I softened my tone. “I understand you knew Bettina Pleshette?” I resisted the temptation to repeat his words “pretty well.” “You must be very upset by what happened. I’m sorry.”
I needn’t have worried about whether I should mention him and Bettina in the same breath. It was as if I’d opened some kind of floodgate. He smiled, not exactly the reaction you’d expect from a grieving lover, and puffed up visibly with apparent pride.
“What a terrible loss,” he said.
This had about as much sincerity as when he had first greeted me with “Pleased to meet you, heard a lot about you.”
“You know,” he continued, “I’ve been a terrific help to Detective Morrison.You’ve met Evan Morrison?”
I nodded.
“Oh yes. I told him stuff about Shotgun Marriott.You know, without my input, he’d be nowhere. I had a lot of dope on Shotgun, stuff he couldn’t have got from anyone else.”
“How did you know so much about Shotgun?” I was both intrigued and suspicious. Shotgun and Scott didn’t seem like a good fit. “Were you and he close?”
Scott’s smile faded. “Yeah, well, I never met the guy, actually,”
he admitted. “Bettina told me what she’d learned about him. Pillow talk.” The smirk again and I gripped the handle of the baby carriage hard.
“What did she tell you exactly?”
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“She was speaking to his son every day in the weeks before she died—before young Sean died.” He said young Sean implying familiarity with Shotgun’s son but I guessed Scott had never met Sean either. And as for Bettina “speaking” to Shotgun, I knew from Shotgun himself that all she was doing was pestering him on the telephone without much success. “And when she was meeting with Sean, she was getting the lowdown on the whole family situation.”
“Which was?”
“An unholy mess. Sean hadn’t seen his mother since she left Shotgun. He’d been raised by his father and he was a—you know, a queer.”
Ah, well, what did I expect? It figured that Scott should be homophobic.
“But here’s where it gets interesting.” He veered toward me again and I stepped aside so that Eliza’s pram was between us.
“Sean told Bettina his mother had gotten in touch with him recently. He was very excited because he was going to see her again soon. He told Bettina all about it.”
“He was going to London? Angela Marriott lives in London.”
“I know that,” Scott said quickly. “No, she was coming here. I told Detective Morrison about Bettina’s meetings with Sean and he was pretty interested. He was looking for a link between Bettina and Sean’s father.”
“But they never met, Shotgun and Bettina,” I said. “He told me.”
“Yeah, well, Evan Morrison, he doesn’t necessarily want to believe everything Shotgun Marriott tells him. Not right away at any rate, not without dotting every ‘i’ and crossing every god-damn ‘t’ of every single word the guy says to him.”
“And why do you think that is?”
Scott shrugged. “Guy’s a detective. It’s what they do.”
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“So you’ll be going to Bettina’s funeral?” I asked him.
He looked away. “Doubt I’ll have the time. It’s bound to be in California—I think her folks are there—and I don’t think they’ve released the body yet. I’m on call for surgery at Southampton Hospital this week.”
I had the impression it wasn’t just his work that was prevent-ing him from going. There was something else.
“But I’m going to have to do something about her stuff,” he said.
“Her stuff?”
“She stayed a few days at my house. She’d rented this place in the woods up near Shotgun but she didn’t like being there at all. It wasn’t her idea of the Hamptons—north of the highway, nowhere near the ocean. She was pretty classy, she appreciated high-end living and what can I say, my house delivers. She could step out of our bedroom right onto the sand and—”
I noted a wistful air in the way he said “our bedroom.” Scott had clearly been a bit smitten by Bettina. I reckoned he’d have had to be to describe her as classy.
“Her stuff?” I prompted.
“She was always on her cell phone and she’d take endless notes as she talked. It used to drive me insane, she’d scribble on whatever was close to hand, didn’t matter if it was my mail or my cal-endar, a menu in a restaurant. She’d rip pages out and go off with them.”
“How inconsiderate.” Sounded just how I’d imagined Bettina to behave.
“Yeah, right. So she left all these notes—little scraps of paper—in a drawer in our bedroom along with a whole lot of beauty products in the bathroom.”
“But didn’t the cops come to your house too? If you were see-
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ing Bettina, surely they must have been very interested in what she did there?”
“Sure they were. I told you, Evan Morrison and I have spent a lot of time together. But I put this stuff I was telling you about in a bag and I threw the bag in my car right away when—”
He didn’t finish the sentence. When he heard Bettina was dead?
“I guess I meant to take it to the cops but I forgot all about it.”
“You mean her notes are still in your car?”
He nodded. He was looking at me intently.
I decided to plunge right in.
“Scott, you know I’ve taken over from Bettina with Shotgun Marriott’s book?”
“My dad said something about it. He called me last night, actually. I had no idea that’s what you did, you never mentioned it at the wedding.”
“You never asked,” I said, “and you never mentioned you were seeing Bettina.”
“Well, if I’d known you were in the same line of work—”
“So, I was thinking maybe I might find her notes helpful when I come to write the book. I could give her a big credit.” Like hell I would!
