Cole would be fine; he’d weathered many storms and always came out unharmed.
Then it hit me, Patrick’s quote by Kipling reminded me of something that brought more worry. Cole had a new chief mate. I knew Cole. He wouldn’t hire a subpar crewmember for such a long voyage.
But what if he had?
• • •
The morning at Enderly flew by. Jenna had forgone her cane and was scurrying around like the proverbial chicken with its head cut off. I hadn’t told her about Cole. I didn’t want to ruin her big evening.
When I’d arrived, I’d noticed Roland was nowhere to be seen. It wasn’t like him to be waiting in the wings, but I counted it as a good thing. None of the decorators, including myself, needed him breathing down our necks. Plus, Jenna was a pro when it came to interior design, proven in the way she went from decorator to decorator, adding suggestions, not demands. The antithesis of her husband’s style.
By two in the afternoon, I had already done the final walk-through of my spaces for the showhouse: the front and rear wraparound verandas, a baluster-railinged porch at the top of the house, and two screened-in porches, one off the dining room, the other on the opposite side of the house, which I’d turned into a sleeping porch. The flowers and plants for the porches had arrived around ten from La Cote de la Mer Florist in East Hampton. If I had to pick one thing that I’d learned from being at American Home and Garden magazine, fresh flowers and plants transformed any setting from dull and lackluster to fresh and extraordinary. Even a faux green fern here and there was better than nothing. When decorating my clients’ porches, I gave them as much attention to detail as I would one of their interior rooms.
Around three, over a quick cup of coffee and a stale croissant, Jenna had confided that last night she and Roland had had a knock-down, drag-out fight, mostly having to do with him allowing the paranormal investigators free range on the property. “After you told me about Shepherds Cottage being broken into, I told him he was an idiot to let those ghost conjurers roam the grounds. He knows that I believe Enderly has ghosts. However, right now I’m not afraid of ghosts, just him. Maybe he’s trying to drive me crazy. Just like in those suspense books and movies where the husband makes everyone think his wife is losing her mind, only to find out he is plotting to get control of her money through a power of attorney after he sends her to the looney bin. Then Roland could sell Enderly out from under me.”
I held back from correcting her that the cottage had been unlocked, not broken into. There’d been no sign of forced entry and nothing was missing. I had to stop her before she went into a downward spiral. I snapped my fingers in front of her beautiful face. “Jenna! Focus! Tonight is your dream come true. Enderly looks amazing. And so do you.”
“This was my mother’s Dior. Do you think the sapphire choker is too much?”
Why did she always have to second-guess her choices. “It’s lovely. Perfect. This is your time to shine. Don’t let anyone spoil it.”
“You’re right,” she said, the start of a smile forming on her perfect lips. “I have to look at the big picture. And there’s only one part of the picture that needs touching up. I need to check on Vicki’s space.” She got up from her chair and winced in pain. “Meg, be a dear and please get my handbag from the pantry. I need some ibuprofen. There’s no time to hobble around. There’s still so much to do. I blame Roland for this,” she said, pointing to her leg. “Where is he? I begged him to do one thing. Leave my decorators alone. I didn’t mean that he should be totally MIA. He needs to pay the florist and a thousand other things.”
It took me a few minutes to unearth the Advil bottle from the bottom of her handbag. I took out two and brought them into the kitchen. “One or two?” I asked.
“Two,” she answered without hesitation. I wasn’t surprised.
“Here you go,” I said, placing the pills in her hand. “Do you need me for anything?” I asked. “I have a few last-minute things to take care of.” I really didn’t. I just wanted to check my phone for any news about Cole and see if Imogine had returned my call.
After going to the sink for a glass of water and swallowing the Advil, Jenna limped toward the doorway leading to the formal dining room, then turned to me. “No. I’m good. Thanks for being such a good friend.”
I walked over and gave her a hug. “You’re skin and bones. You need one of my father’s meals to fatten you up. He’ll be in town Memorial Day Weekend. I’ll be sure to invite you over for dinner.”
“Oh, dear, do you think I’m too thin? I did notice my clothes not fitting too well. But I thought I was gaining weight, not losing.”
