Killer Summer

by Lynda Curnyn

  I knew, even before I got her panties off, that she would be warm and wet.

  That was another thing I liked about Francesca. She was always ready. I unbuttoned my jeans, glancing around at the dark and empty beach, taking a moment to relish the sound of the ocean, roaring in the background. And the fact that we were alone. Really alone. For the first time.

  I slid out of my jeans and boxers, then into her, moving slowly, so slowly, it was torture.

  The best kind of torture, I thought, watching the way her lips parted around her breaths, her eyes shuttered closed.

  “Look at me,” I said. The words came out harsher than I intended, but I realized, once her blue gaze was on mine, that she never really did look at me when we made love. Or had sex. Whatever.

  I began to move faster, staring into her eyes, searching for something—I don’t know what—exactly. Something beyond all the coolness in her blue gaze. But all I saw was her pupils widening like a cat’s and something else, I thought, leaning in closer, and realizing it was only my own reflection.

  “Oh, man. Oh, Francesca,” I ground out moments later as I felt my climax shake through both of us as her eyes shuttered closed again, shutting me out once more. Burying my face against her neck, I savored the coolness of her body against my own heated skin. And when I finally had the courage to look up at her, she was smiling at me.

  Kind of tender, you know?

  And I felt something—I wasn’t sure what. Something that made me believe I could have it all.

  Have it all with her.

  * * *

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Zoe

  Water, water everywhere and I’m about to sink.

  By the time morning came, I had convinced myself that Donnie was the murderer I was looking for, even felt a desire to run my latest theory by Sage, if only to prove to her this trail I’d been following since Maggie died wasn’t just some attempt to annoy her. But when I opened my eyes to the sight of Sage’s bed still made—not to mention littered with every scrap of clothing she had brought with her this weekend—I realized my best friend hadn’t come home last night.

  I just hoped she’d remembered to use a condom.

  When I didn’t find Donnie on the beach, I headed to his house, which was just two doors down from Tom’s. The house wasn’t as lavish as Maggie’s Dream, but Donnie clearly wasn’t doing too badly as the head of Tom’s shipping department, I thought, eyeing the squarish modern structure that rose up out of the reeds. It was still pretty early, but since the front door of the house was open, I assumed it was okay to knock.

  After all, I had decided that my new documentary would be kind of a Maggie Landon tribute, and since Donnie seemed to be full of stories about Maggie’s life last weekend, I figured he would be more than eager to make a statement for the cameras.

  Stepping up to the screen door, I rapped on the wooden frame twice, wielding my brightest smile when Amanda Havens appeared.

  “Zoe, hi, this is a pleasant surprise. Come on in.”

  I stepped through the door she held open, and was immediately taken aback by the decor. Though the house was smaller than Tom’s, the layout was similar, with an airy kitchen and dining area that opened on to a living room and a sliding glass door that led to the deck beyond. Except the house I stood in now had none of the warm, sunny beach appeal of Maggie’s Dream. In fact, I might have called the Havens’ home a bit cold. The skylights over the kitchen area were nice, but the walls were a hideous too-green turquoise, and the furniture was black lacquer, topped by a rather grotesquely modern-looking chandelier that overwhelmed the dining area. I looked at Amanda’s round, pleasant face and the checkered apron that covered her short, plump body, and realized she seemed misplaced in this house. Like a fifties housewife trapped in a tacky futuristic world.

  Still, I said, “Nice place.”

  She smiled. “What can I do for you?”

  “Actually I was looking for Donnie. Is he around?”

  “No, he’s down at the dock, cleaning his boat. Maybe I can help?”

  I held up my camera. “I’m doing a little Maggie tribute—-just something for Tom to have—and I thought Donnie might want to get one of those Maggie stories he told last week at dinner on film.”

  “Oh, that’s a wonderful idea,” she said. Then a wounded look moved into her eyes. “Actually, I wouldn’t mind contributing a story myself. I mean, Maggie was my best friend.”

