by Amy Stuart
“That would be good. Yes. Thank you. That would be good.”
Clare points Kavita up the hill to her rental car. She studies the young woman’s gait from behind as they climb, Kavita’s arms dull at her sides. Defeated. This is a detour. Clare had a plan for today, but every case has taught her that the detours often prove the most fruitful. All these Westman characters might seem secondary in Malcolm’s story, but Clare isn’t so sure. Something tells her that Jack Westman’s death and its aftermath played a direct part in Malcolm’s fate too. Whether he was a key player or collateral damage, Clare can only guess.
The map app on Clare’s phone dings their arrival at Roland’s Restaurant. She parks, Kavita silent beside her in the passenger seat. This is Lune Bay’s oceanfront downtown, a stretch of colorful buildings of different heights and sizes, planters sprouting large trees. A perfectly designed and curated strip meant to feel quaint, the ocean a blast of blue behind it. Roland’s is housed in a single-story brick building that backs directly onto the water. In her file on Malcolm there were several articles about this place. “Businessman Jack Westman Dead in Brazen Restaurant Shooting.” In the years since, the restaurant’s signage has been updated, but nothing else has changed.
“We have two options,” Clare says. “We go in there as friends and strike up a chat. We don’t tell Roland who I am. I try to ask questions. We see how we can steer the conversation.”
“He might not let us in,” Kavita says flatly. “The restaurant isn’t open for lunch. What’s the other option?”
“That we tell him upfront why we’re here. I give him my card and ask him questions.”
“Will that work?”
“It might.”
Kavita says nothing, her eyes fixed blankly ahead.
“Let’s go with option two, then,” Clare says. “I think a direct hit is our best bet.”
Kavita exits the passenger side and circles the car to cross the street. Clare must dart to catch up. Kavita stands immobilized in the entranceway until Clare reaches around and tugs at the door to find it locked. CLOSED, the sign reads, a white menu with embossed calligraphy framed at eye level. Clare cups her face to the window to peer inside. An older man shuffles behind the bar, counting the bottles on the row of shelves behind him. Clare recognizes him from the restaurant’s website. Roland Song, the owner. She knocks and makes an unlock gesture when he looks her way.
Can you let us in? she mouths to him.
The man dries his hands on a towel and comes to the door.
“We don’t open until five,” he says. “Brunch on weekends only.”
“Mr. Song?” Clare asks, handing him a card. “I’m wondering if we can speak to you for a minute.”
“About what?” he asks. He registers surprise when he catches a glimpse behind Clare. “Kavita?”
“We’d like to speak with you,” Clare says.
“A PI?” he says, regrouping with a forced smile. “That’s a first. I’ve seen lots of cops and reporters, obviously. Last week I had a novelist show up. He wanted me to reenact the scene for him. You know, for inspiration. You ever get any of that, Kavita?”
Kavita shakes her head, eyes down. Roland steps aside and waves them in. Inside, the restaurant is small, tables for two with white linens spaced at close distance. At the back Clare spots the booth where the shooting happened, reupholstered but otherwise unchanged from the crime scene photographs. And behind that, a wall of glass overlooking the ocean glittering in the midday light. A patio door marked with a CLOSED sign, the chairs and tables on the outside deck stacked in a corner. Clare takes Kavita by the arm and leads her to a seat at the bar. Roland’s hair is gray, aging him at first glance. But up close Clare guesses he might only be fifteen years older than she is. Late forties.
“You look good, Kavita,” he says. “It’s nice to see you.”
“Yeah. Thanks, Roland.”
An awkward silence passes between them. Now that they are sitting still, facing each other in broad daylight, Clare notices the stains on Kavita’s cardigan, the small moth holes along its sleeves. Her hair looks unwashed, the beds of her nails dirty. Clare can guess that Kavita did not look this way when she worked here, that the years since have ravaged her. Fucked up her life, as she said.
“You hungry?” Roland asks.
“I just ate,” Clare says.
“My best cook’s already clocked in. Lots of deliveries today. Can I get him to whip you something up?”