I’d stuck my foot in it this time. I wished Jenna didn’t always feel like she had to play the victim. Maybe the psychiatrist Roland had mentioned would help her. I know seeing a therapist helped me when I found my fiancé Michael in the arms of his ex-wife. If it wasn’t for therapy, I probably wouldn’t have left my job at American Home and Garden and moved to Montauk. Now I let the ocean and my walks on the beach substitute for a therapist with the same result. Serenity.
“No. You’re perfect,” I said. “Better than perfect. Now go finish up and we’ll meet back here at five and share a glass of wine. Now, vamoose.” I put my hand on the small of her back and guided her through the open doorway.
Finally, I was able to make my phone call. But it was all for naught.
There’d been no news about Cole or the Reliance.
Chapter 11
At five, after changing into my party clothes—or should I have said Elle’s party clothes—I stepped into Enderly’s massive kitchen, noticing that Jenna had made it feel both homey and elegant at the same time. An open bottle of wine stood next to an ornate sterling silver tray holding champagne flutes and wineglasses. I went to the tray and poured myself a glass of pinot noir, hoping it would calm me. I wasn’t nervous about the cocktail party, I was worried about Cole. I kept checking my phone for some news on him and the Reliance. Nothing new came up on search. It’s as if the media had given up on the story and had moved on to the next big thing. I couldn’t think of anything bigger.
“Oh, I’ll take one of those!” Vicki called out as she entered the kitchen. She was a vision in pink, wearing a sleeveless cocktail dress the color of Pepto-Bismol. Violet sequins had been sewn around the dress’s plunging neckline, highlighting her deep cleavage. The dress was too tight for her curvy figure. Judging by its vintage feel, I’d bet it had once been her mother’s. Vicki grabbed the glass of wine I’d poured for myself, then sat on a bar stool at the Carrera marble counter.
Not able to help myself, I said, “You’re welcome,” as I poured another glass, then turned toward her.
“Thank you. Don’t you think that chandelier is a bit much for a cooks’ kitchen? It belongs in the dining room. But who am I to give the queen of the castle decorating advice, I’ve only been at my mother’s knee helping her with her sketches since I could walk.”
I didn’t answer her or defend Jenna. Some people weren’t worth arguing with, and I could tell she was one of them. I smiled when I saw that a brown hydrangea leaf had gotten woven into the teased section of hair at the back of her head. I doubted it was a hair accessory—it wasn’t pink. I decided not to tell her. Served her right.
I sat at the counter just as Freya ran in, frazzled and in a sweat. “Do you believe it? Only two hours until we open the doors for the cocktail party. I promised Jenna no television crew until nine. Before letting the cameras roll, she wanted me to get written permission from the top celebrities attending the cocktail party. I agreed.” Freya also went for a glass, but instead of filling it with pinot noir she went to the sink and downed a couple glassfuls of water. Turning back to Vicki and me, she said, “I’m finally happy with my rooms. I hoped to find Jenna here. Get her stamp of approval before they open the doors for the guests.”
Nate Klein came through the open doorway, a sterling ice bucket in his arms. A bottle of Moet, its neck wrapped in a linen napkin, cro
wned from cubes of ice. He set the bucket on the countertop and said, “I’ve also been looking for Jenna. I thought before we open the doors we could pop the cork to a bottle of bubbly in celebration of a job well done.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Kuri said, entering the kitchen from the back hallway leading from the servants’ stairs. “I just saw Jenna about ten minutes ago, she said she got a text from her husband to meet her at the pavilion at five. Seemed pretty upset at his timing.”
Yikes, I thought, not such a good idea for the two of them to rendezvous so close to opening the doors for the party. What if Jenna’s husband found out about her and Nate? Before I could decide whether I should run to Jenna’s rescue or mind my own business and let them work it out, my phone vibrated. I pulled it out of my pocket and saw that Elle was calling. I was torn between answering and going to find Jenna. Then I realized she might have word of Cole. I tapped a small button on my hearing aid processor, excused myself from the kitchen and stepped into the back hallway. I heard Elle say, “Hello! Hello! They found the Reliance. Cole is fine. He got beached on an island off the coast of Lisbon!”
