Brewed Awakening

by Cleo Coyle

  “Well, my new fiancée, Clarissa Clark, would like to take riding lessons in the spring, so I thought we should sign up early.”

  The woman met my gaze. “Have you ridden before?”

  “She hasn’t been on a horse for many years,” Matt jumped in. “My driver, Quinn, is an excellent equestrian, and offered to freshen Clarissa’s skills. But really, I didn’t want the love of my life around a guy like that, if you know what I mean—”

  Matt threw a knowing wink at Mrs. Prescott.

  “I feel my fiancée would be better served by a feminine touch, so here we are.”

  Gwen Prescott’s curious gaze never left mine. “What sort of riding are you interested in, Miss Clark? At Deerfield Farm we have over a dozen paddocks of various size, and miles of riding trails. We teach dressage, eventing, show jumping—”

  “My driver, Quinn, is an excellent show jumper,” Matt interrupted.

  Detective Quinn winced, but said nothing.

  “But I don’t think Clarissa is interested in competition. Are you, dear?”

  I shook my head.

  “Cross-country, then,” Gwen Prescott advised. “It’s quite popular with our casual riders—”

  “Yes,” I said. “That’s what I’m looking for. I have this romantic notion of riding along wooded trails at night.”

  Gwen Prescott frowned. “I’m sorry. We have miles of trails, through woodlands and pastures, but they aren’t lighted, so night riding is not part of our services.”

  “But there is night riding here,” I insisted. “I read about it in the local paper—”

  “We never advertised such a service,” Prescott countered. “Experience is required to ride in the dark. One misstep, and both the horse and the rider could be injured.”

  “But someone from this farm was riding at night four months ago,” I pointed out. “The police reported this person witnessed a fatal accident but was uncooperative.”

  Gwen Prescott’s gray eyes flashed. “I was not uncooperative. That’s a libel spread by the Ledger. I told the police exactly what I saw—everything I saw. They simply didn’t believe me.”

  “We’re talking about the Brewster crash?” Matt said.

  Gwen Prescott sniffed. “If I had known it was Harlan Brewster in that vehicle, I wouldn’t have bothered to call an ambulance.”

  Cold, I thought. “What did you see, Mrs. Prescott?”

  Her face clouded with suspicion.

  “I’m sorry to be so curious,” I said with earnest sincerity. “The truth is, the police didn’t convey many details to Annette Brewster about her husband’s death. She and I are friends. And she asked me to find out what I could.”

  Mrs. Prescott paused to consider my words. But her expression remained guarded, and the silence stretched between us, until I softly added—

  “Please understand. Annette was estranged from her husband, but he was still her husband. As a widow, she simply wants answers. She needs closure.”

  At the word widow, Gwen Prescott’s tight expression appeared to loosen. She didn’t warm up exactly, but there was definitely a crack in the ice. Holding my gaze, she took a breath, and finally said—

  “Well, Miss Clark, all I can tell you is the accident happened about a quarter mile along what we call the West Trail—” She pointed to a narrow dirt path that led into a wooded area. “When I landscaped the farm, I chose to exploit the land’s natural features. I made sure the West Trail crossed a small rise that happens to overlook the highway.”

  She pulled her eyes from the trail to face me again.

  “On the night of the accident, I’d just crested that hill when I saw the headlights on the road.”

  She paused, remembering. “The car was moving erratically, swerving from lane to lane. Then it suddenly sped forward, increasing in speed until it struck a hundred-year-old oak tree that borders my property.”

  “Sounds like a typical accident out here,” Matt said.

  “What did the police not believe?” I asked.

  “It was something I witnessed after the accident that the police dismissed. You see, Miss Clark, I saw someone flee from the wreck. The person was holding a flashlight and the beam was all I could really make out, but I watched that column of light move farther and farther away, until it disappeared around the bend.”

  Gwen Prescott gave a signal to another stable hand. The man began to saddle a tawny colt with a blond mane and a spirited gait.

