She exited the living room and disappeared into her bedroom, slamming the door behind her. Immediately I jumped up and raced over to her desk, which occupied one corner of the room. Her open laptop computer displayed her screen saver, a glamour shot of that new sedative she’d told me about: Zenaproche. The photo showed a couple of white oval tablets artfully positioned next to a labeled prescription bottle, with a soothing, unfocused background. A company girl all the way, our Evie.
“I’m afraid I’ve made little headway in locating your mother’s collection,” I said, loud enough for her to hear me through the closed door. Meanwhile I pulled open a desk drawer, swiftly perused the contents—legal pads, folders, and enough spare tape, staples, and paper clips to last five years—and moved on to the one under it.
“That’s terribly disappointing,” she called. “I assumed you’d have it all wrapped up by now.”
Assumptions are dangerous, I mentally chastised, as I riffled through credit cards, her passport, and bills awaiting payment. “You have to prepare yourself for the possibility that the collection is irretrievable,” I said, and yanked open the bottom drawer. More bills. At least that’s what the stack of paperwork appeared to be at first glance. When I looked closer, I let out a gasp.
Belatedly I realized Evie had said something. “Sorry,” I said, as I snatched up the top document. “I didn’t catch that.”
“I said, that’s entirely unacceptable.” She sounded really irritated. “My mother wanted me to have that collection. It’s part of my inheritance. It didn’t just disappear into thin air.”
The document I was looking at was a bank statement—Peaches’s bank statement, representing the most recent activity in her checking account. I could tell it had been printed out from Evie’s computer rather than snail-mailed. I scanned the paper with laserlike intensity while I told Evie, “Turns out it might not be part of your inheritance, after all.”
“What does that mean?” she called. “I know what she told me.”
“Yeah, well,” I said, “seems she might have told a few other folks the same thing.”
The statement showed very little activity for March, not surprising considering that Peaches had been in no condition to do any banking. The only debit was an automatic monthly payment for newspaper delivery. I recalled the papers piling up on her lawn, unread.
There was one direct transfer of $3,650 from In No Time magazine, representing a fraction of the amount required to maintain her lifestyle. Other than that and a little interest income, I saw no deposits of any sort, yet the balance at the end of the month was over eighty thousand smackers.
Carter had told me that Peaches’s father had given her money during his lifetime and had left her a bundle upon his death. I’d questioned Sophie about it the day before, and learned that both claims were false. The old man had relied on Social Security to help him squeak by during his final years, and died with no assets aside from his house. I wondered if Peaches had lied to Carter about the source of her money, just as she’d lied about so much else.
So then, where did her money come from? I must have asked myself that question a hundred times during the past week.
“Who told you that Mom promised the peaches to them?” Evie demanded. “Never mind, I can guess who. My brother for starters. That’s just the sort of thing he’d do. Not that he gives a darn about the collection, but I couldn’t see him passing up a chance to cheat me out of what’s rightfully mine.”
While she griped, I gave the bank statements for December through February a quick once-over. The exact same activity as March, which is to say, almost none. “Your dad also claims he’s supposed to get the collection,” I said. “Plus your mom’s neighbor Zak Pryce.”
“Zak?” she laughed. “This is getting ridiculous. If they don’t have written proof, their claims mean nothing.”
“Well,” I said, “in the absence of a will, I would think you and your brother would have to split the peach collection, if it ever turns up.”
She didn’t respond to that. I glanced at the closed door to her bedroom, willing it to remain shut for at least another minute or two. I flipped to Peaches’s bank statement for November, when she’d still been alive, and was immediately struck by how different it looked from the more recent ones. There were multiple withdrawals and debits, unsurprising for an active household, plus the same modest payment from the magazine for her advice column. What was surprising was a cash deposit of forty-one thousand dollars.
A cursory peek at the rest of the statements, which went back a full year, revealed the same cash deposit, the same forty-one grand, landing in her account every single month. Whatever the source of that money, it dried up when Peaches did. This despite the fact that for four months, no one knew she was dead.
