understand how awful that case was for you. I thought you had won, in the end.”

  Merry smiled lopsidedly. “I won the war. But I lost a battle. And I can’t quite get over that.”

  “You’ve got to. For your own sake, and for Peter’s. Does he understand how that case has affected you?”

  “In moments, maybe. Right now he’s convinced that the real problem is marriage. He thinks I’d do anything to avoid his family, our wedding, and all the commitment it entails.”

  “And would you?”

  “No. Yes. I don’t know.” Merry looked up from the flames and met Tess’s eyes. “I love Peter more than anyone on earth, Tess. But his whole world intimidates the hell out of me. I keep waiting for him to wake up and realize I’m completely inadequate.”

  “For what?”

  “For being a Mason!”

  “That sounds positively medieval. You’re not marrying into a dynasty, Merry, and I doubt Peter would want you to think so.”

  “You haven’t met Peter’s mother. To Julia, the most important thing about Peter is that he’s the only surviving Mason male. He’s got to carry the family into the twenty-first century, and for reasons she can’t begin to fathom, he’s chosen me to carry with him. From the moment I shook the woman’s hand a few days ago, it was obvious I’d failed her personal test.”

  “A handshake was far too plebeian.” Tess’s lips twitched. “You should have kissed her on both cheeks instead.”

  “You see? I’ll never manage it!”

  “I wonder,” Tess said softly, “if you’re afraid of the easy out.”

  “The what?”

  “The easy out. Look—you feel like you failed at your job. We won’t argue, for the moment, whether you did. But marrying Peter would be one way to admit defeat. You could quit the detective work, take an easier desk job, or turn in your badge altogether. Be a housewife. Have children. Change the whole tenor of your life.”

  “I could.” The expression in Merry’s green eyes grew remote. “Sometimes that all sounds terribly attractive, Tess. Very safe, and very comfortable.”

  “And you would always think you’d taken the easy out.”

  “I probably would. On the other hand”—Merry smiled—“I’d hate to give Julia Mason the satisfaction of walking away.”

  “I imagine Peter has something to do with that, too.”

  “Why is love such a pain in the ass, Tess?”

  “That’s what makes it interesting. Look at me—I’
m riveted.”

  “Shouldn’t you be circulating genially, making everybody feel special, like the perfect hostess?”

  “I’m counting on the food to do that for me.” Tess sighed and settled back in her chair.

  Merry suddenly gripped her arm. “Who’s that gorgeous woman dressed all in black?”

  Tess glances over her shoulder. Her expression hardened slightly. “That’s Hannah Moore.”

  “What?”

  “Hannah Moore. She’s a biologist, lives out in Pocomo…”

  “I know all that. Can you introduce us?”

  “You want to meet Hannah?”

  “More than I’ve ever wanted to meet anyone in my life. This week, at least.”

  “Well, then—” Tess stood up. “I warn you, she’s a piece of work. I only invited her because she’s been so generous to Will. He’s volunteering at AquaVital in order to research his senior project.”

  “AquaVital?”

  “That’s Hannah’s scallop farm. And her lab.”

  Tess led Merry across the room to the small knot of men gathered around the marine biologist. They were engrossed in conversation—or rather, the men were hanging on every word that fell from Hannah Moore’s mouth. Her shining black hair was gathered meekly at the nape of her neck, to fall carelessly over one shoulder. Her strong hips were encased in narrow black wool to the ankles—an almost nunlike effect, but for its caressing exposure. She wore no jewelry, but her lips—so expressive at their corners of a mocking cruelty—were painted a glowing terracotta. Hannah Moore was the picture of power, Merry decided, both carnal and mental.

  “Hannah!” Tess exclaimed, with what Merry instantly judged to be forced warmth. “I didn’t see you come in. How good of you to join us. Is Charles here?”

  “No,” Hannah said.

  If Tess was disconcerted by the brevity of the woman’s answer, she never betrayed it. “Let me introduce you to a dear friend of mine. Hannah, this is Meredith Folger. Merry, Hannah.”

  “Hello,” Hannah said coolly, and turned back to her coterie of men. “The implications of my work, of course, are obvious.”

  “Of course,” one of the men echoed, his eyes fixed soulfully on Hannah’s sweeping cheekbones. She might have been a young Faye Dunaway, Merry thought, or someone even more exotic. She looked as though she had Slavic blood.

  “Once the scallop’s DNA is genetically altered to permit digestion of the brown tide phytoplankton, we’ve killed two birds with one stone.”

  “Exactly,” chirped one of the faithful. “You’ll be able to clean up the harbor and restock it with marketable shellfish.”

  “The AquaVital tigerback,” Hannah agreed smoothly.

  Larval tigers, Merry thought, with a frisson of recognition. So the tigerbacks were Hannah’s. Owen Harley hadn’t bothered to mention that.

  “My scallops’ distinctive stripes immediately announce their provenance on the world market. You know, I assume, the price that Nantucket Bay scallops command.”

  “But isn’t that a price determined, in part, by scarcity?” a tall, raffish-looking fellow in a wine-colored sports jacket asked.

  Hannah shrugged. “There will probably be an adjustment downward in price as supplies become more plentiful. That’s the natural effect of market forces. But there will always be a premium attached to scallops taken from these waters.”

  “If your program is so attractive, Hannah, why did the Shellfish and Harbor Advisory Board cancel your grant money last week?”

  The biologist turned on the man in the wine-colored jacket as though he had emitted an offensive smell. “The people at SHAB haven’t got any guts. They’re afraid of risk. I’m looking for investors who thrive on it.”

  Despite her wariness, Merry was impressed. Hannah Moore was talking about a potentially arcane subject-genetic engineering and phytoplankton—and making it sound like a Wall Street stock offering. Her presentation and style were calculated to sell, and apparently it was working. The raffish-looking man raised his wineglass to Hannah in grudging salute.