“Hey, that’s a nice gesture. And maybe you could, like, credit me too?”
“Of course.” Oh boy, was he a piece of work!
“So, great.” He was all smiles now, smarmy, patronizing. We were back at the Old Stone Market and he opened the door of a gleaming Mercedes sedan that was parked in front of the store and reached in to get something. “Here you are.” He handed me a Citarella shopping bag and then a few seconds later I was rid of him. I knew I should be feeling relieved, even triumphant that I had lucked into what would inevitably be valuable material. But
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somehow I knew that by giving me Bettina’s notes—as opposed to giving them to Detective Morrison—Scott would feel he had something on me and sooner or later it would be payback time.
After he left I wheeled the pram into the store and let Eliza stay sleeping in it while I perched on the stool by the cash register and fretted about the inconsistencies surrounding Franny and Dumpster’s whereabouts on those fateful nights when Sean and then Bettina were murdered.When I heard Rufus’s truck pull in, I raced out to meet them. Rufus gave me what I thought was quite a dirty look and I realized I’d probably scuppered his chances of a good-night kiss. And once I told Franny about Scott’s visit, she barely gave him another glance. She rushed inside to see Eliza and I told Rufus about Scott coming to the Old Stone Market the night of the commitment ceremony, while he and I had been down at the ocean witnessing Sean’s body being pulled out of the water.
“Oh Jesus,” said Rufus, “I had a feeling he might do something like that. He was pretty drunk that night. He told me about Bettina and the truth is he was pretty hooked.”
“What do you mean?” I said.
“I can see exactly how it went down. The thing about Scott is that he’s pretty full of himself and this woman, Bettina, she was asking everyone a ton of
questions, getting background history on the area where Shotgun Marriott had made his home. My guess is that she met Scott and asked if she could interview him, and he took it as a sign she was interested in him. With Scott it’s always about him.” Rufus shook his head but he was smiling. I sensed that his brother infuriated him but that he tolerated Scott in his good-natured way. “I think they had a bit of a fling, she spent some time at his house and found it to be more comfortable than the place she’d rented so she moved in with him for a while. Strikes me she was a bit of a user.”
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“He mentioned that,” I said, “not that she was a user but he told me he ‘delivered’ on the high-end living. I think he was rather proud that she chose to stay at his house. It didn’t sound like he had a clue that she was exploiting him in any way.”
“Sounds like Scott,” said Rufus, “pretentious as they come but naïve at the same time. Anyway, the other night, the night Sean Marriott was killed, the night before the commitment ceremony, Bettina told Scott it was over. She probably realized he didn’t have much to tell her and if she went on staying at his house, he’d become a bit of a millstone around her neck. So at the commitment ceremony he’s all bitter and twisted because he never saw it coming. He’s like, I thought we had something special going on.And he was looking for someone to console him so when he’d had quite a bit to drink he started talking about going over to Franny’s.”
He kept glancing up the stairs, obviously hoping that the evening wasn’t over, that she was going to come down and spend more time with him. But there was no sign of her.
“So anyway,” he said, “I tried to stop him but once he had the idea in his head, he was determined to go there. He even started talking about Eliza as if he’d totally forgotten that he’d never acknowledged her as his child. That’s typical Scott. Just because Bettina breaks up with him it doesn’t stop him thinking he’s God’s gift to women. I guess he imagined Franny would welcome him with open arms.”
For a second I wondered how Rufus thought women saw him.
“So did you have a good evening?” I asked him, curious about how things had progressed with him and Franny.
“Fine—till we got back here.” He gave one final glance up the stairs and then turned toward the door. “I guess that’s it for tonight. Everything all right at Dad’s place?”
Okay, so he didn’t want to talk about it.
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“It’s wonderful,” I said. “You’ll have to come over soon for dinner if I ever manage to find the time to go food shopping.
Franny’s warned me off this place, says I can’t afford it.”
“She’s never going to get this business off the ground if she keeps saying stuff like that. So, give me a call and we’ll get together. I’ll bring take-out. From here, most likely.” He grinned.
After he’d gone I went upstairs and found Franny warming up some milk in the kitchen.
“I know about Scott,” I said immediately. I didn’t see any point in beating about the bush. “About him being Eliza’s father. Rufus told me.”
“Well, God bless Rufus,” she said, somewhat acidly I thought.
“Good to know he’s spreading my family business about the place.”
“Franny, you know I wouldn’t take it any further. I would never interfere. But you know Scott was pretty open with me about his involvement with you.”
“There is no involvement with me. And yes, I know you wouldn’t interfere. It’s not your interference I’m worried about.”
“You don’t want Scott to see Eliza?”
Franny turned to me and I saw the anxiety in her face.
“I’m scared, Lee. He’s her father and I guess Rufus told you the circumstances surrounding her conception. But the moment when he could have taken the kind of fatherly interest that I would welcome has long since passed. Now I’m kind of scared of what he might do and it’s all that woman’s fault.”
That woman. Did she mean who I thought she meant?