I said, “If you want me to keep looking for the collection, I can do that, Evie. But it might make more sense—and I’m thinking of your wallet here—for us to settle up now.”
I’d searched all the desk drawers except for one, the wide knee drawer under the desktop. I pulled it open, expecting to find pens, scissors, and other assorted office junk. Instead I stood gaping at a second laptop computer, this one adorned with a pretty holographic sticker in the shape of a peach.
The hinges of Evie’s bedroom door squeaked. In one smooth movement I closed the drawer and swiveled to stare out the nearby window, as if transfixed by the view of the day care center across the street.
Evie’s gaze ricocheted off the sofa and around the room until she spied me at the window. Her freshly mascaraed eyes narrowed in suspicion. I noticed she’d replaced her eyeglasses with contact lenses, and managed to coax her hair into a mass of sleek waves. She wore a sedately patterned wrap dress and a long, oatmeal-colored cardigan. Her simple shoulder bag was black.
I offered a cheerful wave. “Just stretching my legs, Evie. Where are we going?”
“We’ll take up this discussion another time.” She plucked her keys from a hook and held the door open for me. As I exited her apartment, she added, “Let me think about how to proceed regarding the peach collection, Jane. Meanwhile please don’t add any more hours to your invoice.”
I assured her that was no problem. I told her how much she owed and asked her to let me know when she’d come to a decision. We rode the elevator in strained silence and separated in the parking garage, Evie heading toward her blue Camry while I got behind the wheel of my red Mazda. Not once did she glance at my vehicle, for which I was grateful. It would make the next part easier.
Well, of course I was going to follow her. What did you think? My snooping in her desk had only added to the list of unanswered questions.
As Evie passed me on her way out of the parking garage, I took note of her license plate. I let two cars get between us before pulling out of the garage and following at a distance, sticking with her as she made a couple of turns that took her out of Crystal Harbor. I had a hunch she was heading for the Northern State Parkway, but in which direction, west toward New York City or east toward, well, points east?
Luckily for me, Evie Moretti was a careful, responsible driver, who never exceeded the speed limit and always telegraphed her intentions via her turn signal. West, it was, and I took care not to follow too closely as we picked up speed on the six-lane highway. Traffic was light, so it was a fairly simple matter to keep her in my sights as she changed lanes.
Were we going to Manhattan? I hoped not. I hated driving in Manhattan. I needn’t have worried. After a few minutes she headed south on the Meadowbrook Parkway. I expected her to exit the parkway at some point, but we just kept going, and going some more, until we were practically in the Atlantic Ocean.
Finally she exited onto the Loop Parkway and headed west, toward the City of Long Beach, which occupies a skinny barrier island immediately south of Long Island. I tailed her for another ten minutes as she made her way to the beach and parked near the boardwalk. I chose a spot some distance away and quickly swapped out the suede jacket I was
wearing for a plain gray hoodie I kept in my trunk for emergencies. I was grateful I also kept sunglasses in the car.
Well, this was a kind of emergency, right? For sure I needed to keep Evie from recognizing me while I figured out what she was doing down here and why it made her so jittery.
I watched her make her way up the long ramp to the two-mile-long, elevated boardwalk, which ran parallel to the shoreline about a hundred yards away. It was too early in the season for swimmers, sunbathers, and volleyball tournaments. Nevertheless, the mild temperatures, hovering around seventy degrees Fahrenheit, had coaxed many locals into coming out to enjoy a sunny Sunday afternoon at the beach.
The center lane of the wide wooden boardwalk was reserved for bicyclists, the two outer lanes for pedestrians of all stripes, from families out for a casual stroll to runners. The edge of the boardwalk facing the sea was studded with shore-facing benches and a metal railing. Hotels, apartment houses, and concession stands lined the other side.
