Killer Summer

by Lynda Curnyn

  So I gave up, believing I no longer had what it took. Not the courage. Or the will.

  I was washed up by thirty-six. Not even my therapist could convince me otherwise. Nor all those self-help books I read.

  No, there was only one thing, it seemed, that kept me from sinking completely into the black hole my life had become. And that was the much lauded serenity of Valium.

  * * *

  Chapter Eighteen

  Zoe

  Stalking and other stupid people tricks

  Why wasn’t he answering?

  I looked up from where I sat on the bench, cell phone clamped to my ear, studying Adelaide Gibson as she stood chatting with three of her cronies in the Washington Square Park dog run.

  Clearly, they weren’t ready to start filming yet. I wondered if the rest of the people she had invited to the dog run today were even going to show up. I certainly hoped so, considering Adelaide’s two pals here had only racked up five dogs between them. All King Charles spaniels, oddly enough. Maybe Adelaide should start a club. Didn’t she know anybody who owned a mutt? Or even a good, old-fashioned beagle, for chrissakes?

  My call rolled over into voice mail, as it had done the six other times I’d called. “Hi, this is Myles. Leave a message.” Beeeeeep.

  I hung up, just as I had done the last six times. Yes, I needed to speak to Myles, but I definitely didn’t need to speak to his voice mail. I wasn’t sure he would call me back, considering the way I’d treated him the last time I had seen him. I had tried to find him again on the beach, roaming up and down it no less than ten times before I left Fire Island on Monday. But I hadn’t run into him. And even if I had known where his beach house was located, I certainly couldn’t go there. Especially since Ms. Bikini U.S.A. was shacking up with him.

  Now my only hope was to catch him on the phone, but even that was becoming hopeless. Maybe I would run into him. He did live near this park, as did I, which was probably why I’d agreed to meet with Adelaide at the run on such short notice. But right now I had more important things to worry about than Adelaide and her dog tribe. Besides, she was starting to become a bit obsessive about this documentary. I had given her what I had thought were the final edits last week only to receive a call from her yesterday— she felt we needed more footage of the dogs “frolicking,” as she put it, in the dog run.

  “Zoe, we’re reeeaaadddy!” came the now familiar trill.

  I looked up to see that two more women had joined them in the run. And three more dogs. All King Charles spaniels. So much for variety, I thought, studying the women as I approached, camera in hand. They all looked to be sixty or over, and they were kinda dressed alike in pastel sweater sets paired with skirts or, for the more daring of the set, capris. Maybe this was some kind of club.

  Adelaide gave me a brittle smile as I stepped before the group. Not that she was mad at me. I’ve since learned it’s the only smile Adelaide knows how to give. Could be the lipstick job—a soft pink that exceeded the lipstick line. Or the facelift. I could practically see the scars beneath that blue-gray salon coif of hers.

  But she was all class, that Adelaide. Old money. The brown-stone-on-the-park level of money. “Zoe, dear, it appears everyone is here now. We can begin,” she said, her dark eyes gleaming at me, as if this news should excite me as much as it apparently did her.

  She raised one sweater-clad arm gracefully, gesturing to the small crowd she had assembled. “Everyone, this is Zoe Keller.” Then she went around the circle and introduced all her friends, as well as their dogs. I noticed one of the women—Beatrice, I think her name was—lift a worried hand to her cheek as she looked at me, her expression pained. I’d been getting that look for days, despite the fact that the burn had simmered down somewhat. I lifted the camera in front of my face, more to hide than anything else, as Adelaide instructed everyone to let their dogs off the leash and “act natural.”

  As I watched the women flutter about, snapping off leashes and cooing at their dogs and each other, I wondered if that was possible.

  What a crowd. Whoo-hoo. Let’s make a movie. I turned the camera on, but things didn’t get any better on my viewing screen. We needed more dogs—like other kinds of dogs. This film almost seemed politically incorrect, in terms of equal opportunity for canines. No wonder Adelaide had wanted to come to the dog run in the middle of the day when no one else was there, dog Nazi that she is.