  “I called 911 and waited on the trail for the police to arrive. By the time they reached the scene, the person with the flashlight was long gone.”

  “And the police didn’t believe you saw anybody?”

  “They said it could have been a bicyclist, or someone out for a walk. They insisted that Harlan was alone in the car. They said it was unlikely a passenger sitting beside him could have survived the crash—which was a mercy, I guess.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Mrs. Prescott’s expression darkened. “Harlan Brewster was alone in the car when he died, which means that on the last night of his miserable life, that man was not able to destroy another innocent young woman.”

  SIXTY-FOUR

  MRS. Prescott’s admission was a great help. Now I could easily and naturally ask her questions about the “festering feud” people were gossiping about on that Facebook page.

  I cleared my throat. “I’ve heard rumors about Harlan Brewster, but you sound like you’re speaking from experience.”

  Mrs. Prescott sneered. “Look up Dana Tanner on that damn Hamptons Babylon page.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Dana was my niece. She and Harlan met at a summer party. She was curious about the Parkview Palace and its history, so he invited her to lunch at his hotel. Dana took the train to Manhattan a week later—and vanished.”

  I felt the tiny hairs pricking on my arms.

  “She was missing for two days before a neighborhood watch group found her wandering in Prospect Park. She was without her purse and phone, and in some sort of shock. At first, Dana couldn’t remember the events surrounding her disappearance and she didn’t know how she got to Brooklyn. But within hours, she began to have disturbing flashes of memory. My niece swore something had happened to her—some sort of assault, she said, though she couldn’t recall any details. Needless to say, my sister was frantic to find out the truth. Flora had lost her husband earlier in the year, and now something terrible had happened to her daughter.”

  “Did Flora tell the police?”

  “Yes, but the evidence was inconclusive. Apparently, there were bruises on her body, but Dana had showered and changed clothes after the incident, though she had no memory of doing so.”

  “Did she lose any more of her memory,” I asked, still tingling with goose bumps, “besides the events surrounding the assault?”

  Mrs. Prescott looked at me strangely.

  “Why, yes,” she replied. “Dana couldn’t remember anyone she met in college, or even her time in college. My sister found expert psychological help, but eventually Dana was institutionalized upstate.”

  Mrs. Prescott’s eyes narrowed. “After several weeks, Dana left the care facility without her doctor’s approval. Another patient said she was missing her mother, who had fallen ill, and was going to catch a train home. But instead of catching the train, Dana jumped in front of it.”

  Mrs. Prescott bit her lower lip. “The poor girl was only twenty.”

  “Was there an investigation?” I asked. “What did Harlan Brewster say?”

  “Brewster claimed that Dana never showed up for their lunch date. He had time-stamped surveillance tapes to prove it, showing him having lunch alone, which was odd, and I’ve always been skeptical of that evidence. But because there was no real proof an assault happened, no physical evidence that could be recovered on her clothes or
body, and the victim had a spotty memory, the police investigation was sidelined. It led nowhere.”

  “Except to a feud,” I said. “Or perhaps a vendetta?”

  “My sister was delighted to hear of Harlan’s demise, naturally, but if you are insinuating that she had anything to do with Brewster’s death—”

  “Of course not, Mrs. Prescott. It was an accident. I didn’t mean to imply—”

  My apology was interrupted by Detective Quinn, who spoke for the first time.

  “The accident happened along the highway that runs parallel to your farm, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you give me directions?”

  Mrs. Prescott pointed to the newly saddled tawny colt. “Take Sprite, follow the West Trail for a quarter mile or so, and you’ll see the highway when you get to the top of the rise. The damage to the oak is still quite visible—”

  “Oh, no, Mrs. Prescott,” Quinn quickly replied. “I won’t trouble you by borrowing a horse. I can check the accident scene from the road.”

  “But why bother?” she said. “Your mount is ready—unless you prefer Western over English? Mr. Allegro did say you were an expert rider. Is that not correct?”

