“May I?”
“Yes, of course.”
She slips the bracelet out of the glassine evidence bag and takes a seat. “Would you mind helping me with the clasp? I’m a little shaky today. Haven’t been able to eat all morning.”
“Happy to.” I sit beside her and lean in, joining the two ends of the clasp around her fine, blue-veined wrist.
When I finish, she runs a finger across it. “It must have fallen off when I was wrestling with Jasper this morning,” she says quietly. “I was looking for it everywhere. I was worried it went down the sink. The chain is getting old. It was a gift from my mother, just before she died. I’ve never taken it off. I’m so grateful to have it back.”
“It must’ve been very upsetting for you. This morning, I mean.”
Her face clouds over. “It was awful. Jasper’s a hunting dog. Or at least, I think he is. He was a rescue. He reminds me of the coonhounds we had back in Texas. Long legs, great nose. Up to no good if you don’t train them right.”
“You grew up in Texas?”
“I did. On an old ranch south of San Antonio. My daddy was an oilman. Loved to hunt. I shot trap from the time I was six. Now I shoot at the Mattituck Gun Club. Do you know it?”
“I know it well,” I say, surprised. You don’t see a lot of Bentleys parked in the Mattituck Gun Club’s lot. Mostly it’s SUVs or pickups, like my father’s. It’s a locals’ spot, frequented by cops and firemen and farmers. “I learned to shoot there.”
“How old were you?”
“Young. Six or seven, maybe.”
Grace nods approvingly. “My daddy always said a girl had to know how to protect herself in this world.”
“Smart man.”
“Between us, I like it a lot more than any of the stuffy country clubs we belong to.”
“Do you take Jasper hunting?”
“Oh heavens, no. I don’t believe in shooting birds or deer. It’s cruel to kill a helpless thing. Just clay pigeons. I like to birdwatch, too. There’s some terrific birdwatching out here on Long Island, especially when the migration starts. What did you ask me? Oh, Jasper. Right. I’m sorry. I’m scattered today. I do think someone taught him to retrieve. He’s always darting off, getting into things. He’ll come back with dead birds—once he even brought back a dead turtle! God, that smell was just awful, you can’t imagine. He left it on the doorstep, proud as can be. It’s his way of saying thank you, I think. He was just a pile of bones when I took him in. In the off-season, I let him off the leash on the beach. He likes the exercise. When I saw him digging, I just thought . . .” She lets out a deep, shuddering breath. “I shouldn’t have let him up there. I know you’re not supposed to. I mean, for God’s sake, I’m on the board of the Preservation Society. I helped them put up the damn fence!”
“If you hadn’t let him up there, we might never have found that girl’s body.”
She shakes her head. “Only an animal would do something like that. I hope you find him.”
“We will.”
“Do you work for the police department?”
“I’m with the FBI. I’m consulting on this case.”
Grace’s face relaxes. “Oh, good. I’m glad they brought you in. Please don’t repeat this, but I don’t have much faith in the police out here.”
“What makes you say that?”
“There was a similar case last summer. Young girl. Shot clean between the eyes with a .22 and then cut up. Her body was wrapped in burlap, just like this one.”
“The Pine Barrens case.”
“Yes. I think some hikers found her. Can you imagine? What a surprise that must have been, all the way out in the middle of nowhere. I’ll tell you, this morning gave me the fright of my life. At least I was close to home. Ran all the way back, dragging Jasper most of the way.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“They never did solve that case. I’m not sure they bothered to try.”
I’m tempted to interject. To defend my father in some way or perhaps, at least, assure her that someone cared. I bite my tongue and nod politely. “Did you follow it?”
“I did a bit. The girl was left on a tract of land that the Preservation Society was restoring after a forest fire. An officer came to talk to me about Alfonso Morales. He’s a landscaper who works for the Preservation Society. I told the officer he had the wrong man. Alfonso is a decent person. Humble. Hardworking. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“You know Mr. Morales personally?”