The briny breeze whipped my hair around my face, prompting me to tuck it under my hood and tie the drawstring. Between the hood and my dark glasses, I doubted Evie would spot me in the crowd even if she turned around to look behind her. Which she didn’t do. She kept walking, seemingly with a specific destination in mind.
I expected her to enter a hotel or apartment building, at which point I’d have little choice but to cash it in and go home. The only other option would be to skulk around outside in case she and whoever she was meeting eventually appeared. Then what?
While I pondered this, Evie’s steps slowed, then stopped in front of a seafood joint called Dagne’s Clam Bar. I halted about twenty feet away. She stared at the eatery for a few moments, and I waited for her to enter. Instead she turned to look at the bench situated directly across the boardwalk from it.
A man sat on the bench, his back to us. He was significantly older than Evie, judging by his graying temples. He wore jeans and a maroon pullover and appeared relaxed, one arm thrown over the back of the bench as he watched a couple of kids play with their dog at the water’s edge.
I watched Evie wipe her palms on her cardigan. I watched her take a deep breath. I watched her cross the boardwalk toward him, staring so fixedly at the back of his head that she nearly got mowed down by a bicycle. Finally she rounded the bench and greeted him.
The man stood and removed his sunglasses. He smiled, prompting Evie to do the same. Then he pulled her close and wrapped her in a bear hug. She hesitated a moment before reciprocating. I couldn’t see her face, which was buried in his shoulder, but I saw his face, saw the emotion he didn’t even try to hide.
I know what you’re thinking. You’re wondering if I noticed a physical resemblance between the two. Did she have his eyes, his nose? Honestly, I was too far away for that kind of scrutiny, but based on body language alone, I can tell you that one thought crowded out all others.
This is Evie’s biological father.
You might very well say, But, Jane, couldn’t that man be her uncle or some other relative? Maybe an old friend or former teacher?
He could be, but he wasn’t. I felt it in my bones.
Between the crowd and the breeze and my hoodie, I didn’t have a prayer of overhearing their conversation from where I stood pretending to study the menu in the window of the clam bar. And I didn’t dare creep closer.
The breeze was doing a number on Evie’s hair. She kept pushing it off her face, finally resorting to clutching it in a fist while the two of them conversed. This, after all that work with her curling wand.
Because it’s important to make a good first impression, right? If I was correct about the identity of her companion, that first impression should have been made twenty-three years earlier when she was a newborn.
After a few minutes they rose and started strolling the boardwalk, still chatting. I followed at a discreet distance as they made their way to the Shoregasboard: an asphalt lot ringed with colorful food trucks selling everything from seafood and burgers to tacos and Cuban food. I watched them decide on the kosher deli truck, where they bought thick pastrami sandwiches, coleslaw, and drinks: some kind of soda in a cup for Evie, and a bottle of iced tea for her maybe-dad. My stomach squealed. I hadn’t put anything in it since those blondies several hours earlier, and that pastrami was calling to me.
They sat at one of the picnic tables located in the middle of the Shoregasboard and continued their conversation while chowing down. Meanwhile I strolled the perimeter, taking care to keep out of Evie’s line of sight. I did manage to snap some pictures of her companion, while making it appear I was more interested in the fancifully decorated food trucks behind him.
Finally they finished eating, tossed their trash, and shared a lingering hug. The man kissed her cheek. Even at a distance I detected the sheen of moisture in his brown eyes as they parted. She stood watching him as he wove around the trucks and disappeared from sight.
Evie started toward me on her way back to the boardwalk, which was the most direct route to her car. She didn’t notice me, but then she seemed oblivious to everyone and everything around her.
I removed my sunglasses as she approached, and pushed my hood down. I could have been one of the potted trees studding the Shoregasboard for all the impression my sudden appearance made. She was about to pass right by me, her gaze focused inward.
“Evie,” I said.
It took a couple of seconds for the word to register and for her to notice me. At last I saw the reaction I’d been attempting, up until this point, to avoid. Her jaw dropped and she blurted, “What the hell!”