  “Hop on, Quinn,” Matt goaded, practically snickering. “Check out the trail. Tell us what you see, if that horse doesn’t throw you first.”

  Detective Quinn was on the spot, and I felt sorry for him. But when our eyes met, he surprised me with a wink.

  “Okay, Mr. Allegro,” he said, “if you insist.”

  While the stable hand stood by, Quinn took hold of the reins with his left hand, placed the same hand on the saddle, slipped his foot in the iron stirrup, and expertly swung his long leg over the horse. Settling in gently—and quite comfortably, I thought—he deftly turned the colt. The detective rode in a small circle for a moment, in total control of his mount.

  Then, with a gallant wave, Quinn galloped off, following the West Trail at a brisk pace until he vanished among the trees.

  “You were right,” Mrs. Prescott said to my gaping ex-husband. “I thought you were taunting the man, but Mr. Quinn is clearly an accomplished rider.”

  SIXTY-FIVE

  WE returned to the car after “Clarissa Clark” signed up for cross-country riding lessons starting next May. Thankfully no deposit was required, because Miss Clark was going to be canceling.

  Detective Quinn, wearing a self-satisfied grin, still held the car keys and got behind the wheel. The roof was down, so Matt jumped into the backseat, sliding aside to make room for me.

  I surprised them both by getting into the front seat beside the detective.

  “So, what did you deduce from the crime scene?”

  “That Harlan Brewster is one unlucky bastard.”

  “Hey,” Matt interrupted, “what are you two talk—”

  Quinn gunned the powerful engine until it drowned out my ex-husband’s voice. Then he threw the vehicle into gear, raced out of the parking lot and down the long driveway to the main road.

  “Why was Harlan unlucky?” I cried over the sound of rushing wind.

  “I’ll show you.”

  Instead of turning toward Matt’s place, Quinn went in the opposite direction. We drove beside an area of pastureland for a few minutes. Then he slowed down along a desolate stretch of road.

  “There,” he said, pointing. “That’s where it happened.”

  The damage to the tree was substantial. Though the tree was still standing, a ragged chunk of its trunk had been ripped away, leaving a splintered yellow hole. Studying the area, I noticed something else.

  “This is the only tree around in this pasture, the only solid obstacle, in fact. If Brewster’s car had gone off the road anywhere else, it would have plowed through grass until it ran out of steam and stopped.”

  I faced Quinn. “It’s almost as if Harlan aimed for the tree.”

  The detective’s response was an approving nod. I hardly noticed because my mind was racing.

  Did Harlan commit suicide? I wondered. Was he drunk? Did he simply pass out behind the wheel? Was it possible someone else was actually in that car like Gwen Prescott claimed? I had no answers—but then I wasn’t a professional.

  “What does it all mean?” I asked.

  Eyes on the road, Quinn shrugged. “I don’t know yet.”

  “Really?” (Suddenly I didn’t feel so bad.)

  “We don’t have enough facts.”

  “Then we should find more,” I said. “Where shall we look first?”

  “I have an idea. It’s a place that won’t give us any answers, but it will provide us with a lot more facts.”

  “Hey,” Matt cried, leaning over the front seat, “what are you guys talking—”

  Quinn hit the gas, throwing Matt backward. My ex finally gave up trying to join the conversation, folded his arms, and sulked.

  At a stop sign, Quinn fiddled with the GPS device on the dashboard.

  “What are you looking for?” I asked.

  “The local police station.”

  * * *

  • • •

  THE “local” police station was more than a twenty-minute drive from Deerfield Farm, in a picturesque town called Southampton Village.

  Located along scenic Windmill Lane, the law enforcement headquarters resembled a Tudor-style leisure station at a national park more than any police facility I’d ever seen. The modern building even had its own stone sign and a long driveway lined with faux-Victorian lampposts.

  Detective Quinn found a spot in the busy lot. There were police cars, civilian SUVs, even an official-looking truck with a tow and a boat attached.

