Girlfriend was planted next to her, lying against her butt, on top of the expensive multithread cotton sheets Henry had in his guest room. Sabrina was surprised by how well she had slept, collapsing into bed after a quick shower. She reminded herself about what Neil had said. There was no reason she shouldn’t sleep well. She had done nothing other than to find a dead body. This wasn’t Nantucket.
Sleep had restored her strong sense of logic. Because she was short on guidance, Sabrina had spent her whole life relying on her ability to think things through. Reclining on the guest bed, which was more comfortable than hers at the cottage, she took inventory of the events from yesterday. First, Carter Johnson had been fatally shot sometime before 10:35 a.m. when she’d arrived to clean the villa. Second, Evan and Lyla had not been home, nor had Mara and the children. Third, Rory Eagan had come out of his home to complain to the police in the afternoon, but how long had he been at home? Where had he been that morning?
No, this wasn’t Nantucket, Sabrina saw. Neil was right. She didn’t have to become a victim here. She had shot Ben, who was her husband. She had been arrested. Their personal relationship had provided the prosecutor with a motive. But she hadn’t shot Carter, didn’t really know him, and would make sure no one uncovered any information to the contrary.
Sabrina found her backpack on the chair where she had plopped it the night before and took out a black jersey tank dress, fresh underwear, and black flip-flops. She always kept these essentials packed to change into for her trips to the ferry when she met and greeted guests. Even though St. John was very casual, Henry had reminded her she needed to look the tropical version of professional for their guests. She owned six dresses identical to this one for just that purpose. After being dressed by the chic shops on Newbury Street in Boston for television, Sabrina relished the simplicity of her wardrobe in St. John.
Her stomach growled, reminding her she had eaten only a handful of onion rings and conch fritters the day before. She found her way to Henry’s sleek, stunning kitchen, which was done in black and white, as was every room in his condo.
“No more ambiguity or ambivalence for this guy,” he’d told her. “I want to know where I stand. Black or white, no gray.” Poor guy was still scarred by a man who had each foot in a different world and had decided not to join Henry’s.
Sabrina opened the fridge, praying for leftovers. She wanted meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and macaroni and cheese. She wanted Ruth.
Staring at several containers of yogurt, she shut the door and rested her forehead against the cool stainless steel door. She still missed Ruth more than twenty years after her death. Sabrina wanted to be back in the diner, eating spaghetti and meatballs, her homework spread out on the table next to her plate, listening to thunder roar over the ocean in the distance. When she was growing up, all she could think about was getting out of Allerton. Now she dreamed of returning.
She was attempting to figure out how to use the European coffee maker, which required a three-credit course to understand, when Sabrina heard Henry behind her. Girlfriend’s footsteps followed his.
“Here, let me do that,” he said. She stepped aside and gave Girlfriend a pat. Sabrina found it funny that Girlfriend would sleep in some mornings after she’d gotten up. She admired her independence.
“Thanks,” Sabrina said, noticing how Henry looked as crisp as white sheets hanging on a clothesline in pressed khaki shorts and a white T-shirt.
“Honey, you have to do something with that hair,” he said, scooping coffee out of a bag he’d taken out of the freezer.
“I’ll put it up, under a hat,” she said defensively. She had planned to wear a big sunhat, under which she would tuck her black natural curls, and dark glasses when she went with Neil to the police station.
Henry took Girlfriend for a stroll while Sabrina fixed her hair. They decided Girlfriend should stay at Henry’s today rather than go with them and draw attention. Sabrina wanted to avoid the media as much as possible.
Sabrina and Henry synced their phones, which Henry had charging on the counter with their laptops. They were joined at the hip electronically so that Ten Villas was as organized as you could be on an island where power outages were as common as morning showers.
“It’s pool day,” Sabrina said, looking at the calendar on her phone as she got into the car Henry had borrowed from one of his neighbor’s villas. They would be far less visible in a vehicle that was not gaudy gecko green and without Ten Villas etched on its doors.