  After about ten minutes, I knew I had enough footage of the dog run for about ten documentaries. Still, I kept filming, if only not to hear Adelaide complain.

  Where was Adelaide anyway? I thought, realizing that all her friends stood clapping and cooing at their dogs in the run, but that Adelaide was somewhere off-camera.

  I heard a muffled sob behind me and, lowering the camera, I turned around.

  To find dear old Adelaide standing behind me, an embroidered handkerchief crushed to her mouth and tears rolling down her face.

  “Adelaide?”

  She waved a hand at me dismissively. “Have you got enough?”

  “I think so.” I stepped closer, reaching out to touch her arm, until I remembered what a tough old bird Adelaide was. But she didn’t look so tough now.

  “Adelaide, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she said, despite the fresh tears that rolled down her softly wrinkled cheeks.“I just didn’t expect this to be so hard. Seeing all these dogs, so much like my Fifi.”

  She muffled a sob and finally I did put an arm around her.

  “It’s just so hard letting go,” she said into her handkerchief.

  I gave her a comforting squeeze. Didn’t I know it.

  Much as I wanted to sit in the falafel shop all day, there was no way I could eat another falafel. I hadn’t even been all that hungry for the first one, I’ll admit. But the falafel here are so good, and I needed something comforting after my harrowing afternoon in the dog run with Adelaide.

  Of course, I had finished my falafel a half hour ago and had now resorted to reading the specials posted on the wall. Okay, so maybe the only reason I was sitting for almost an hour in this tiny little restaurant on Thompson Street was because two stories above me was Myles’s apartment.

  He had to come down some time, right? Besides, he loved falafel. We ate enough of it together when we were at his place.

  Maybe he had gotten a job. That would explain why he wasn’t around on a Tuesday afternoon. But Myles was waiting on a job in the Manhattan D.A’s. office, and that position wasn’t due to open up until fall. He was a shoo-in for the job, considering he had graduated this past spring from NYU Law with high honors and had interned last summer in the Suffolk County D.A.‘s office. When we broke up, he had been planning to take the summer off.

  Of course, he’d also been planning to forgo a share at the beach. So what did I know?

  With a sigh, I stood up, grabbing my knapsack and waving to the sole owner and falafel maker at the back of the store. “Take care, Ahmed.”

  “Goodbye, my friend,” he said.

  Well, at least Ahmed was still talking to me.

  Once I stood out front of the restaurant, I slid my knapsack on my back and looked up, seeking out Myles’s window on the third floor.

  Was he even up there?

  “Zoe?”

  I startled, turning to find Myles standing next to me, looking tan and adorable in a T-shirt and jeans, and a bit surprised.

  As was I, despite the fact that this was what I had been hoping for for days. “Myles!”

  “What are you doing here?” he said, his golden brown eyes studying me.

  “Getting falafel. What else? You know Ahmed’s falafel. It’s, uh, irresistible.” Noticing he carried a knapsack, too, I asked,“Did you just get back from the beach?”

  “Yeah. We decided to walk to the Sunken Forest yesterday. I didn’t realize how far of a hike it was from Kismet. Took us all day. It was pretty cool, though. Have you been yet?”

  “No, I haven’t,” I replied, fig
hting not to ask who was a part of the “we” that went on this little day trip. Instead, I studied his T-shirt, which I noticed had the logo for an environmental organization I once did a short film for. I had given it to him, since it was two sizes too large for me.

  “Nice shirt,” I said.

  He smiled. “Some chick gave it to me.”

  “Some chick, huh?” I replied, a smile edging at my lips.

  “Yeah, some crazy chick who doesn’t want to be my friend anymore because I took a beach share on her island—”

  “Myles, I’m sorry, I—”

  He shook his head. “It’s okay. I guess I should have spoken to you beforehand. It’s just that I honestly didn’t think you were going to go out there. You said as much.”