“No,” Kavita says.
Kavita appears to be trembling on the stool. She looks on the verge of tears.
“Okay,” Roland says. “You won’t eat. And you show up here with a private investigator? Not sure what this is all about.”
“Clare is working the case,” Kavita says, shaky.
“Is that so?” Roland turns to Clare.
“Not directly,” Clare says. “I’m looking for Malcolm Hayes. Zoe Westman’s husband. Kavita and I crossed paths earlier today. I’m just doing some due diligence on his former connections. The Westmans were regulars here?”
Roland takes the cloth and begins wiping the counter again. “The definition of regulars.”
“Can you expand on that?”
“They were in here twice a week for dinner, every week. Family dinner when the girls were younger. They liked the familiarity, the view. Jack Westman sold my father the land to start this place. The Westmans were part of the restaurant’s inception forty years ago. I watched those girls grow up. Zoe and…” He snaps his finger. “My God. What’s the sister’s name?”
“Charlotte,” Kavita says. “You know her name.”
“Right. Charlotte. I’m an old man, forgive me. For some reason it escapes me to this day. Always did. It’s terrible.”
Kavita shoots Clare a sidelong glance. That’s a lie, her look means to say.
“She wasn’t quite as dynamic as her older sister,” Roland continues. “Charlotte was the quieter one? She and Zoe’s husband seemed to get along well, the Malcolm guy you’re talking about. I remember that. They seemed tight. Not sure how Zoe felt about that.”
It occurs to Clare that she should have her notebook, that she should be writing all this down. But it feels too forced, restricting the flow of conversation. She will have to log it all to memory instead.
“Was Malcolm here that night?” Clare asks.
“No,” Roland answers. “It was just—”
“All I want,” Kavita interjects, “is for you to tell us what you remember from that night. Tell us the story. It would help me a lot to see things from your perspective.”
Roland straightens, glancing at Clare. “The story? What is this, Kavita? It was five years ago. And you were there.”
“I know I was. But I feel like I don’t remember it properly. There are these holes for me. All this crazy stuff that’s happened since. You know? I’ve been in therapy for the past while because, well. Because things are difficult. My mind is screwing with me. I don’t know. I don’t want to say I have PTSD, it’s not that serious. But I can’t focus.”
“Hey.” Roland puts on a soothing tone and sets his hand on hers atop the bar. Clare notices Kavita’s fist clench under his grip. “It was terrible, what happened. Terrible. But it’s been a long time. You’re young. You were so young. Let it go.”
“I can’t,” Kavita says.
Clare watches this exchange, Kavita’s anxiousness against Roland’s shifting demeanor. She can’t pinpoint the source of the insincerity between them.
“Please?” Kavita says.
Roland releases a long sigh. “What is there to say? It was a weeknight. What? A Tuesday, I think? Colleen’s birthday, wasn’t it?” He pauses, but Kavita says nothing, so he directs the story to Clare. “Colleen Westman, Jack’s wife. Zoe and Charlotte’s mother. See? Charlotte. I remembered. It was Colleen’s birthday. Some milestone. Probably sixty. And the family was sitting in that booth, minding their own business. And I was here at the bar. And, Kavita, I remember
you over at the hostess stand. At the computer. Maybe you were printing their bill, because I know Jack was eating tiramisu when it happened. I remember giving my statement and spelling that word for one of the cops. T-I-R-A-M-I-S-U. And the shooter came in through the patio door. I didn’t even notice him until the gun was pulled. Frankly, I don’t even know if I noticed him until after the first shot was fired. Then I ducked? By the time I stood up the shooter was gone and Jack Westman was dead. Slumped against his wife.”
Both Clare and Roland watch Kavita, but she looks down at her worried hands, thinking. The patio door would offer easy access to the restaurant, Clare can see, especially at night. Now, beyond the patio, the ocean’s color is a muted gray, the sun gone behind low and swirling clouds.
“What more do you want me to say?” Roland says after a minute.
“Do you remember what the shooter looked like?” Clare asks.