“Well enough. I hired him. He works for me here on occasion.” She gestures at the lawn and gardens beyond the edge of the porch.
“The Preservation Society was involved in the dune restoration out in Shinnecock County Park, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. I spent a year raising money for that project and then another year convincing the Town of Southampton to let us do it. You’d be surprised how much pushback you can get from local government, even when you’re doing something that benefits the whole community.” She sighs and leans back against the sofa cushions, like the idea of the project still exhausts her.
“What does dune restoration entail?”
“Well, it’s more complex than it sounds. Sand dunes are fragile ecosystems. They provide habitats to highly specialized fauna and flora. The vegetation that grows there has adapted to a rather brutal way of life. Changing temperatures. A moving substrate.” She stops herself, blushing. “I’m sorry. This is terribly technical, isn’t it?”
“I like technical answers.”
“I’ve been studying this for years. It’s so important to me, I sometimes forget that not everyone wants to be versed in coastal ecology.”
“That’s how I feel about serial killers.”
Grace lets out a surprised laugh. “You know what amazes me? How boring most women allow themselves to become. I go to a lot of cocktail parties out here. And the wives, they all went to Harvard and Yale and Stanford. And then they marry a hedge fund manager and have children, and it’s like they’ve been lobotomized. All they want to talk about is tennis tournaments and interior design. You’re different. It’s refreshing.”
“As are you.”
“Well, yes. I suppose I am. But I wasn’t able to have children. I had to find other things to nurture.”
“I’m sorry.” I frown, embarrassed to have wandered into such personal territory.
She waves me off. “Oh, it’s all right, I’m very open about it. So is Eliot. One of the things we agreed on, when we finally realized it wasn’t going to happen for us, was that we would make our lives meaningful in other ways.”
“Your conservation work is meaningful.”
“It keeps me busy. What Eliot does, that’s the important stuff.”
“He’s the Secretary of the Treasury?”
“Yes. He retired from finance a few years ago. He wanted to give back. It’s a bit of a challenge, him being in DC so much. But we’re making it work. I wish he was here now, though.” She stares off at the lawn, and I notice her chin tremble.
“When did the dune restoration begin?” I ask, trying to get us back on track.
“The town finally agreed to close the park at the end of June. They balked about it at first—summer is the high season, you know—but we convinced them. Everyone kicks and screams when we limit their usage of parkland, but humans do so much damage.” Her face darkens. She looks as if she might cry.
“They really do, don’t they?” I say gently.
“They don’t even realize they’re doing it. It goes beyond litter and bonfires. I suppose I’m part of the problem. I let Jasper run loose there when I shouldn’t’ve. Of all people, I should know better.” She covers her face with her hands and sniffs.
I give her a second. “Did Mr. Morales work on the restoration in the park?”
“Yes. I can get a list for y
ou, if you like. Of everyone who worked on that site.”
“That would be helpful, thank you.”
“Do you happen to know if Mr. Morales worked for James Meachem?”
She winces, looking momentarily pained. “I know he does, in fact. We share a boundary line with Mr. Meachem. I suggested perhaps we plant some trees along it, to give us both more privacy. Alfonso and his crew took care of that. I believe Mr. Meachem hired them to work on the rest of his property as well.”
“Mr. Morales isn’t here now, is he?”
“No, no. I just bring him in during the summer, when I need extra help. In the off-season, he works at one of the nurseries on the North Fork.”
“Do you know which one?”
Grace hesitates. She blinks, looks down at her hands. I’m certain she knows, but she doesn’t want to get him in trouble. “I can’t remember now.”
“That’s okay. You don’t happen to know where Mr. Meachem is, do you?”
“He isn’t here. He comes and goes.”
“He must have staff, then. To care for the house while he’s out of town?”
“I imagine he does. With a house that size, one really must. But I don’t really know. I’ve never been over there.” I catch a faint whiff of disdain in her voice.
“Have you met him?”
