To Coach a Killer

by Victoria Laurie

  There was a pause, then, “He was amazing. He picked up on my grandfather. It freaked me out at first but it was also really, really cool.”

  I relaxed, hearing Willem ease into a more casual conversational tone. Mentioning Heath had been the right move. “So, I also talked to Heath, and he says that he was able to detect that something has definitely attached itself to you, Willem.”

  “He told me that too. It’s a relief to know that someone else can validate it for me.”

  “I’m sure. Did Heath also mention the plan he came up with to break the curse?”

  There was a pause, then, “No. No he didn’t. What plan?”

  “Heath thinks that the curse attached to you isn’t especially powerful. And because it’s not strong enough to incite its own trouble, it has to go looking for things to muck with. So, when you came here to my office, it probably had to search the whole building before it found the unattended toaster.”

  “Again, I’m so sorry about that. I should have given you fair warning before coming to meet you.”

  “Willem, please don’t continue to feel guilty about my tenant’s irresponsible actions—who’s to say that his toaster wouldn’t have started smoking on some other day that you weren’t here and he went for coffee. There was no lasting damage, and he learned a valuable lesson.”

  Willem sighed. “It’s never my intention to cause harm,” he said.

  My heart went out to him. “Which is why we need to mount a campaign against this curse. You should be able to get out in the world without fear of causing or exacerbating havoc. Which is also why Heath’s solution is actually quite brilliant.”

  “What is that specifically?” he asked.

  “He suggested that we push the limits of your curse by getting you out into the world, to places you’ve never been, but also places that are wide open, away from crowds or big buildings where there’re ample opportunities for this curse to wreak its havoc.”

  “Like . . . where, exactly?”

  “Well,” I said, taking a moment to think. “Have you ever gone to the public beach?”

  “My grandparents dragged me to the beach when I was little. It was during a heat wave.”

  “Did anything happen?”

  “Plenty. Two surfers collided right in front of us, one of them almost drowned, and the ambulance that came to take away the victim crashed into another car.”

  “Oh, my,” I said. “Which beach was that?”

  “I think it was the one here in Amagansett near our home. The one next to the tennis courts.”

  I pictured the area that Willem was describing and, as I’d taken the boys on a Hamptons’ beach tour the previous summer, I was fairly familiar with all the beaches in the area. “I believe you’re talking about the Ocean Colony beach,” I said.

  “That’s the one.”

  “All right, so we won’t go there, because the curse has already been there and done that. You say you live in Amagansett?”

  “Yes.”

  Amagansett was to the east. It was an extremely pricey part of the Hamptons. “Have you ever been to Indian Wells beach?” On my tour with the boys, that had been a particular favorite of mine.

  “No,” he said. “But, Catherine, didn’t you hear what I said? The last time I went to a public beach a man nearly drowned and the curse caused a car crash. It was madness.”

  “And you also said it’d been during a heat wave. Willem, it’s the second of April. No one’s going to be at the beach right now. Well, maybe an odd jogger or two, but no one will be swimming in the forty-two-degree water. It’s hard enough to dip one’s toe in even when it’s early August and the water temp peaks at sixty-eight degrees.” And I knew that from experience. “Trust me. The beach will be all but abandoned, and we’ll frustrate that curse right off you!”

  I felt far less enthusiastic than I sounded, but that’s part of being an effective life coach.

  Willem took a moment to consider my argument. Finally, he said, “All right. I’ll give it a shot. But if anyone gets hurt, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I said, ignoring the sinking feeling resonating in my gut. My sister would’ve chastised me for ignoring that visceral feeling, but she’d been known to ignore her own intuition on an occasion . . . or twenty.

  “When did you want to do this?” Willem asked.

  “Let’s say tomorrow at one o’clock. We’ll meet at the east end of Indian Wells beach, parking area B.” That was a section that was smaller than the main part of the beach, and if I remembered correctly, there was a lovely picnic table setup at the top of a fairly steep hill where we could sit in a large, open area and drive the curse mad.