“She was a damn meddler,” said Franny, “couldn’t keep her nose out of anything. She came around here one day and told me she was seeing Scott and that I ought to give him access to his daughter. What business is it of yours? I felt like saying. As if I’d ever tried to stop him! But then she started going on about how Eliza
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would be better off with her father, how he could give her a better life, that it wasn’t fair on a child to raise her cooped up above a store like this. I mean, hello, how many children does she have and when did she become the expert?”
Franny rolled her eyes and grinned and I warmed to her more than ever. She was under a lot of stress one way or another and yet she managed to retain her sense of humor in spite of everything.
“And then Scott started turning up,” she said.
“Did you let him see Eliza?”
“I hid from him. He banged on the door to the store downstairs but I didn’t let him in. He probably thought I wasn’t here because sometimes I let Dumpster take my truck in the evening if I’m not using it.”
“Scott told me he came round here the night Sean Marriott was killed—and the next night when Bettina was murdered—
and there was no one here.”
“Like I just said, I was hiding. Dumpster was out with my truck.”
“But Franny,” I said, “you told me—and you told Evan Morrison—that Dumpster was here with you both nights.”
She turned away from me and began to walk Eliza up and down the cramped kitchen space, rocking her and crooning to her.
“Franny?”
“Okay, that’s what I told you and that’s what I told Detective Morrison. So what?”
Her back was turned so I couldn’t see her face.
“So you lied and because you lied, Shotgun Marriott’s been arrested because you blew his alibi. Now were you here or weren’t you?”
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“No,” she said so quietly that I almost didn’t hear her. “I wasn’t here either night.”
“So you have no idea if Dumpster was here or not? He could easily have been with Shotgun like he says he was.”
“He said he was there? He told you that?”
“Yes,” I said.
“He could be lying.”
“You’d call your own son a liar?”
“I don’t want to. That’s why I lied and said I was here and he was with me.”
“But he wasn’t here?”
“I don’t know where he was,” she said. “I wasn’t here because I was out looking for him. He’d been acting strange and I had a feeling he was up to his old ways again, you know, dealing. I’d withheld the use of the truck for a while, pretended I needed it, but that didn’t stop him. He just borrowed one from someone else. So I put Eliza in my truck—and drove around looking for him. That’s why Scott couldn’t find me. I needed to track down Dumpster before Evan Morrison got to him first.”
“Did you go to Shotgun’s? Wouldn’t that be the first place you’d look?”
“I drove to the end of the dirt track but I didn’t go up to the house. I figured Dumpster wouldn’t take drugs to Shotgun’s, he wouldn’t involve him in anything like that. I’ve told you, Dumpster worships Shotgun.”
“And you never found him?”
She shook her head. “I thought I saw something in the woods as I drove up and I got out of the car and yelled his name but I got no response. About a week earlier he’d come home with a deer he’d shot. I was worried that he might be hunting deer on Shotgun’s property, if he wasn’t involved in dirty drug business again.”
“Because Shotgun hadn’t given him permission?”
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“Because nobody gave him permission, Shotgun or otherwise.
It’s too early. The
hunting season doesn’t start till October.”
“Franny, you have to tell Detective Morrison what you’ve told me. How do you know he hasn’t already heard from Scott that you weren’t at home those nights?”
“Oh please!” said Franny. “Don’t tell me you believe what Scott tells you.”
“Do it, Franny,” I said, “otherwise it’s going to be a whole lot harder for you later on—and for Dumpster.”
“You know, I have to open the store for breakfast at six thirty, which means getting up at five thirty to prepare,” she said, “and Eliza’s probably going to get me up before then anyway.”
She said it pleasantly enough but there was an imperceptible trace of impatience in her voice so I took the hint and left.
As I drove along the open stretch of Cranberry Hole Road that led past the cabin, I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the headlamps of a lone car behind me. I slowed down and waited for it to overtake me but it didn’t.
It was tailing me.
I veered off sharply onto the dirt road that led to the cabin, expecting it to follow me, but it continued on down Cranberry Hole Road and I sighed with relief.
But not for long.
Once inside the cabin, I brushed my teeth and flopped down exhausted and fumbled for the remote. But when I switched off the light, intending to let Letterman lull me to sleep once again, I saw the flickering light from the returning headlamps projected through the window onto the wall in front of me.
Why hadn’t I done anything about covering the windows?
Now if I went near them I would be silhouetted in full view of whoever was out there. I gunned the TV to life because I knew the sound of an approaching car would so totally freak me out
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that I would lose it. And maybe the sound of TV voices would make it seem there was someone here with me. And maybe I was delusional. A loud and rackety cartoon series burst into the room and I nearly fell out of bed in shock.
Was it better to watch a talk show or cartoons while awaiting my killer? Would I be attacked during a commercial break? Would the killer turn the TV off after he’d disposed of me? Would he have a shotgun? Or a bow and arrow? What in the world had induced me to stay in such an isolated place? I had been so en-chanted with the idea of having such a perfect little retreat to hole up in, I hadn’t stopped to think that I would be a sitting duck for a killer on the prowl.
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