by Kylie Logan
Yes, Chandra is my neighbor.
And yes, she can sometimes be a little loud, especially when she’s celebrating a full moon with one of her legendary bonfires.
But just for the record, my rooms are spotless, I’d never had a guest named Juan, and the breakfasts I serve at my B and B are the best on the island. Hands down.
None of which changed my current predicament. Thanks to the tourists who flocked to Tara and eschewed Bea & Bees, for the first time I was having to advertise discount specials.
I had deep pockets; it didn’t hurt my wallet as much as it did my pride.
“You know, Bea, you could fight fire with fire.” The little singsong voice Chandra used when she said this warned me that whatever she was going to suggest, I wasn’t going to like it. “If you let people know that you’re really . . .” She had the good sense to look around and lower her voice. “That you’re really FX O’Grady, the famous horror writer, they’d come running to your place. Heck, I could probably rent out rooms at my house just so people could sit next door and get a look at you.”
She was right.
And I wasn’t any more willing to budge on the topic than I had been when I shared the secret with my friends just a couple of months before.
“I’m not looking to cause a sensation,” I said. For like the one hundredth time.
“You know, I hate to admit it when Chandra’s right.” Kate had already finished her drink, so when the waiter came by, she gave him the empty glass along with one of her dazzling smiles. “You could attract attention,” she said.
“Except that I don’t want to attract attention.” I firmly ignored Levi when I said this, since his whole purpose for being on South Bass—well, before I fired the attorney who was signing his paychecks—was to make sure little ol’ celebrity me stayed safe from the fans who would no doubt besiege me if they knew I was trying to live a normal life out of the limelight. “I want people to stay at my place because it’s beautiful and the food is fabulous and the view is terrific. I don’t want them to stay there to look at me.”
“Unlike some people, who like to be the center of attention.”
Yes, this sounds so nearly catty, I expected it to come out of Kate’s mouth. Which was why I was surprised—and paid attention—when Levi spoke up and glanced toward the entrance to the bar.
I was just in time to see the double doors fly open and a stream of sunshine—like a spotlight—fill the entryway. There was a figure outlined against the blinding light: a man with dark hair, long legs, and a million-dollar . . . Well, I was going to say smile, but honestly the expression that outshone even the summer sun was more of a smirk.
Who shows up at a memorial service with a smirk on his face?
I wasn’t the least bit surprised when the man stepped inside and the doors closed behind Zane Donahue. Dark-eyed, square-jawed, and ruggedly handsome, Zane was a summer cottager who was as well-known for the lavish parties he threw as he was for the size of the boat he kept docked there at the club, the skill of his water skiing, and the fact that he liked nothing better than parasailing, fast cars, and faster women.
“Oh, this ought to be good,” Kate mumbled. “You know what happened between Vivien and Zane, don’t you?”
Of course I did.
Everyone on South Bass did.
A year earlier, Zane Donahue had purchased a summer home on the island and Vivien Frisk had handled the sale. South Bass is only four miles long and a mile and a half wide; land is scarce, prices have skyrocketed over the years, and, according to the island grapevine, Zane had paid upward of two million for the four-bedroom house with its view of the lake. He needed only one thing to make it perfect, and that was no problem for a man like Zane. Though his lot wasn’t big, there was just enough room for the in-ground pool he’d planned.
Room, yes. But that pool was never going to happen.
“An Indian burial mound.” Levi must have been thinking what I was thinking, because when I snapped to I found him shaking his head. “How could Vivien not have disclosed that when she showed him the property? How could she not have mentioned that there’s an Indian burial mound right outside his back door?”
“He’ll never build that pool,” I added.
“And he’ll never forgive her for not disclosing all the facts.” Like I said, Kate was as down-to-earth as anyone I’d ever met. Ever practical, she said what we were all thinking. “He’s going to have her tied up in lawsuits from now until forever.”