  “Nobody’s ever accused you of lacking guts, my dear. I’m almost inclined to invest myself. The question is whether my partners will be.”

  “I can Express Mail an informational package to New York tomorrow,” she said imperturbably.

  Her opponent hesitated, then gave way. “Why don’t you do that?”

  As if by mutual consent, the admiring chorus broke up and re-formed around a tray of biscotti. Hannah glanced at Merry, and managed a stiff smile.

  “I’m sorry. That must have sounded terribly boring.”

  “Not at all. I found it fascinating.”

  This elicited no response. Afraid that the woman might walk away, Merry said quickly, “Tess tells me you’re running a shellfish farm.”

  This garnered the slightest of frowns. “It’s more of an experimental laboratory, in fact.”

  “That explains the word DNA. I thought I heard you mention it.”

  “Yes. I’m trying to breed a superscallop—one that will thrive in the harbor’s current conditions.”

  “Well, amen to that,” Merry said with false fervor. “I’m just sick about the harbor’s decline. I’ve been reading your literature.”

  “My literature?”

  “From Save Our Harbor. Aren’t you on the board?”

  Hannah’s brows knit faintly. “Philosophical differences forced me to resign.”

  “Oh, no! And your work holds such promise, too!”

  “I’m glad you think so. The Save Our Harbor people disagreed.”

  “You don’t mean Owen Harley?”

  Hannah sipped noncommittally at her wine. “Owen thinks we need to address the nitrogen problem before we can ever hope to boost the scallop harvest. He’s made the people of Nantucket the scallop’s natural enemy. I believe that harbor degradation is a fact of modern life, and that we should force the scallops to deal with it themselves. Imposing fertilizer limits or septic field renovation is merely a short-term solution.”

  “It’s a pity that Owen is so shortsighted,” Merry said regretfully. “But I suppose he’s terribly distracted right now with Jay Santorski’s death. He and Owen were very close, I understand.”

  “You knew Jay?” Hannah’s tone grew, if possible, even colder.

  “Not really. Did you?”

  “Yes. I wasn’t impressed.”

  Not for Hannah the desire to speak well of the dead.

  “I’m surprised to hear that,” Merry managed. “Do you mean personally? Or professionally?”

  “Both. Jay was bright, of course, but too arrogant to know his own interest. He turned down chances that might have made his career. What he needed was a lesson in humility. And a bit of independence. He was afraid to test limits.” The gray eyes, when they met Merry’s, were unabashedly mocking.

  “Unlike you.”

  “Exactly. Jay was fundamentally a coward.”

  She spoke with an unguarded bitterness, and for a moment Merry wondered just how much wine Hannah Moore had consumed.

  “That’s a pretty strong word to throw at a dead man,” Merry said quietly. “Everyone I know thought he was selfless to a fault.”

  Hannah laughed abruptly. “Jay was an interfering, highhanded, arrogant son of a bitch. Selfless doesn’t even come into it.”

  This, from the woman Dave Haddenfield had described as hot in pursuit of the dead scalloper. Had Jay’s disinterest embarrassed and enraged her enough to create this scorn?

  “Well—he was young. Who knows what he might have become?”

  “For someone who never knew Jay, Ms. Folger, you’ve got a pretty glorified idea of him.”

  “Oh, call me Merry,” Merry gushed shamelessly. “Where are you from, Hannah?”

  “LA. By way of Columbia.”

  “You studied marine biology there?”

  “My doctorate is from Harvard.”

  “So that’s how you ended up on this coast.”

  “After a st
int at Woods Hole, yes.”

  “Just like Owen Harley and Jay! What a small world. Did you ever run into them over there?”

  Hannah’s gray eyes narrowed. “Once or twice. Last summer.”

  “And you’ve been on Nantucket … how long?”

  “Three years.”

  “You’re married to an islander, aren’t you? Is that why you settled here? True love?”

  She shrugged. “I had done all I could at Woods Hole.”

  “But where did you meet your husband?”

  Hannah held her glass against her black cashmere sweater, as though the wine might shield her. “Charles has family in Cambridge. Harvard is in Cambridge, Ms. Folger, in case you didn’t know. Is there anything else I can tell you about my personal life? My clothing size, perhaps? Or what I eat for breakfast?”

  Merry affected astonishment. “Oh, dear—have I been nosy again? It’s my worst failing, Hannah. I’m so sorry. I’m famous for asking too many questions—I guess it’s just a habit acquired at work. Matt Bailey always says—”

  “Who?” The biologist almost choked on her wine.

  “Matt Bailey. My colleague at the police station. Matt knew Jay pretty well, too, I gather.”

  “You work at the police station?” The gray eyes had quite lost their mocking detachment.

  Merry smiled apologetically. “Didn’t Tess mention that? I suppose not. Yes, I’m a detective, Ms. Moore, and I’m investigating Jay Santorski’s death. So why exactly did you think he was an interfering, high-handed, arrogant son of a bitch?”

  Hannah set down her wineglass. And without another word she walked away.

  Will Starbuck backed out of the Greengage’s kitchen with a tray of chocolate-dipped biscotti held carefully in both hands. His mother’s food was disappearing at an astonishing clip. Will sighed with relief as he successfully negotiated the swinging double doors, and turned toward the living room—where he ran smack into Paul Winslow’s father.

  “Hey, there,” Jack Winslow said, reaching for the tray as it slid precariously in Will’s grasp. “Don’t fumble the ball, Will!”

  “Mr. Winslow.” Will ducked his head. “I didn’t see you there. Would you like a biscotti?”

  “A what?”

  “Chocolate-covered cookie.”