  After hanging up with Willem, I filled Gilley in on the details of the call.

  “Hold on,” he said. “Willem’s been to a public beach and his curse caused a man to almost drown and the ambulance on scene to then crash?”

  I waved dismissively. “It didn’t sound like there was any lasting damage. Besides, Willem went with his grandparents when the beach was super crowded. I’m sure no one will even be there tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be there tomorrow!” Gilley protested.

  I frowned at him. “We both need to go to support Willem, Gilley. Especially since I’m sure it’s a terrifying prospect for him.”

  “He’s not the only one who’ll be terrified,” he muttered.

  I growled, audibly, crossed my arms, and glared hard at Gilley. I wouldn’t stand for having him bring these pesky concerns with him to the beach tomorrow.

  For his part, Gilley visibly shrank in his seat. “It’s just that . . .”

  I cocked an eyebrow.

  “I mean, why do we have to . . . ?”

  I started tapping my arm with my forefinger.

  Gilley sighed dramatically. “Fine. But if I get dragged out to sea tomorrow by some random rogue wave, I hope you at least feel guilty.”

  “I’ll try,” I said, rolling my eyes and unfolding my arms. Deciding to change the subject, I asked, “How’s it going with the lead generation on Lenny’s case?”

  Gilley perked up a bit. “I found Lenny’s partner, Chanel Downey.”

  “What do you mean you found her? Isn’t she in Connecticut?”

  “She is, but that’s a big state and Chanel hasn’t exactly been active on social media since Lenny’s murder. Tracking her down was a pain in the butt.”

  I smirked. “Isn’t she still in real estate?”

  “Not as far as I can tell, which is what made finding her so hard. I can’t seem to find any employment for her at all. So, if she’s earning money, it’s off the books.”

  That made me frown. “Why would Chanel be living off the books?”

  “Beats me. I’m just happy I found her. She’s living with her grandaunt.”

  “How did you find her?” I asked next.

  Gilley got up and brought over his laptop. Swiveling the screen to me, he showed me what looked like newspaper copy. “It’s an obituary for Erma Janssen, Chanel’s grandmother. She passed away six months ago, and she’s survived by her daughter, Iris Downey, who lives in Singapore with her husband, Jack Downey, Erma’s granddaughter, Chanel Downey, and Erma’s sister, Miranda, who, and I quote, ‘. . . provided a lovely home for the final years of Erma’s life.’ ”

  My brow furrowed. “Okay,” I said. “How does that suggest that Chanel is living with her grandaunt?”

  “I found an address for Miranda. She lives in a four-bed, five-bath home in New Canaan worth just under a million.”

  “Go, Miranda,” I said. “Still, the obituary mentions that Miranda lived with Erma. It doesn’t mention that she lives with Chanel.”

  Gilley wiggled his finger along the mouse pad and clicked to a different window, displaying the Facebook page of an elderly woman with tight curly white hair. Her cover photo was a snapshot of four bright white West Highland terriers. “Miranda breeds Westies. Her Facebook page has forty-two public p
osts, forty-one of which are about the pups, but the forty-second from three months ago says, and I quote, ‘Still so heartbroken over losing Erma. Thank goodness my grandniece is here to offer me good company and good comfort in these sad times.’ ”

  My brow rose. “Chanel’s there.”

  “That’d be my guess.”

  I squeezed Gilley’s arm. “Good sleuthing, Detective Gillespie!”

  Gil blushed, and then he curtsied. “It’s what I does,” he said with a wink. He then went over to his desk and came back with a slip of paper that he handed me. “All the numbers that were listed under Chanel’s name when she lived here in East Hampton have been disconnected, but I did manage to track down the home phone for Miss Miranda. Maybe you could call her and ask to speak to her grandniece.”

  I took the paper. “What would I say, exactly?”

  “To Chanel?”

  “No, Miranda. How do I introduce myself?”

  “Good question. You could say that you’re looking to list your house and you need a Realtor.”

  “But you said Chanel isn’t practicing real estate anymore.”