“Thank God!” I shouted, then jumped in the air in relief.
“I’ll see you soon,” Elle said. “Can’t wait for the party. I’m wearing the perfect 1940s dress and Schiaparelli jewelry in honor of Cole’s safe rescue and the showhouse. Lots to celebrate. Love you.”
Before I could say I loved her back, there came a wailing from the direction of the kitchen.
That was when I heard Vicki say, “Dead? What do you mean, dead!”
Chapter 12
Jenna stood in the middle of Enderly’s kitchen. Her hands were at her sides, palms upward, looking like they’d been dyed red, then coated with a dusting of sugar. They weren’t a bright scarlet red, more like a dried ketchup red. Everyone crowded around her. Her howling finally settled into a soft whimper.
Nate had his arm around her shoulder, careful not to touch her hands. He asked gently, “Jen, where is he? Are you sure he’s dead?” I must have missed her declaration about who was dead. But I had a good idea. The only one missing was Roland. Freya took out her phone and tapped three numbers—nine-one-one.
Jenna’s lower lip quivered, and everyone sucked in a collective breath. “Yes, I’m sure,” she gulped, “no one could survive a thirty-foot fall, especially the way he landed. Poor Roland . . .”
No one had noticed when I’d slunk back into the kitchen, and hopefully no one noticed when I slowly backed out. The authorities and ambulance would be here soon, and I wanted—no, needed—to see for myself what had happened to Roland. Sadly, this wouldn’t be my first corpse. I just prayed it would be my last.
On the way out, I grabbed a pair of disposable booties from a box by the door leading to the rear veranda and put them over my shoes. Jenna had kept them there for everyone to wear during the installations so as not to muddy the floors, but today there was no need because all the dirty work had been done and we were dressed in party attire. I’d learned from my retired Detroit PD Homicide Detective father the importance of not contaminating a crime scene. Plus, I didn’t want to ruin the vintage Gucci insignia shoes that Elle had given me to wear. They coordinated perfectly with a turquoise raw silk 1960s dress with a full skirt that made me look like Doris Day stepping out of a scene with Rock Hudson. The advantage of the dress had been its pockets, making it easy to stow my cell phone for news of Cole. Wow! Cole was safe.
The same couldn’t be said for Roland Cahill.
I hurried outside, trotting toward the pavilion. I thought I heard the faint sound of sirens. Even with my hearing aids turned to their highest volume, it was hard to tell how close they were. The high-pitched frequency of a siren was where most of my hearing loss fell on a decibel graph. When I got closer to the pavilion and the steps leading to Enderly’s beach, my trot turned into a full gallop. I wanted to see what happened to Roland before anyone arrived. Anyone, included Chief Pell from the Suffolk County Police homicide squad. Last January, Elle’s fiancé, Detective Arthur Shoner, and I had had a falling out with the almighty Chief Pell. I’d never told Elle, but I thought it had been the chief who’d orchestrated her fiancé’s transfer to Manhattan, guessing the chief was tired of Detective Shoner getting all the limelight and praise for catching a murderer or two. Or three. Or four. Chief Pell’s problem with me was that I’d been involved, one way or another, in those same cases. A murder magnet was what Elle called me. The reason—at least that’s what I told myself—why it was imperative that I take a quick look at the scene before he arrived. Chief Pell would never share info with me like Detective Shoner had.
When I got to the entrance of the pavilion, I paused before stepping inside. Everything seemed as I’d left it this morning when I’d waited for the garden shop to deliver the potted trees for each corner of the space. A wicker chaise lounge was angled strategically toward the lighthouse. Arranged in front of a white balustered railing, overflowing with nodding violet hydrangea heads, where two cushioned wicker rocking chairs. A glass-topped wicker side table stood between them. Butting up to the railing was a bar and bar stools. In the Hamptons, a bar was a necessity, not an extravagance.
At first glance everything seemed as I’d left it. But then I looked over at the swing built for two hanging from thick braided ropes. The two huge pillows that I’d so artfully arranged by giving them a decorator karate chop showed the imprints of two bodies. I stepped inside the space and noticed another anomaly. The white fairy lights I’d strung on the potted trees were unlit. I’d purposely left them on when I’d left the pavilion, wanting them twinkling and visible by anyone who stepped out onto the main house’s veranda during the cocktail party.