“And she’s not the least bit happy about it,” Chandra purred and grinned. “Bless her heart!”
Zane pulled a plastic box of orange Tic Tacs out of his pocket, shook out a few and popped them in his mouth, then nodded hello when he passed the tight groups of people who stood around waiting for the official memorial service to begin, but it was easy to see that he wasn’t paying attention to anything or anyone—anyone but Vivien Frisk.
Jaw tense, arms pressed to his sides, he strode across the room to offer his condolences on Vivien’s aunt’s passing. Or maybe to make sure Vivien would show up for their next court date with the poor mediator who was in charge of acting as a referee between these two high-charging Type A egotists.
“I’m not here because of you.” Sharp as rifle shot, Zane’s voice could be heard clearly across the room. He stood directly in front of Vivien with his back ramrod straight and his feet slightly apart, and the four men who’d been hovering around her like bees around a particularly gorgeous flower slowly drifted away.
“Your aunt was a wonderful woman,” Zane said.
Vivien stood and fluffed her skirt. “It runs in the family,” she said.
“Then maybe you and Estelle weren’t really related.”
I was pretty sure Zane wasn’t going for funny, but Vivien laughed. The sound was light and sweet. She smoothed a hand over her shoulder-length brown hair. “Oh, Estelle and I were related, all right. She taught me everything there is to know about the real estate business.”
“Like how to cheat your customers?”
Even Vivien wasn’t prepared for him to be that blunt in public. A muscle jumped at the base of her jaw and her hands folded into fists.
We all held our breaths.
And let them out again with a collective whoosh when the doors swung open again and Quentin and Riva Champion walked in.
Vivien shot them a look, and from where I was standing, I couldn’t tell if she was relieved by the interruption or sorry they’d spoiled her fun.
Zane backed away and a moment later, I saw him on the other side of the room at the bar.
As for the rest of the crowd . . . well, the Vivien/Zane smackdown might have provided a few weeks of juicy island gossip, but once Riva and Quentin arrived, Vivien and Zane might just as well have rocketed to Pluto.
The Twins were in the house.
“Good morning! So nice to see you! How are you today?”
They worked the crowd like seasoned politicians, hands extended, smiles on their faces . But then, they’d had plenty of experience. Riva and Quentin, see, were the twin son and daughter of Hollywood megastar Desiree Champion. All the best boarding schools, all the most sensational relationships, all the most fabulous parties for their sweet sixteens and their twenty-firsts. They wouldn’t even be closing in on thirty for a couple more years and already they were mini-celebrities in their own right; glowing moons that traveled in Desiree’s orbit, spent Desiree’s money, and, in the case of Riva, even married (ever so briefly) one of Desiree’s exes.
And then, two years before, the news broke over the country like the cold slap of a tsunami—Riva and Quentin had been kidnaped from their mother’s Malibu mansion by Desiree’s long-time business manager, Orrin Henderson. Along with a priceless trove of Civil War–era coins, the twins were gone with the . . . well, as much as I hate to say it, they really were gone with the wind
. No trace of them. No ransom note. No nothing. Nothing but a media circus that was as predictable as it was all-encompassing. Newspapers, magazines, cable and network news. Every media outlet on the planet was focused on—as they were called throughout the frenzy—the Twins.
Just as quickly and mysteriously as they had disappeared, the Twins resurfaced a year later when they arrived at a police station in the middle of New Mexico with a harrowing story of imprisonment, torture, and abuse. One day, Henderson had left the home where he had held them captive and he’d never come back, and Henderson—and those coins worth millions that he’d made off with—was never seen again. Riva and Quentin made a miraculous and heroic escape.
It doesn’t take much imagination to picture the all-new frenzy that started up once the Twins arrived back on the scene. They were young, they were beautiful, they had a tale to tell, and they told it on every talk show in the world, in a bestselling book, and, according to an interview I’d recently seen with them on a network morning show, in a soon-to-be major motion picture.