  I frowned. “I didn’t think I was going to be out there. But Sage kinda thought it would be good for me. Now I’m not so sure.”

  His expression turned sympathetic. “I guess things must be pretty bleak over at your place.”

  I shook my head. “No, my house is pretty cheerful.” I looked at him.“Except for the fact that I might be sharing it with a murderer.”

  His eyes widened. “What?”

  Okay, maybe I was being a little melodramatic. So I explained. How I had found Tom at home that night, damp and angry in his kitchen. How he had responded to the drowning. How he had been acting ever since, especially the night of that strange Fourth of July party. How his only alibi happened to be the chief of security at Saltaire.

  Whether or not Myles was as worried as I was, I wasn’t sure. But he did invite me up to his place to talk. I took it as a good sign.

  I took it as an even better sign that Myles’s studio looked pretty much the same as it did the last time I had been in it, three months ago. Same Escher poster hanging over his bed. Same bookshelf, lined with volumes and volumes of law books. I was especially happy to see the spider plant I had given him was still alive and well and thriving on his windowsill.

  “The place looks good,” I said, after I dropped my knapsack on to the floor beside the couch and turned to Myles, who stood in the small galley kitchen, which sat just off the living room.

  “Yeah,” he said, gazing around the small space with what looked like dissatisfaction. “Want something to drink?”

  “Water would be great,” I said, watching as he turned to the refrigerator and pulled out two small bottles of purified water. The same brand I had recommended to him after explaining the horrors of the tap water he used to mindlessly imbibe. See what a good influence I was on his life?

  Moments later, when I was seated across from him on his sofa, going over the minute details of the investigation I had begun— i.e., my trip to Fair Harbor—I wondered if water intake was about the only impact I had made on him.

  “I don’t know, Zoe, it’s not much to go on. I mean, what motive would Tom have for killing his wife?”

  “How about a mortgage free and clear on a million-dollar beach house?” I said.

  His eyes widened. “Wow. He’s got that house free and clear?”

  “Now he does,” I said, explaining the little insurance provision that paid off his mortgage just as soon as he filed Maggie’s death certificate with the bank.

  His gaze turned pensive. “Looks like a nice house, too,” he said. “I bet you get a great view of the ocean from those windows in the front.”

  I tried to squelch the glimmer of happiness I felt at the idea that Myles might have roamed up the beach this weekend, hoping for a glimpse of my house—or better yet, me.

  “Still,” he continued, “I can’t see it. Doesn’t he own the company Sage works for? He’s gotta be loaded.”

  I had already thought about that, long and hard, since returning from the beach. So I gave him the answer I had come up with. “The fact is, Tom is loaded. But he’s also financially overburdened at the moment. Sage told me he went out on a limb last year when he decided to start up Edge. I mean, yeah, he did some leather accessories for Luxe, even a few jackets, but he was mostly in textiles. Leather outerwear is a whole new business. I bet he’s up to his eyeballs in debt. Sage told me a few months ago that part of the reason he started Edge was that Luxe wasn’t doing as well as it had in years past. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was a little hard up for cash. I mean, think about it—he even took on shareholders in his beach house this year.“

  Myles chuckled. “C’mon, Zoe, he couldn’t be bringing in that much cash through shareholders. He’s only got the three of you, right?”

  “And his daughter,” I added, though I didn’t think she was paying a dime. Not that I mentioned that. Though the fact that she moved right in on Maggie’s turf bugged me, too.“But it does seem kind of odd that he opened his house after all these years of it being just him and Maggie. Now why do you think a man would do that?”

  He shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe he likes the company.”

  “Or maybe he needed a buffer between him and Maggie,” I said, thinking of my own roommate, who had used me as a buffer between her and her last boyfriend. But Corinne had been dating someone new for over a year, which was probably why I never saw her anymore. She was always at his place. Mostly because she wanted to be with Roland alone. As in, ninety percent of the time.

  “Look, Zoe, don’t you think the police investigated all these things?”