  Gilley frowned and pursed his lips. “Hmmm, okay, how about you’re a friend from college?”

  “I like that,” I said. “Yes, I could pass myself off as her roommate or something.”

  “I wouldn’t make it so personal,” Gilley said. “Maybe you’re just a friend from college, trying to locate people for a reunion or something like that.”

  “Oooo, that’s better. Okay, I’ll go with that story. Now help me decide what to say to Chanel once I get her on the phone.”

  “Ugh,” Gilley said, making a face. “That is definitely the harder nut to crack.”

  We both thought in silence for a few moments before Gilley said, “How about you simply go with the truth?”

  “That I’m sticking my nose into an open police investigation?”

  “Maybe not that directly, but not far off from that either. Just tell her that you’re a friend of Shepherd’s and you’re trying to dig up a new angle to solve his ex-wife’s murder. She might appreciate your honesty and tell you anything she knows.”

  “As long as she didn’t have a hand in it,” I said.

  “Yes. As long as she didn’t hire Greta to kill Lenny.”

  “Okay, I’ll go for the honest route.”

  “Great. While you’re going with that, mind if I go for coffee?”

  “Knock yourself out,” I said.

  Gilley bent to air-kiss my cheek, then he bounced his way over to the door like Tigger. “The usual for you?” he asked as he was halfway through the door.

  “Yes, please.”

  Gilley left and I took a deep breath, hovered my finger over the touch pad of my phone for a moment, then punched in the number he’d given me and held the phone to my ear.

  A woman answered on the third ring—and I couldn’t tell initially if the voice sounded old or young. “Hello?”

  “Hello! Is this Chanel?”

  “No. This is her Auntie Miranda. Who’s calling, please?” The elderly woman sounded guarded. “Hello, Miranda, my name is Catherine. I’m a former classmate of Chanel’s.”

  “At Brown?”

  My brow rose. Chanel went to Brown? That meant she was smart. “Yes! At Brown.”

  “Oh! Were you two in the Kappa Gama together?”

  And Chanel was a sorority girl . . . interesting. “You got me,” I said with a laugh. “I’m a Gama girl all the way. Anyway, I was in the area on business and I was hoping to connect with Chanel. You wouldn’t happen to know how I could reach her, would you?”

  “Well, I could give you her cell number, but she’s moved out of state again.”

  I was about to ask where when a doorbell chimed in the background, and what sounded like a whole pack of yappy dogs began making a lot of noise. “Oh, drat. Someone’s at the door. Can you call back?”

  “Uh . . . of course. Yes. Absolutely,” I said. “When would be a good time to—”

  “Bye-bye,” she said abruptly, and all but hung up on me.

  I put the phone down and drummed my fingers on the arm of the sofa. I waited five minutes, then tried the number. It rang, and rang, and rang. It never went to voice mail or an answering machine, and I assumed Miranda was still busy with whomever was at the door.

  With a sigh I resigned myself to call her in an hour or so, and set aside my phone just as Gilley showed up at the front door with a coffee cup in each hand and a pastry bag dangling from his mouth.

  I got up quickly to rush over to the door to let him in, lest he spill the coffee all over himself with the effort of getting in the door. I also took the pastry bag from him and set it on his desk.

  “How’d it go?” he asked as he entered.

  “You mean with the call?” Gilley nodded and handed me one of the coffees. “Miranda answered. She bought my story of being one of Chanel’s sorority friends, but she had to answer the door and told me to call back.”

  “Did you?” Gil asked, taking a seat at his desk and pulling his laptop close.

  “Yes, but now she’s not answering my call. I think she’s busy with whoever’s at the door.”

  “Could be . . .” Gilley said, but he didn’t look convinced.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Or, it could be that she’s figured out you’re not Chanel’s friend but some snoop like a bill collector and she’s now dodging your call.”

  “A bill collector?”

  Gilley shrugged one shoulder as he took a sip of his coffee. “Chanel isn’t working, as far as I can tell. She might have money trouble.”