  “Time for me to do the talking,” Quinn told us.

  “I won’t say a word,” I promised.

  “No, you won’t, because you’re staying right here,” he said, raising the convertible roof. Despite my disguise, Quinn explained I was still a wanted woman, and even suburban cops can have sharp eyes.

  Then Matt and I both watched Quinn stride across the parking lot and through the glass doors.

  “You never mentioned Quinn knew how to ride a horse,” Matt complained.

  “Don’t put that on me, buster. You’re the one who tried to humiliate him. And don’t forget, for all intents and purposes, I just met the man. For all I know, Detective Quinn spent time in the NYPD Mounted Unit before he took over his special squad.”

  Turning my back on Matt, I faced the police station again. No more than a minute later, the glass doors opened and a male figure stepped into the sunlight, but it wasn’t Mike Quinn.

  “What’s he doing here?!” I whispered and ducked my head under the dashboard.

  “Who? Clare, what the hell are you—?”

  “Shh!” I hissed. “See the guy who just came out of those doors? Describe what you see.”

  Matt stared for a moment. “He’s middle-aged, stout—built like a fireplug—with thinning red hair, ruddy skin, a jagged scar on his cheek, and bad taste in clothes. I mean, who wears a burgundy corduroy suit? Maybe he was a tough guy once, but he’s gone to seed. Too many beers and doughnuts. I’m guessing he’s a retired officer, maybe a PI, or a rent-a-cop.”

  “Bingo on the latter. His name is Stevens. He’s the security chief at the Parkview Palace, and one of the guards who confronted us at the Gotham Suite.”

  Matt tensed. “What’s he doing all the way out here?”

  “I don’t know. But he was very suspicious of our crashing the crime scene. On top of that, one of his guys worked over Mr. Dante pretty good—and he tried to arrest your mother.”

  “Do you want me to punch his lights out?” Matt asked. “I know we’re in front of a police station, but if he threatened my mother—”

  “Just watch him. See where he goes.”

  Matt groaned a moment later. “The
man’s streak of bad taste continues. He’s driving a neon yellow Nissan Juke.”

  I peeked over the dash to watch the little yellow car turn onto Windmill Lane and speed away.

  “All clear,” Matt said.

  Breathing again, I sat up.

  “What was he doing here?” we asked in duet.

  “Could he be working with the police, trying to find me?” I wondered worriedly. “Maybe he saw me, your mother, Esther, and Mr. Dante pretend to leave the hotel in the cab, and then turn up again in the parking garage. He could have had one of his staff follow your van out to the Hamptons and report back to him.”

  “If he did, I doubt he’s specifically looking for you, Clare. But it is possible he’s trying to find out more about where the van ended up and why.” Matt tensed. “And if he’s out here, then it’s also possible he’ll turn up at my place with questions.”

  That stopped the conversation dead in its tracks. Before it was resurrected, Detective Quinn was back.

  SIXTY-SIX

  “BILL Piper, the sergeant on desk duty, answered the 911 call the night Harlan Brewster died—”

  Detective Quinn climbed into the driver’s seat, talking rapid-fire the whole time. Clearly, the man was in supercop briefing mode.

  “Along with the eyewitness account, the sergeant let me see Brewster’s accident report, the coroner’s report, and the toxicology results. Harlan wasn’t legally drunk, but he’d had a few before he got behind the wheel. The official cause of death is blunt-force trauma. His airbag deployed properly, but Brewster wasn’t wearing a seat belt or a shoulder harness, so the bag did more harm than good. Also, Harlan was a short man, and children and small adults tend to get hurt the worst when airbags deploy.”

  “So,” I said when he finally drew breath, “there’s nothing suspicious about it?”

  “The sergeant said this type of thing is not uncommon among the summer crowd.”

  “What about the person running away? Galloping Gwen seemed awfully certain about seeing a flashlight come out of that wreck.”