So what were they doing on South Bass? According to another interview I’d just recently read in our local newspaper, they were on the island in search of peace and tranquility.
Call me stonyhearted, but to me that might be better accomplished if they’d stop giving interviews, making personal appearances, and letting themselves be photographed for the cover of everything from People to Vogue.
In their quest for the quiet life, they’d bought what was then a defunct inn through Vivien Frisk’s real estate agency and converted it into Tara, their homage to the Southern plantation life Chandra so loved. With twenty rooms, Tara was far larger than Bea & Bees. Add to that the over-the-top Victorian decorating scheme and the notoriety of its owners and, well . . . honestly, I could almost understand why the place was booked solid (according to the island grapevine) for the next year. Winter months included.
Which didn’t mean I had to like it.
“They’re hosting Tuesday’s meeting of the Chamber of Commerce at Tara to go over last-minute details for the gala,” Levi remarked, watching the Twins sashay their way to where Vivien waited to greet them. “You going?”
I wasn’t sure if he was referring to the meeting or the gala so I kept my answer neutral, but I refused to look Levi’s way. He always knew when I was lying and I didn’t need to see that in his eyes. “I’m a big supporter of the Chamber of Commerce.”
I watched the Twins chat with Vivien and wondered if there had ever been that much vivacity—that much beauty—in any one place at any one time. The Twins were tall and both of them were golden-haired and blue-eyed. Riva was shaped like a strand of angel hair pasta. Not everyone’s idea of the perfect female body, but photographers loved her. Quentin had the build of a natural-born athlete, sleek and lean. I’d seen any number of women swoon in his presence, but frankly, my dear, he wasn’t my type, and at that particular moment and standing next to Levi, I didn’t want to think about who was.
Luckily, Vivien provided a distraction when she clapped her hands to get everyone’s attention.
She glanced around the room and when I did, too, I noticed that Zane Donahue had disappeared. “We’ll have lunch and share stories about Estelle in a little while. For now, we’re going to lay a paving stone in her honor outside on the club’s fabled Walkway of Captains. If you’d all like to join me . . .” She motioned toward the door and lead the procession.
We followed Vivien out into the summer sunshine. The walkway she talked about featured paving stones that honored many island residents and visitors, and I carefully trod over names I recognized, as well as many who’d been members of the club long before I arrived on South Bass. The walk began out at the street and continued past the front doors of the club and around to the back, and that’s where Vivien headed and where we gathered around her when she motioned toward the ground at a spot where a strip of lawn met the walkway. Beyond that was a sweeping view of the lake, where boats bobbed in the blue water. It was a fitting spot to honor Estelle, who had always loved spending time out on the lake.
In her honor, we stood quietly and watched while Vivien got to her knees with the help of two brawny club employees. The stone with Estelle’s name on it had already been set in place, and most of it was already bonded to the stones around it by what looked to be fresh cement. Vivien would be adding the last of the cement with the trowel one of those club employees handed her.
She paused for a moment so the manager of the club could flash a picture to commemorate the event, then dipped her trowel into the container of cement another employee held out to her.
The quiet that settled around us was interrupted only by the calls of the lake gulls that wheeled overhead and, somewhere off in the distance, the strains of a jaunty Jimmy Buffett song, which came from a nearby bar and was punctuated by the slamming of a car door.
We bowed our heads. I’m sure that’s why we never saw Zane Donahue run up behind Vivien.
Not until it was too late, anyway.
“You think you can treat me like this?” His voice rumbled over the lawn and startled the couple of gulls who were snoozing nearby and they took off screaming. “You’re a thief, Vivien. A liar and a thief.”
And with that, he poured a bucket of water over Vivien’s head.