“I have. But we don’t socialize. There’s a reason I planted trees between us.”
“Why do you say that?”
Grace’s jaw flexes almost imperceptibly. “He has parties. They go on for days sometimes. The noise is unbearable. Very high-profile men attend. Politicians, CEOs. And there are girls. Beautiful. And young. Apparently, that’s his thing.”
“He entertains young girls?”
She arches her brow. “I think they’re entertaining him.”
“I see.”
“We have a house down in Palm Beach. He has a reputation down there, too. Ask around. You’ll hear stories. Rich as he is, they won’t let him into any of the clubs. Not here, and not down there. Because of his—how shall I say it—proclivities.”
“Have you ever called the police? About his parties, I mean.”
“Oh, the police won’t do anything.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Everyone out here knows about him. Including the police. And they just turn a blind eye. He’s a powerful man. He has powerful friends. Down in Palm Beach, people whisper that he has the commissioner on his payroll. And he has all sorts of people at his parties. Judges, senators. People who can stop investigations if they want to.”
“And out here? Do you think he has friends in the police department?”
“Between us?”
“Of course.”
“I’m certain of it.”
I hear footsteps on the driveway. I turn and see Lee making his way toward us.
“That’s Detective Davis,” I tell Grace. “Have you met him?”
“Briefly, this morning.”
She stands, the mood broken. Her lips form a tight smile. “Hello again, Detective. Thank you for returning my bracelet.”
“Of course. Sorry to interrupt.”
“You’re not. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“No, ma’am. I was just coming to get Agent Flynn.” He taps his watch. I glance down and realize it’s almost two o’clock. Howard will be dropping by any minute, if he isn’t there already.
“Thank you for your time, Mrs. Bishop,” I say, hopping up. I extend my hand and she grasps it, giving it a firm shake. “You’ve been very helpful.”
“Anything I can do. Remember what I said. Call me if you have any questions. I’m happy to help with the investigation in any way I can.”
“I will. Thank you.”
As I follow Lee down the Bishops’ driveway, I can feel Grace watching us from the porch.
6.
Howard Kidd is waiting for me on the front steps of the house.
He holds a briefcase in one hand. The afternoon sunlight glints off the top of his head. The tip of his nose is red from the cold, and he hunches inside his Barbour coat, the collar flipped up to keep him warm. He looks worried, like a kid whose mother has forgotten to pick him up at a birthday party. I wonder how long I’ve kept him waiting. When he sees us pull into the driveway, he gives us a big, relieved wave.
“There are moments,” Lee says as he pulls the car to a stop, “when I’m grateful I never practiced law.”
I snort. “Oh, poor Howie. I’m sure there are some highlights of his job.”
“His job is about death and taxes. And watching families fight over money.”
“Well, the good news here is that there isn’t any.”
“Money? Or family?”
“Either.” I open the car door and hop out onto the gravel. “Talk later?”
“Sure. I’ll call you. Thanks for your help this morning, Nell.”
“No problem.” I watch Lee pull into reverse and back out onto Dune Road. I wonder if I did, in fact, help with anything. It’s possible I just complicated the case further. I may not hear from Lee Davis again. The thought deflates me a little.
I turn to Howard and feign a smile. I’m not in the mood to talk to him—to anyone, really—but I’ve put this off long enough. “Come on inside. Can I get you some coffee? Hot tea?”
“Tea would be nice. Thanks.”
“Got cold all of a sudden, huh?”
“Yeah. Fall sneaks up on you out here.”
“Sure does.”
I put my key into the rusted lock and jiggle it, fighting with the door until it opens. Howard follows me into the house. I’m suddenly acutely aware of how dusty it is, how in need of repair. Dad was always spartan in his tastes, but he was compulsively neat, too. He could fix anything and did. It wasn’t always pretty, but the house was functional and organized. At least, that’s how I remember it.