What the heck? I hoped one of the bulbs weren’t bad, causing all the others not to work. But that wasn’t the case, because when I looked at the outlet under the railing, nothing was plugged in. Not only that, but there was no sign of the white extension cord I’d used. Someone must have taken it. Strange, but I didn’t have time to waste thinking about it.
I took out my phone and shot a few photos, then I went to the wood railing that on a clear day would have a no-holds-barred view of the Atlantic. I was cautious not to get too close, recalling Jenna saying that Roland had fallen thirty feet below. Glancing down, I felt the bile rise. Near the base of the steps ending at Enderly’s rocky beach was the fuzzy outline of Roland’s twisted body. I gulped a few breaths of cold, damp, salty air.
Roland was a jerk, but he didn’t deserve to die like this. No one did. I needed to go down there.
I hurried to the open gate, then charged down to the steps. I wasn’t worried about my fingerprints being on anything because I had an alibi. I’d gone down to the beach earlier, after finishing up the décor in the pavilion, and had sent out a feverish prayer across the ocean for Cole’s safe rescue.
Roland’s large body blocked the area to the left of the steps. His eyes were open, more in surprise than pain. If he was pushed, by the look in his eyes I would say he knew his attacker. Owing to the dense mist that pressed down, thick and suffocating, along with the fact anyone could have been lurking behind the large hydrangea bushes that circled the pavilion, it could have been anyone.
Adjacent to Roland’s head was a small area of rocks covered in blood. That must have been where Jenna had lifted him with her hands, sand clinging to them when she did. I bent closer and saw Roland still held his cell phone in his right hand. I recalled Kuri saying Jenna had received a message from Roland to meet him at the pavilion. Knowing the drill, I didn’t touch anything. The front of him seemed blood-free. Could he have just tumbled over the railing by mistake? In this weather, it was certainly possible. It was then that I saw the deep gouge circling his neck. Roland had been choked.
There was no mistaking the sirens now. I took one last glance around to see if I could find what had made the mark. The tide was coming in. There, in the early evening gloom, as the last wave receded, I saw it. My white extension
cord.
Whoever killed Roland must have tossed it into the ocean, only for it to come back with the tide. I made a decision that my cop father wouldn’t have been happy about. I picked up a stick, used it to wrangle the cord, then tossed the extension cord under the steps, where I knew the CSIs would find it. Tampering with evidence, Elle’s fiancé would say. Preserving evidence was the way I looked at it.
Wisely realizing that everyone back at Enderly, including myself, would have to be questioned about his death, I didn’t take any photos of Roland’s body. There was also the possibly of our cell phones being confiscated. The photos I’d taken inside the pavilion were innocent enough. A candid of Roland’s corpse, not so much.
I ran up the steps and bounded toward the main house, careful not to slip on the damp lawn. When I reached the gravel path leading to the rear veranda, I looked ahead. The front gates were slowly opening and a train of law enforcement and rescue vehicles nosed their way through. To the left of the gates I thought I saw movement. Something, or someone, was crouched near the hedges. Or was my mind playing tricks on me because of the fog? I stored the information away and charged up the rear steps, opened the door and silently slipped inside.
After taking off my booties, I tossed them into a brass umbrella stand by the door, then tried to make myself presentable. If that was possible. My reflection in the gold-framed convex mirror over the hall’s refectory table made me wince. I looked like I belonged in a circus sideshow. Mascara ran down my cheeks. I must have been crying for Roland without knowing it. Luckily, I had a tissue in my dress pocket. My hair, which earlier had been tamed into a loose chignon and lacquered with hairspray, sprung out in all directions from the humidity on the beach. I did the best I could with what I had to work with by licking the palms of my hands then smoothing them over the Brillo pad texture of my blonde hair. Giving up, I tiptoed to the now-empty kitchen, then to the main hallway. I wanted to be safely in the others’ midst when the police rang the doorbell.
A Design to Die For Page 8