  Now we were getting to the main reason I had come to see Myles. Okay, maybe it wasn’t the only reason—I was enjoying being with him, after all.“That’s what I’m wondering about. I have to be honest. I wasn’t too impressed with the homicide detective who questioned us that night. He treated the whole thing as some routine incident.”

  Myles looked at me. “You should never treat any investigation as routine. What was his name?”

  “Erickson, I think.” I had managed to remember his name, probably because the guy irritated me so much with his bland questions. “Why, you know him?”

  He shook his head. “Maybe my dad did.”

  I took my opening.“But you still know some people in the department, right? Friends of your dad’s? Maybe someone who could do some poking around for me?”

  “I haven’t spoken to anyone there since my father’s funeral,” he replied, sounding a bit angry as he did, which was surprising. I knew Myles had some conflicted feelings about law enforcement ever since his dad died in the line of duty, but I didn’t think he was holding it against the entire Suffolk County Police Department.

  “But you’d talk to them for me, wouldn’t you?”

  He shook his head. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, Zoe!‘

  Now I was angry. “Well, excuse me for thinking a man who was going to work for the Manhattan D.A. might care a little bit about justice.”

  His next words came out so quietly, I wasn’t even sure I heard them. “I’m not going to work for the D.A.‘s office.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said I’m not going to work for the D.A.”

  My eyes widened. “Oh, God, Myles—” I began, reaching out to touch his arm, which felt surprisingly cool under my hand.“I’m so sorry. I thought for sure you’d get the position—”

  He looked at me then.“I’ve been offered the position, Zoe. I’m just not going to take it.”

  “But why?” I said, looking into his eyes. “You’ve wanted that job since forever. Well, at least since you worked for the Suffolk County D.A. I don’t understand.”

  He shrugged, dropping his gaze. “I changed my mind.”

  A coldness clutched at me and I removed my hand from his arm. It didn’t make sense. Working for the D.A. had been Myles’s dream. During the past year, it seemed like getting that job was his whole life. “What are you going to do?”

  He fiddled with the label on the water bottle in front of him. “I’ve had a few interviews at some corporate law firms. In fact, I just got a call for a second interview with one of them.”

  “Corporate law? Myles, that doesn’t sound like you.”

  He looke
d at me. “Maybe I’ve changed.”

  I wanted to probe him further, but something about his expression told me to hold my tongue.“I guess you have,” I said carefully.

  Maybe it was the silence I lapsed into that had him sputtering out answers. “I would have made nothing at the D.A.‘s office anyway, Zoe. Do you know what the starting salaries are for lawyers in the corporate sector? Sometimes as much as one hundred and twenty thousand a year. That’s nothing to sneeze at.”

  I raised an eyebrow at him. “Neither is murder.”

  “Zoe, you don’t know that for sure—”

  I sat up. “That’s just it. We don’t know that for sure. Which is why I wish you could just make one call to the S.C.P.D. Just to get the facts on this case. You must still be talking to Paul Stover over there—you guys were good friends.”

  “I can’t, Zoe.”

  I sat back hard on the couch, arms folded in front of me, probably looking a bit like a petulant child. But I didn’t care what I looked like right now. I was angry.

  Myles must have sensed this, because he leaned back, too, letting his head come to rest on the cushion, before turning to look at me. “Look, Zoe, did it ever occur to you that you’re wrong about Tom?”

  I didn’t answer him. Instead, I stared straight ahead, at the spider plant on the window. Actually, I was thinking about taking it home with me. I wasn’t sure I even trusted Myles with the care and feeding of that plant anymore.

  “Not all men are like your father, Zoe,” Myles said softly. “Not all men are bad.”

  That’s when I felt my anger spike. But I kept hold of myself long enough to stand up, grabbing my knapsack from the floor as I did.

  Hoisting my knapsack on my shoulder, I headed for the door, turning back to him only to take one last parting shot.

  “Not all of them are good either.”