  Oops. I knew I should have had a cup of coffee before I left the house. What the hell was I thinking? “Of course,” I said. “I meant the both of you. Well, separately. It would be nice to have a story from each of you.” Good, Zoe, real good.You’re batting a thousand this morning.

  Fortunately, I only needed a curve ball to score with Amanda. “God, there’s so many great stories I could tell about Maggie.”

  Oh, dear. I think I might have hit a home run. Except I didn’t feel like taking the time to run all the bases. “Well, you can take time to think about it and I can come back.”

  She shook her head. “You know what, I don’t even need to think about it. There’s clearly only one story that would be appropriate. That would be the first time we took the car and went to the beach on our own. Without our parents, I mean. We were seventeen, and Maggie had just gotten her license. What a ball we had! I think it would be a perfect story—especially since Maggie and I spent practically our whole lives at the beach.”

  “This beach?”

  She shook her head. “No, we grew up in Mastic. We went out to Smith’s Point that day. Oh, this is going to be such fun! Let me just run and fix myself up a bit,” she said, whipping off the apron and darting out of the room before I could stop her.

  Now what had I gotten myself into?

  What I’d gotten myself into, I realized, once Amanda returned, her hair newly combed and fresh lipstick on her lips, was a shipwreck. Of the emotional variety. And as I turned the camera on Amanda and listened to her recount her day at the beach with Maggie, I was wondering if I might not become one of the casualties. Because as she spoke about how she and Maggie had gotten up early one Saturday morning, filling up a cooler with lunch and drinks and setting off on their first solo ride down the highway that took them to the beach, I couldn’t help but remember me and Sage doing pretty much the very same thing. At probably the very same age.

  “Oh, Maggie,” Amanda continued, addressing the camera as if her dead friend might actually be viewing this tribute herself someday, “you remember those guys we met? I forget what their names were—Sam or Joe—whatever, it doesn’t matter now. One of them was so cute—you remember him? Dark hair? Lots of muscles. He was so into you. But you always got the pick of the litter, Maggie,” she said, laughing, her eyes bright with the memory.

  So had Sage, I thought, as I watched Amanda through the viewfinder. She always got the cutest guy, too, I remembered with a smile. She wouldn’t have settled for less than the most beautiful man on the beach, whereas I went for the more introspective— okay, nerdy—type.

  “Then they tried so hard to get a ride home with us, you remember, Maggie? But you stood strong. You were having none of that nonsense in your new car. Well, it wasn’t so new, but it was nice enough, right?“ She sniffed, blinking quickly. ”And then it was just me and you, riding home against the sunset, laughing at those silly boys. God, we had so much to laugh about in those days, didn’t we, Maggie? Didn’t we?“ she pleaded to the camera. ”We always had each other. That was all we ever needed,“ she finished, tears suddenly springing from her eyes and rolling down her cheeks.

  And when I lowered the camera from my eyes, I realized she wasn’t the only one.

  This had to be the worst scheme I’d ever come up with, I thought, swiping at my eyes and gaining control of myself once again. Enough control at least to ask the question I had planned to ask Donnie. I figured I had gone this far with Amanda—might as well get all the facts while I was here.

  “Amanda, are you—” I
began.

  “Oh, I’m fine,” she said waving a hand at me, then snatching a napkin from the counter to dab at her eyes. “It’s just hard sometimes, you know? Losing a friend like that.”

  I could only imagine. Shaking off the thought, I said, “Can I just ask you one last question?”

  “Sure,” she said, looking at me once more, a tremulous smile on her tear-stained face.

  “Were you here that night at the beach? You know, the night Maggie—”

  “Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head firmly. “I was out of town that weekend on business. At a promotional event for one of my clients. I’m in public relations,” she said.

  How convenient for Donnie and Maggie.“Was Donnie here?” I asked next.

  “Donnie? Well, no—at least not that night. He had a boat show over in Sayville.”

  Or so he said. “Well, you’re probably better off. It wasn’t a good night in Kismet.”

  “No,” she said, sadness filling her eyes once again. “It wasn’t.”