“No. It was a crazy blur. Wasn’t it, Kavita? He had a hoodie on. Some people said glasses. I don’t remember glasses. I remember a dark hoodie. Navy blue or black. He wasn’t a big guy. Pretty compact frame.”
On the barstool next to Clare, Kavita shifts back and forth, unsteady.
“How did he manage to get out?” Clare asks.
“People were frozen,” Roland says. “Terrified. By the time my brain had registered what happened, he was gone. Some of the kitchen guys tried to chase him, but he was too fast. There are nooks and crannies around here. He probably had his getaway route well mapped out.” Roland pauses, frowning. “I can’t even count the number of times I’ve been interviewed by the police. Dozens. Hundreds. We all wanted them to catch the shooter. I closed this place down for a week so they could scour it. I’ve been an open book.”
“You don’t have security cameras?” Clare asks.
A cloud passes over Roland’s face, the shift so instant that it sends a chill down Clare’s spine.
“I do now,” he says.
“Did you keep up with the Westmans after it happened?” Clare asks.
“Sure.” Roland addresses Kavita. “You remember Colleen? Zoe’s mom? Her daughters brought her back in for dinner a few times after the shooting. I guess some ill-advised attempt at normalcy, reclaiming the space, as the kids say these days. But in my all days I’ve never seen the life drained out of someone the way it was with Colleen Westman. She was catatonic. I never even heard her speak. Then her heart gave out. That’s what happens when you let this kind of thing get to you. It burrows its way deep into your system, your gut, and some kind of rot sets in. You need to find a way to move on, Kavita. This could kill you if you’re not careful.”
There is something in his tone, a sharpness, words of warning. This could kill you. Kavita is flushed, her breaths short, as if on the verge of a panic attack. Roland must notice because he collects a glass and fills it to offer her water.
“I’d like to ask you about Malcolm Hayes,” Clare says to Roland. “About Zoe’s disappearance.”
“I don’t know anything about that. Like I said, he wasn’t around much. After Colleen died, I only really kept up with Zoe. Tragic what happened there. I’ll say that any guy who disappears after his wife does looks pretty guilty to me.”
Clare nods. Next to her, Kavita has already drained the water, her breathing still too fast.
“Listen,” Roland says. “Delivery trucks are going to start pulling up here. I need to get back to work.”
“Yes.” Clare points to her business card on the bar. “I appreciate your time. You can call me if you think of anything else.”
Back outside, the temperature has dropped without the sun to warm them. Clare chases Kavita across the street, pressing the key button to unlock the car. They sit in silence in the tight space of the rental car, Clare waiting, gauging.
“Did that help?”
“No,” Kavita says. “I know he came through the front door. Not the patio.”
“That’s a perspective thing,” Clare says. “Eyewitness accounts are tough. You can both be right, or wrong.”
Kavita says nothing. Clare turns the ignition and adjusts the vents to allow the heat to hit them both. She feels inundated, her brain struggling to compute everything that’s unfolded. Just try to channel Somers, Clare thinks. Her quiet way, her calm.
“We could speak to Charlotte,” Clare offers. “She was there too.”
“Yeah,” Kavita says, sarcastic. “She’d love that. More prodding.”
“I want to help you.”
“You’ve got your own agenda,” Kavita says.
“I do,” Clare says. “That doesn’t mean we can’t work together. Don’t we want the same thing?”
The look Kavita shoots Clare is angry, toxic. In her pocket Clare feels her phone vibrate. She unlocks it to a text from Austin Lantz.
Found something for you. Meet at The Cabin in 20?
Clare sighs. K, she types.
“Where can I drop you?” she asks Kavita.
“Nowhere. I’ll walk.”
“You sure? You have my card—”
But Kavita has already exited the car. Clare watches her through the windshield as she crosses the street to head north, then stops, looks around, and turns to continue the other way. Even in a place as familiar to her as Lune Bay, Kavita seems lost.
In the light of day The Cabin Bar feels less cozy, a thin coat of grime and dust on every surface. The room is empty but for one man on his laptop in the corner. Austin isn’t here yet. Clare sits on the same stool as last night. This bartender is older, less friendly than his nighttime counterpart. He slaps a coaster and a menu in front of Clare without so much as a nod.