2
Since I was standing close to Vivien and right in the splash zone, I had to change clothes when I got home, and wash my hair, too, to get rid of the smell of chlorine. Which, I suppose, wasn’t nearly as bad as what Vivien—madder than the wet hen she so resembled and swearing a blue streak—must have gone through after the crowd scattered and the memorial service fizzled. The cops were called, or so I heard the next day when the watery assault was the only thing anyone on the island could talk about. According to those in the know, official statements were taken and complaints were duly filed.
Something told me I’d hear all the gory details that evening. Vivien was selling off her aunt’s possessions and I was scheduled to meet her at Estelle’s house at seven thirty that Friday. It wound up being a glorious summer evening, complete with cotton ball clouds I knew would reflect the light of the setting sun and produce a fabulous array of pinks, oranges, and reds, and I hoped my business would be concluded in time for me to enjoy it. The lake itself was the color of sapphires, and a pleasant breeze took the edge off of what had been a warm afternoon. I grabbed my checkbook and a light jacket and, rather than brave weekend traffic, decided to walk. Estelle lived close to downtown Put-in-Bay, the heart of the island’s hopping social scene, and the last thing I wanted to do was negotiate my way through streets crowded with summer tourists.
Just a few minutes after I left home I was standing in front of our fabled island merry-go-round, a tourist hot spot, listening to the music of the carousel organ and watching the young and the old whirl around and around on chickens and pigs and the island favorite, Pete the Perch. Farther down the street, I sidestepped groups of partiers and passed the historic hotel and any number of bars and restaurants, already busy, that I knew would be packed until the wee hours of the morning.
Estelle’s house was close to Mother of Sorrows Church, where just a couple of months before, I’d accompanied a group of nuns who’d come to the island for a retreat and were instantly embroiled in a mystery, and I glanced toward the gray stone building just in time to see a man duck behind it. Tall, dark-haired, athletic. If I didn’t know better I would have thought it was Zane Donahue, but after what I’d heard from Chandra, who was once married to island police chief Hank Florentine and who got the inside scoop on these things, Zane and Vivien had been ordered to stay far, far away from each other. Tossing water on Vivien during what should have been a solemn ceremony was one thing, but even Zane wasn’t high-handed enough to ignore a police order and show up near Estelle’s when Vivien was handling her late aunt’s estate.
The house Estelle had lived in all her
life was an unassuming bungalow with a gigantic old rhododendron bush up front and another between it and the house next door, which had a Frisk Realty “For Sale” sign in the front yard. There were flower boxes on the windows that some friends of Estelle had kindly planted and kept watered throughout her illness, and even from a few houses away, I could see that the boxes still brimmed with red impatiens and purple pansies but they were drooping now that Estelle was gone and Vivien wasn’t tending them.
I could also see that I wasn’t going to be alone.
“Hey, I didn’t know you were coming by.”
When I stopped on the sidewalk directly across the street from Estelle’s to consider my options and wonder if there was any chance I could slink away and pretend I didn’t hear him, Levi turned from where he was just about to walk up her front steps.
So much for options. And slinking away.
“Vivien must have decided to get a couple sales out of the way at the same time,” he said. “That’s why you’re here, too, right?”
Act like an adult, I reminded myself, and ever the adult, I knew when I was well and truly trapped. I looked both ways before I crossed the street. There were times on the island—winter and weekdays during spring and autumn—when I wouldn’t have had to bother. But this was June, and with so many tourists on the loose in the golf carts that were the island’s preferred mode of transportation, I wasn’t taking any chances.
“You’re buying something from Vivien?” I asked Levi when I joined him on the slate sidewalk that led up to the house.
“An old rolltop desk. I saw it back when I bought the bar and Estelle handled the deal. We came over here to sign the papers and I told her if she ever wanted to get rid of it, I’d be first in line to take it off her hands. She remembered.” He was dressed more casually that evening than he had been the day before when we were at the yacht club, and he poked his hands into the pockets of his (nicely butt-hugging, but it’s not like I noticed or anything) jeans. “She gave me a call just a couple of days before she died and said the desk was mine if I wanted it. For a price, of course.”