  By the time I got down to the dock, I had worked myself into a lather. Though I wasn’t sure who pissed me off more. Maggie, for betraying her best friend, or Donnie, for betraying his wife with her best friend. But when I spotted Donnie, standing on the deck of his boat and looking pretty damned pleased with himself as he polished the leather seats wearing nothing but a pair of navy blue shorts and dark, wraparound sunglasses, his toupee looking like it was about to take off with the next good wind, I decided it was him I hated the most. Now I tried to get a grip on my anger, studying him for a moment as he rubbed a soft cloth over the seat in front of the steering wheel, trying to figure out what his appeal might have been for Maggie. I guess he did have a good build, though he was a little on the short side. And he was younger than Tom. It was possible Maggie could have climbed into the sack with this guy. He had a certain, slick Long-Island-Guy-With-Cool-Boat thing going on. If you went for that sort of thing.

  “Hey, Donnie,” I called out in the most cheerful voice I could muster.

  “Hey, Zoe,” Donnie said, turning to look up at me as I stood on the dock. “Gorgeous day out today, huh?”

  “The best,” I said, my gaze roaming over his boat, which had Happy Havens painted in black on the side. Yeah, happy. I’d give him happy. “Nice boat.”

  “She’s a beauty,” he said, smiling even wider.

  Were those capped teeth? Oh yuck, Maggie. What were you thinking?

  “So, Donnie,” I said, holding up my camera. “I decided to put together a tribute video on Maggie. Something for Tom to keep. Amanda just contributed a story. I wondered if you might want to as well.”

  “For Maggie? Gosh, I’d be happy to. You know, I loved that woman.”

  I bet, I thought, pulling the camera from my bag and raising it before my eyes.

  “Hang on a sec,” Donnie said, smoothing a hand over his toupee. Not that it helped much, but at least it was no longer flapping in the wind.

  “So what should I do? Sit on the chair? Stand?”

  “Whatever you feel comfortable with, Donnie.” This is your moment after all, you bastard.

  He remained standing, though he took a good few minutes trying to decide which side of the boat to stand on.

  Then, because I couldn’t bear another sobfest—especially since I,suspected Donnie’s wouldn’t be as authentic as his wife’s—I said, “I’m going to ask you a few questions, Donnie, and all you have to do is answer, okay?”

  He shrugged. “Sure.”

  “Okay. So, Donnie, how long had you known Maggie Landon?”

  He chuckled. “Well, that’s easy. I knew Maggie almost as long as I’ve known my wife. Those two were like bread and butter, you know? As soon as I started dating Amanda, it was like I was dating Maggie, too. And Tom, of course. They were already married by then.”

  “Of course,” I said, giving him a closed-mouth smile, so he wouldn’t notice my clenched teeth. “So, about eight or nine years then?”

  “Eight and a half,” he replied.

  “So the four of you were pretty tight, huh?”

  “Oh yeah,” Donnie said, one hand going to his toupee, which was starting to flap in the wind again.

  “Spent a lot of time together at the beach?”

  “Sure did. Well, Amanda and I have only had our house about three years. But before that we used to come out to see Tom and Maggie all the time.”

  “Good times, huh, Donnie?”

  “The best,” he replied with another hearty chuckle.

  “So, Donnie, let me ask you. Were you here in Kismet the night Maggie died?”

  He frowned, considering this for a moment. “No, actually, I wasn’t.”

  “Where were you?”

  I saw his jaw clench briefly, before he broke into another chuckle, this one not quite so hearty.“Hey, Zoe, what kind of film are you making anyway? What does it matter where I was?”

  I lowered the camera.“Well, I was hoping to include some footage. Kinda like where were you the night Kennedy was shot. But with Maggie, of course.”

  “Oh,” he said, looking a bit uneasy when I raised the camera again. I saw him think for a moment. Then he said, “I was playing poker with my buddies.”

  Jesus Christ. Could this guy even get his story straight? He told his wife he went to a boat show. “Are you sure that’s where you were?”

  Now he frowned. “Of course I’m fucking sure.”