“Pool day!” they both said simultaneously. It was pool day, Sabrina realized, everywhere except for Villa Mascarpone, which was on a different schedule because their pool guy had done the Banks’ pool across the road the day before. Seth should have done Villa Mascarpone yesterday.
“Do you think he went out there?” Sabrina asked Henry.
“I have no clue,” he said.
“I didn’t notice if the pool was done,” Sabrina said, feeling like she had screwed up.
“Of course you didn’t notice. You’d found a dead body, for goodness’ sake.”
“This complicates things,” she said. She just wanted everything that had happened yesterday to be deleted with a simple push of a key.
“Well, maybe, but it may make things easier for you, Sabrina. You may not have been the last person to see Carter Johnson alive,” Henry said.
Sabrina felt a rush of relief, followed by a short shot of shame. Their pool guy, Seth Larson, was really just a kid, probably in his early twenties. She shouldn’t wish the police on him.
Henry drove to the back of Bar None and got out, letting Neil Perry into the driver’s seat as they had prearranged. Neil looked over at Sabrina in her large brimmed straw hat trimmed with black ribbon and large sunglasses.
“Very Audrey Hepburn. I like.”
“Our pool guy Seth Larson may have been at Villa Mascarpone yesterday morning,” she said, not wanting to waste time during the two-block ride to the police station.
“Really?”
“I don’t want to get him in trouble. He’s just a kid,” she added quickly. “And don’t forget, Rory Eagan was just next door.”
“It dilutes their theory, Salty. It doesn’t mean the kid did anything. It just means they can’t say you were the only one with the opportunity,” he said, pulling into a parking lot for a small trucking company located behind the police station. They’d have to climb over a cinderblock fence to get to the back of the police station, but that was far more preferable to risking being seen entering the front door.
“I want you to say as little as possible when we’re in the station. I wouldn’t bring up this Seth business unless they ask about it. You don’t want to sound desperate to pin it on someone else. That could make you sound guilty. Just tell them what we went over last night. You do remember last night, don’t you?”
“Of course I remember,” she said, sounding indignant. Arrogance must be a required course in law school, she decided, and Neil Perry had probably gotten an A. Sabrina noticed he had put on a shirt with a collar and some boat shoes for the occasion, which redeemed him a little.
Neil gave her a hand so she could follow him up over the three-foot wall onto the asphalt lot at the rear of the police station. Sabrina found the roughness of his hand on hers oddly comforting. She wasn’t looking forward to being interviewed by Janquar.
They walked to the back door of the police station where Neil knocked three times. The door opened, and a young woman said, “Come in quick.” Her nametag told them she was none other than Officer Detree, with whom Sabrina had spoken the day before.
Detree ushered them down a cool corridor into a windowless room with a table and six chairs. Sabrina could hear the hum of computers and printers in the background. The air conditioning was on so high that she wished she had a jacket.
Neil and Sabrina sat next to each other, waiting for Detective Janquar. She knew not to say anything private. He had warned her that cops often make witnesses wait so they can
eavesdrop on conversations.
“So how’d you end up with your name, Salty?” Neil asked, filling the air.
“That’s not my name and you know it.”
“No, no. Sabrina. How’d you end up with a name like that?”
“It’s from a movie,” she said.
“Not the Hepburn and Bogie one?”
“Yes,” she said. Neil was clearly trying to frustrate anyone who was waiting to hear her confess to Carter Johnson’s murder.
“So why Sabrina?” he insisted.
“My father was my grandmother’s driver. He and my mother eloped. That’s why,” Sabrina said, shivering a little in the frigid room. She never liked telling people about how her parents had such a romantic start because the ending was so disappointing. If her parents were an adorable old couple now recounting how she was named, it might be cute. But given that her mother had abandoned her father when she was a toddler, never to be seen or heard from again, the name Sabrina only underscored how ridiculous their relationship had been.