“I’ll have a soda water,” Clare says, pushing the menu away. “I’m waiting for someone.”
Clare spins on her stool to study the room. She unlocks her phone to call up photographs from Malcolm and Zoe’s engagement party. The space in the pictures is hardly recognizable from the one Clare sits in now, the mahogany of the bar gleaming then, the rows of bottles behind it lit up and shining. The article refers to The Cabin Bar as the city’s “it” spot—a cozy space that mirrors Lune Bay’s relaxed, seaside vibe.
It’s been forty minutes since Austin texted her. He’s late. The bartender sets her soda water down hard enough to spill some of its contents. As Clare takes her first sip the door opens and Austin enters, striding her way. He is dressed all in black, skinny in his fitted jeans, a leather shoulder bag and a newsboy cap rounding out the ensemble.
“Nice hat,” Clare says. “Talk about on-brand.”
Austin smiles, then yanks the hat from his head and drops it on the bar, lips pursed. The sort of man, Clare guesses, who cannot take the same jokes he doles out.
“Teetotaling?” Austin points to her drink.
“It’s not even noon.”
“It’s summer.”
“It’s September,” Clare says.
“I guess it is. Technically still summer by the sun.”
Austin sets his leather satchel atop the bar and waves to the bartender, who ignores him so intently that Clare can only guess this routine: Austin the unwanted regular, the guy who orders one drink, then proceeds to overstay his welcome. He uses this place as an office, the affable bartender last night said. Finally the bartender pauses in front of him and Austin is able to order a beer. Clare stifles a laugh.
“I was thinking,” Austin says, twisting on the barstool. “Maybe you need a tour guide. Someone to show you around Lune Bay.”
“I’m not here to sightsee. You said you found something for me.”
“Yeah.” He rests his hand on the buckle of his bag. “There really is nothing out there on any Clare O’Kearney. I went on a deep dive last night. I pride myself on my research skills. And I’ve got nothing. Nothing.”
“Is that why you texted me?”
“I’m hoping I can get you to drop a few more hints.”
Of course Austin is trying to rattle her. In her time doing this work, Clare has learned to always
assume that people are withholding, that they have secrets they’re trying to keep from you. And Austin seems like a boy playing a part. If she cannot outwit even him, then Clare has no business doing this job. She runs a hand through her hair.
“I met with Detective Germain this morning,” she says. “He told me something interesting. He said you once worked as Jack Westman’s driver. I found that to be a pretty big omission from our chat last night.”
“It’s common knowledge,” Austin says. “It’s not an omission if it’s a widely known fact.”
“But you didn’t tell me.”
“I figured you would have done your homework,” Austin says. “Gone down the Austin Lantz rabbit hole, if you will. It’s all out there for the taking. And you contacted me, remember? So I’d wager you should already know my basic history.”
Clare rests a finger on her lips. “Point taken. Anything else I might have missed in my homework?”
“I’ve got a rich brother. He’s very generous with me.”
“And yet you’re too cheap to order more than one drink.”
Austin laughs without a hint of humor.
“I’m back to my alias theory,” he says. “Ms. O’Kearney.”
“Listen,” Clare says. “I think you and I can help each other. I really do.”
“I’m all ears.”
Clare leans closer. “I guess we’ve both been omitting a bit. What I didn’t tell you last night is that I used to work for Malcolm Hayes. I knew him as Malcolm Boon. After he left Lune Bay, he took up the cause of looking for missing women. And he hired me. That’s how I got started in this work. Obviously I didn’t know—”
“Jesus Christ.” Austin slaps his hands together. “You’re kidding, right? You have to be kidding me. Oh my God.”
“I’m not kidding,” Clare says, shifting impatiently on the stool.
“This is incredible.”
With a flourish Austin opens his satchel and pulls out a silver laptop. He flips it open.
“You’re not going to find anything searching for Malcolm Boon,” Clare says. “He was good at managing his own alias.”