  “Darn it,” I said. “Let’s hope it’s not that. Oh! But Miranda did tell me that Chanel had moved out of state again.”

  “She did?”

  I nodded.

  Gilley frowned. He’d done such a good job of sleuthing that it obviously annoyed him to be thrown a new curve. “If you can’t get ahold of the aunt again, let me know and I’ll keep digging to try and find Chanel.”

  “I will, thank you, Gilley. I know you’ve been working hard on locating her all morning.”

  “That’s not all I’ve been digging up,” he said. “I also found out who bought the murder house.”

  “Where Lenny was killed?”

  “Yep.”

  “Who?”

  “It’s a couple. Paul and Jason Sutton. They own an art gallery that used to be in the city, but they moved it here to East Hampton shortly after buying that house.”

  “Hmmm,” I said. “That explains the easel we saw in the window.”

  “It does.”

  And then I had another thought. “They own a gallery here in town?”

  Gilley pointed out the large picture window and to his left. “The Eastwater Gallery. It’s around the corner from the Starbucks on Newtown. We could walk there.”

  I looked in the direction he was pointing, thinking I’d probably driven past that gallery dozens of times. “You know, I have a friend who’s an art dealer in Boston. His gallery is where I got most of the artwork for Chez Cat. He’s been very frank with me over how difficult it is to make a living selling art, because it’s so competitive among gallery owners. I remember how surprised I was that he owned such a seemingly successful gallery, and yet lived in a very modest house.”

  “What’s your point?” Gilley asked me.

  I stared out the window in the direction of the Eastwater Gallery. “The murder house couldn’t have been a modest purchase. Not in that neighborhood. And the property taxes every year . . . also not cheap.”

  “Huh,” Gil said. “Still, I bet they might do better than most gallery owners—their art sells to the one percent of the one percent club.”

  “True,” I agreed. “Lots of massive homes around here with lots of wall space for expensive art.” And then something else occurred to me. “You know, I read an article in the Post not too long ago that art sales are a fairly easy and effective way for the mob to launder money
.”

  Gilley nodded. “I could see that. It’d be no different than hiding money through renovation costs. I mean, what auditor is going to argue about whether you spent twenty thousand on a piece of artwork or two million? Both are feasible.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “And you know what else I heard?”

  “What?”

  “I heard that East Hampton has more than its fair share of mafia personnel in residence.”

  Gilley stared at me, squinting his eyes suspiciously. “Where’d you hear that?”

  I avoided eye contact, pinning my gaze on the lid of my coffee. “Around.”

  “By ‘around’ are you talking Maks Grinkov?”

  I looked up again. “Does it really matter?”

  Gilley shrugged. “I suppose that, overall, it doesn’t, but what hurts me is that I know you’re hiding something from me about Maks’s involvement in all this, Cat, and you don’t trust me enough to let me in on it.”

  I bit my lip. Keeping secrets from Gilley was very hard. There were times when I knew I couldn’t trust him to keep his mouth shut, and other times when I believed he’d take the information to his grave, but it was difficult to know when I could trust him with absolute secrecy, and when I couldn’t.

  Still, looking at his pained expression, I gave in, but only a little. “Maks has connections that could be considered . . . sticky, Gilley. He knows things that, if they were to reach the wrong ears, could put him in a dangerous situation, and he’s asked me to keep his trust, and I told him I would.”

  “Maks works for the mob,” Gilley said flatly, and there was such a note of disappointment in his voice.

  “No,” I replied, making sure to look Gilley in the eye so that he’d know I was telling the truth. “His work is more like . . . mob adjacent.”

  “Well, I hope that when the indictments come down, a jury sees adjacent as separate.”

  “He’ll be fine. He’s protected,” I said firmly. “You have to trust me on that.”

  And then something seemed to click for Gilley, and understanding blossomed in his expression. He looked like he was about to comment when I cut him off.

  Clearing my throat, I pointed to Gilley’s computer. “These two men, the Suttons. Is there a way to find out anything more about them? Like, if they were in town the day Lenny was murdered?”