“Wait a minute. I thought you grew up poor,” he said.
“I did. My grandmother disowned my mother after that. I’ve never met her,” she said, wanting him to shut up. Apparently, Leon Janquar shared her view, entering the room seconds later, ending Neil’s endless questions about her background.
“Sorry to keep you folks waiting,” he said, filling the room with his bulk. He had a manila folder in his hands, which looked surprisingly full.
Neil rose and offered his hand.
“Good morning,” he said.
Sabrina sat not speaking. Let them play games, she thought.
“So what have you brought me that might help us out here?” Janquar asked. Sabrina was surprised at his cordial tone.
She opened her backpack and slid out the Villa Mascarpone file, which was noticeably thinner than the one Janquar had.
Janquar flipped through the pages.
“This is it?”
“Yes,” she said, wanting to scream, He was only renting a villa for two weeks, not buying it. Sabrina apparently pleased her lawyer with her brevity because Neil had a sweet smile on his face.
“Okay, let’s go through what happened yesterday,” Janquar said.
Sabrina repeated what she had told him yesterday, just as she had recounted the details to Neil. It sounded very reasonable to her. She had no connection to Carter Johnson.
When she was finished, Sabrina sat back against her seat as Neil leaned forward in his.
“Have you been able to locate his family?” he asked with a concerned, furrowed brow.
“No, his wallet was missing. The camera bag and backpack Ms. Salter remembers from his arrival are gone too. All that was left in the rental jeep was his duffle bag with his clothes in it.” Janquar stood to signal the meeting was over.
“Ms. Salter, if you remember anything else, please let me know. Please do not leave the island without checking with me. You are at the very least a material witness in this ongoing investigation.”
She wondered if she should tell him about the pool guy, even though Neil had suggested she wait. They still didn’t know if Seth had even gotten out to Villa Mascarpone yesterday. Besides, Sabrina wanted to run out the door before Janquar changed his mind.
“Detective Janquar, you haven’t mentioned the search warrant. We’re aware you’ve been through my client’s private residence. I assume there’s a list of everything you removed and that you’ll provide it to me, along with a copy of the warrant?” Neil asked, though it wasn’t a question.
Janquar slid open the file once more and found several pieces of paper.
“These copies are for you, Counsel. Better use the back door. Ms. Salter’s fans are gathered out front,” he said to Neil as they shook hands. Sabrina knew he meant reporters. She was relieved although a bit mystified by Janquar’s seeming disinterest in her.
As she exited the room, Sabrina saw Seth Larson coming down the hall with a broad grin across his face.
Chapter Fifteen
Henry hopped on his scooter and tore up the roads to Sabrina’s house after dropping her off with Neil. He was worried about what might have gone on there during the search, what might be missing or, at best, tossed around. He had passed the police station on his way and confirmed what he suspected. The reporter he had seen last night at Sabrina’s was standing out front, microphone in hand.
He climbed the hill leading to Sabrina’s cottage, wondering if someone had been posted there from INN to observe any inane detail that might be used to titillate an audience, but the road was mercifully empty and quiet. All the action must be at the police station.
The house was locked with no external signs that the police had conducted a search. Inside, things looked a little sloppy, but no worse than he’d seen Sabrina leave it on occasion. The file cabinet drawers weren’t closed fully and the desk looked a little disorganized, but otherwise everything was fairly normal. He began tidying up, and in a half hour, the house looked like it did most days.
Sabrina lived a little like a refugee, Henry thought. He knew she had grown up poor with only the essentials, but she had learned to live in luxury once she had become a weather anchor in Boston. He’d seen her on a number of flights, dressed casually but still managing to look elegant, tall, and graceful, although a bit skittish, like a bird being watched. Since they’d arrived on St. John, Sabrina shunned anything that would draw attention to her, dressing and decorating so generically that Henry found it painful to watch.
He picked up the landline, which was far more reliable than his mobile. First, he started down the list of people who had rented villas from them.