My mother, more of a free spirit, was content to live with clutter. She would break out paints and brushes and unspool a giant roll of paper across the living room floor. She would play music and we would paint, neither of us caring if we dripped on the wood, on our hands, on our clothes. She cooked that way, too: lots of bowls and mess, flour on the floor, the kitchen alive with the scent of baking bread in the oven and the tang of chilaquiles on the stove. She would hum while she worked, she would taste things straight from the pot, spoon to mouth. I would sit at her feet spinning leaves in a salad bowl or sorting spices by color on the rack.
They fought often about the mess. My father liked to come home to a clean, quiet house. My mother argued that she was not running a military base, she was trying to raise a child. She wanted me to color and spill, to cook and make forts out of blankets and couch cushions without worrying about what it did to the furniture. At night, when they thought I was sleeping, I would creep out of my bed and sit at the top of the stairs and listen to them argue. I felt horribly guilty. I was my mother’s co-conspirator, after all. I knew that she often napped with me when she could’ve been doing the laundry, because I slept better when curled up in her arms, and that she let me stay longer at the beach or park instead of rushing home to make dinner, just to make me happy. These were our secrets. She’d never tell. My father’s ire was reserved for her and her alone. Sometimes after they fought, he would bang out of the house and I would hear the buzz of his motorcycle fade in the night air. Other times, they would open a bottle of wine, turn on music, and dance, her head resting gently against his chest. I told myself that this was love. It was as messy and imperfect as the house my mother kept. It was an uneasy marriage, but a passionate one. It wasn’t until I was in high school that I realized marriages weren’t all this way. I couldn’t picture Tom Street’s parents fighting the way mine did. I couldn’t imagine them dancing barefoot, either. They were always polite to each other, more like business partners
than lovers. I wasn’t sure which kind of marriage was worse.
After my mother died, the paints disappeared. So did the baking supplies. My toys were collected from the living room floor and put in baskets in my room. It was clear to me that this was where they were meant to stay. There wasn’t music in our house anymore. My mother’s clothes vanished from her closet. My memories of her began to fade, at an alarmingly fast rate. I searched the house for traces of her—in the medicine cabinet, in the crawl space below the kitchen—but found nothing. She would come back to me only in snatches: I would smell her perfume on a woman at a party or catch a whiff of empanadas baking at a restaurant and I’d think of her. I’d see a woman in a bright red bathing suit at the beach and feel a physical pang, as though my mother was a phantom limb. My father never spoke of her and I never dared ask. Our house was stripped clean of her existence, except for the urn with her ashes in the closet. The house took on my father’s character: practical, organized, precise. My mother simply evaporated, as though she’d never lived there at all.
Something slipped. I don’t know when. Maybe it happened in the weeks before his death; maybe he’d been living like this for the last ten years. My father never really had company, so it’s possible that the house just slowly, quietly decayed around him. Did he not see the cracks spreading in the walls, the film building up on the windows? There’s so much dust in the air that you can see suspended particles of it floating in patches of sunlight. Piles of clutter have accumulated, too. Nothing, perhaps, that Howard would notice. But I notice. I would have thought Dad would’ve, too. The stack of old newspapers in the corner would’ve bothered him; so would the cache of unopened bills on the kitchen counter. It all feels unlike him, the man who used to make his bed so tightly each morning that sometimes I wondered if he had slept in it at all.
“Sorry about the mess,” I mumble, and hurry toward the kitchen to put the teapot on the stove. “I know it’s cold in here. I can get a fire going. The boiler’s not in the best shape.”
“The tea is just fine.”
“Take a seat wherever you like.”
Howard looks around and settles on an armchair. As I dig a box of tea out of the cabinet, he unsnaps the buckle on his briefcase. From it, he removes a stack of papers, and then another, and another. He lines them up neatly on the coffee table. Most of them are flagged in multiple places, presumably where I need to sign or initial something. For a man who died with no family, no substantial assets but for this house, and what I imagine is a clean debt record, my father sure did leave a lot of paperwork.
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