  Oops. Losing the subject. “Okay, no problem. Just that it was a pretty nice night. I thought maybe you might have come here after the boat show. ‘Cause your wife said you went to a boat show. So what time did this poker game happen? Before or after the boat show?”

  Now he really looked flustered. “Can you shut that thing off? You’re starting to give me a fucking headache.”

  I lowered the camera once more, which was probably a good idea. Because the minute Donnie thought I was no longer filming— I figured he was too stupid to realize I could leave the camera on and pick up everything with the mic—he let loose on his anger.

  “What the fuck you asking me where I was that night if you already asked my wife?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. Just trying to get my facts straight for the film. I thought I saw your boat at the dock that night. When I came off the ferry. Around nine-thirty, ten.”

  “Well, you musta been high, ‘cause I wasn’t anywhere near this island that night,” he said, his hands balling into fists.

  “Okay, if you say so.” Before he was tempted to use those fists on me, I said,“Thanks for the info, Donnie. I’ll let you know when I’ve finished the tribute.” Then I took off down the dock before he could say another word.

  Because I realized, as I filmed Donnie standing like a peacock on his prized boat, that I didn’t need to listen to his lies anymore.

  There was someone else who could likely tell me whether or not Donnie had docked that night.

  And that person was none other than Sage’s abandoned paramour.

  Good ol‘ Chad. The dock boy.

  Fortunately, I remembered what he looked like, since Sage had pointed him out enough times that first weekend, when she’d set her sights on him. Though finding him was another matter. When I learned from one of his fellow dock boys that Chad was working the four-to-twelve shift tonight, I went back to the house to wait.

  Of course, no one was there. Stepping onto the deck, I spotted Tom, Nick and Francesca lounging at the shore. But no Sage. Or Vince, for that matter. Jesus, she must have had a good time last night. Or was still having a good time, I thought, wondering if they were going to spend the whole day in bed. Still, I checked my cell phone, just to make sure she hadn’t left any messages that might indicate when she might be home. I only found one message. From Jeff. And though it was a sweet little message about what a nice time he’d had last week, I opted not to call him back. Not yet. I wasn’t sure whether it was because I no longer trusted anyone in law enforcement to help me get to the truth about wha
t happened that night, or because I no longer believed Jeff to be more than a passing fancy, someone to bridge a small gap between Myles…and whoever came next.

  Now that was a depressing thought. And since I didn’t have time to be depressed, I fixed myself an egg-salad sandwich, then killed an afternoon reviewing my footage of the Fourth of July party, finally seeing Tom’s drunken display for what I now suspected it was: the beginnings of grief. And I saw Donnie’s endless sobs on the back deck as the pathetic attempts of a man whose ass I hoped to nail to the wall in a few short hours.

  I was already seated on a bench just before the dock as the four o’clock sun rose into the sky, and I spotted Chad immediately at the other end, securing a boat into one of the slips.

  “Hi,” I said, approaching him as he pulled the rope tight and stood to study his handiwork.

  He looked up, startled. Then a smile touched his golden-tan features as he slid his sunglasses to the top of his head. He was even cuter close up. No wonder Sage had been so put out when Chad wouldn’t put out.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “I’m hoping you can. Name’s Zoe Keller,” I said, holding out a hand.

  As he shook it, I briefly considered telling him I was a friend of Sage’s, but I wasn’t sure what kind of reaction I’d get with that, considering what had happened—or not happened—between them that night. “What can I do for you?” he asked.

  “I’m thinking about getting a boat, and I’m wondering if you could tell me how the docks work here. Do I have to sign up for a slip or—”

  “Oh, yeah,” he said.“Quite a little waiting list, too, if you want a private slip. We’re talking at least a year.”

  “Is that right?” I replied. “So what would I do in the meantime, if I wanted to dock here for the weekend?”

  “Well, we do have weekend rentals. Also nightly rentals, for customers of The Inn or The Out. That would be the slips right in front of the market there,” he said, pointing to the dock where Donnie’s boat sat. “Private slips are over on the other side of the dock. By the hotel,” he said, gesturing to the hotel at the far end of the dock.