“Hello, it’s Henry from Ten Villas. How are you? I’m sure you’ve heard the dreadful news about the murder here in St. John. What you may not know is that it took place in one of our houses. Totally unrelated to Ten Villas, of course, and probably drug related, but it’s having the most unexpected effect. With all of the media attention, we are getting inquiries for reservations at a rate we can barely handle. So Sabrina and I have decided that it’s only fair we call our loyal customers and give them a chance to confirm their reservations for next year with a credit card number and a deposit.”
One after another, people thanked him and expressed sympathy that something so nefarious had happened on St. John. Some wanted details about the murder, but no one, absolutely not a one, wanted to cancel their reservation.
Henry chose to save the people who stayed at Villa Mascarpone for last. Here, he thought he might run into some opposition. But again, somewhat to his surprise, people clucked about how awful it was to have a murder at the villa where they stayed and then went on to ask if there were any physical signs a murder had taken place. Henry thought they were hoping for bullet holes in the wall. He didn’t understand it, but people just gobbled up crime these days. He enjoyed a good true crime story himself, but much more when he was watching it on television.
He decided he would call the Kimballs, the couple who had originally cancelled their reservation at Villa Mascarpone, to see if they would be interested in reserving for next year. They had simply sent an e-mail when they cancelled, saying they understood they wouldn’t lose their deposit because someone else would be renting the villa. Although Carter Johnson never said he was referred by the Kimballs, he called the same day for a last-minute booking, so Henry and Sabrina assumed he’d come through them.
The Kimballs, along with many of their clients, had previously rented directly from owners or from other agencies. Upon starting Ten Villas, Henry and Sabrina had worked very hard at convincing the owners of each villa that the services they performed not only would be worth the cut they took from the rental fee but also would please renters and persuade them to return season after season.
Henry dialed the number and was pleased when he was not sent to voicemail.
“Elaine,” Henry said, as if he had reached an old college classmate he’d been trying to locate. “It’s Hen
ry from Ten Villas. How are you?”
Elaine answered politely that she was fine and thanked him again for returning the deposit.
“We hope your cancellation wasn’t because you haven’t been happy with Villa Mascarpone or Ten Villas.”
“Why would you ever think that, Henry? John and I love Villa Mascarpone. We wish we had enough money to buy it. But you know why we didn’t come. How could we resist?” Elaine asked.
“Resist what?” Henry asked, wondering what she was talking about. Had he missed an e-mail or something?
“The prize, Henry, that fabulous prize. I must say you and Sabrina are doing an amazing job marketing your business. We had such a good time.”
“Well that’s great, Elaine. Where did you go?” Henry asked, his brain starting to hurt from a puzzle he had no interest in. He just wanted to get Villa Mascarpone rented so he could call Angela Martino and get her off Sabrina’s back—and his.
“Hawaii, Henry. The prize we won in the Ten Villas drawing. I mean, when Mr. Taylor called and told me, I just couldn’t believe it. I thought it must be a scam. But sure enough, the tickets and reservations at those fabulous hotels arrived. I think John liked Kauai the best, but I really think Maui is nicer. Three weeks was unbelievably perfect. We just got back last night. I haven’t even unpacked.” Elaine spoke with a postvacation high in her voice, the one that lasts about twelve hours after you arrive home.
Mr. Taylor. Hawaii. Ten Villas drawing. What was Elaine Kimball on?
Henry took a deep breath and made a strategic decision. Whatever was going on, it was way too complicated to unravel on the phone with Elaine. He was over his head here.
“Well I’m glad you folks had a good time, Elaine. We’ve had a little incident down here at Villa Mascarpone. You probably missed it on the news, but a man was murdered there yesterday.” Henry went on to explain that the result had been surprising. Ten Villas was swamped with rental requests. If the Kimballs were troubled by what happened, he had a list of others wanting the villa, especially for next year, on the anniversary of the murder. Did the Kimballs want to return next year during their normal month?
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