“Enough lies,” I said. “It’s time for you to come clean.”
13
Who’s Your Daddy?
“SO WHAT’S HIS NAME?” I asked. “Your biological father.”
We were back on the boardwalk, walking along the beach side. “I don’t know what you’re—”
“Don’t even start,” I said. “I meant what I said, Evie. I’ve had enough of your lies. And I know all about the DNA tests. Carter told me.”
She flushed. “Dad had no right to share that outside the family.”
“Your parents’ split had nothing to do with a fight over Halloween candy,” I said, “and everything to do with the fact that your dad had spent half his life raising children who, unbeknownst to him, had been fathered by other men.”
“I made up that stuff about the candy,” she said, “because the real reason was none of your business.”
“Why did you give your family those DNA kits?” I asked.
She took a deep breath. “I always suspected my mom was cheating on my dad, possibly for the whole time they’d been together. I don’t look anything like him, and neither does Sean. So I thought, what the heck, let’s find out. I told them it would just be this fun family activity.”
“A fun family activity your mom wanted no part of.”
“Which only reinforced my suspicions,” she said. “Anyway, this man you saw me talking to, he’s not my... he’s not who you think he is. He’s just an old friend.”
“Well, you and your ‘old friend’ look an awful lot alike.” This was, in fact, true, as I’d discovered after snapping those photos of him. I steered her to the railing, produced my phone, found the best shot, and zoomed in for a detailed close-up. “You have your mother’s height and nose, but this man’s eyes, for sure. His face shape, too. See?”
I watched conflicting emotions duke it out as she studied the picture. She didn’t try to deny the resemblance. Finally she said, “Why do you care about this? I hired you to find my mother’s collection, not to snoop into my family’s private affairs.”
Affairs being the appropriate word, considering what Peaches had been up to while in a supposedly committed long-term relationship. “You’ve been withholding information from the police,” I said, “information that could very well be pertinent to their investigation into your mother’s death.”
“The identity of my biological father has
no bearing on the case.”
I said, “That’s for the authorities to determine,” when what I wanted to say was, Like hell it doesn’t.
I didn’t mention that I’d already gotten Howie and Cookie up to speed on the whole DNA drama. It was the first they’d heard that Carter shared no blood with the children he’d raised. He’d neglected to mention it to the detectives during his interview. Neither had Evie, Sean, or Audrey. Everyone was keeping mum about the family disgrace.
Watching Evie struggle to keep her wind-whipped hair out of her face, I dug around in the pockets of my hoodie and came up with two wrapped mints, some tissues, a lip balm, a concert stub from three years earlier, assorted change, a safety pin, a bracelet with a broken clasp—so that’s where that thing had gotten to!—and a hair elastic, which I handed her. “Here.”
She accepted it with muttered thanks and faced into the wind to corral her hair into a ponytail.
This was a pretty sensitive conversation to have in the midst of so many strangers. I pointed to a nearby ramp which led to the beach. “Come on.”
I could tell Evie would have preferred going straight home, but the only response she offered was a pointed sigh as she followed me down the ramp. I suspected she wanted to ascertain what else I knew, since clearly I was on to her lies.
At the foot of the ramp she removed her plain black flats while I shucked off my sneakers and socks, then rolled up the bottoms of my jeans a few inches. We took off barefoot across the cool, white sand toward the shoreline.
Telling Evie it was time for her to come clean was one thing. Making it happen was another. Since she was so fond of lies, I decided to offer a whopper. “By the way, Carter also told me where your mom’s money really came from, so you can drop all that supermodel nonsense.”
She looked cagey. “What did Dad tell you?”
What Carter had actually told me was another big, fat lie: that Peaches had been supported by her father, who then left her a pile of cash when he died four years ago. Since both Evie and her dad felt the need to fib about how Peaches had supported herself, I figured it must be something embarrassing, illegal, or both.
Preserving Peaches Page 19