by Kelly Lane
“Yes. We knew each other a long time ago. His name is . . . Dex. Well, technically, Dudley Dexter Codman the Third. He was an acquisitions manager for the Perennial Paper Company. In Boston.”
“And you say that you were engaged?”
“Yes. I said that. Engaged. To be married.”
Duh.
“And when was that?”
I looked down. “About sixteen, no, maybe seventeen years ago.” I felt my cheeks flush. Big-time. An urge to puke was hard to control.
Buck was silent. Didn’t take a genius to figure it out. I’d broken off my engagement with Buck eighteen years earlier and run off. Then I’d broken off another engagement with Dex, not too long after that. Although I’d never admitted it to a soul, anyone with half a brain could figure out that it’d been Dex with whom I’d run off when I’d left Buck at the altar.
“Could you spell this fella’s name, Miss Knox?” asked young Deputy Pierce, jotting something down.
“The last name is Codman. Like the fish . . . C-O-D-M-A-N. Just like it sounds. It’s an old Boston Brahmin family.”
“Brahmin . . . ?” The deputy furrowed his brow.
“I’ll explain later,” Buck said quickly. “Just think, ‘old money.’ Upper class. Hah-vard.”
The deputy nodded. “Got it, sir.”
“Well, that’s a bit coarse,” I said. “And oversimplified. The Brahmins of Boston are an elite and integral part of the New England establishment.” I turned to the deputy. “Oliver Wendell Holmes Senior first used the term ‘Brahmin’ during the late nineteenth century to describe a group of wealthy, educated, high-society families living on Boston’s prestigious Beacon Hill. The Boston Brahmins preferred to remain relatively private, both in their day-to-day life and in their wealth. They still do today. However, most continue to be extremely generous philanthropists.”
Okay, so I was rambling, ad nauseam. Even I couldn’t bear to listen to myself lecture the poor deputy like some uppity schoolmarm. Still, I couldn’t help it. I was anxious. Worried. The blathering just tumbled out.
Buck cleared his throat. “Thank you for the history lesson, Professor Knox. Now, do you know where we can find Mister Codman’s family?”
“He doesn’t have any that I know of. His parents perished in a boating accident about twenty years ago. Dex is . . . was . . . the last of the Codman line. At least this particular Codman line.”
“Wife?”
“Doesn’t appear to have one,” I said.
And he sure didn’t act like it last night.
“No sisters or brothers?”
I shook my head.
“Kids?”
Again, I shook my head.
“You’re positive he isn’t married?”
“Not that I know of. Look, I’m sure Daphne has all his home information up at the big house. Or you could check with the people he was traveling with.”
I waved toward the Boston crowd on the hill. Clustered in a tight circle with their heads bowed down, they appeared to be studying some sort of big map that they held between them.
“They’re all his close friends and business associates from the Perennial Paper Company,” I said, nodding toward the group.
“Why would a group of paper company people come all the way down here from Boston?”
“We were told it was for a bird-watching retreat. It is Peeps Week, after all. Why don’t you ask them?”
“I plan to. However, right now, I’m asking you.”
That was cold.
Buck continued. “Any idea what this guy was doing down here at the pond, or when he came down to the pond?”
“No. It looked like . . .”
I felt weak remembering Dex’s body. It’d been ghastly-looking with his black eyes staring upward as he floated, bloated in the water. He’d had the most clear, smooth skin, refined features, and beautiful icy blue eyes when he’d been alive.
Well, they’d been beautiful until he got angry, that is.
“It looked like he’d been floating for a while . . .” I finally said.
I felt the blood rush from my head.
“Ma’am, you look kinda pale. Can I get y’all some water?” asked the deputy.
“He’s been in the water several hours,” said Buck, ignoring his deputy. Buck was all business despite my blanching. “Did he know how to swim?”
“What?”
“You were engaged to him, Eva. Surely, you know . . . was your Boston Brahmin fiancé a decent swimmer?”
Is there a hint of irritation in Buck’s voice?
“Yes, he could swim,” I answered. “Not competitively, like you . . . I . . . uh . . . He kept a Hinckley Sou’wester sloop on Cape Cod. It used to belong to his parents. It was a beautiful boat. A classic . . . wooden sailboat . . . you know?”
The corners of Buck’s mouth tightened. He looked ever-so-mildly irritated.
“Get to the point, please, Eva.”
“Oh. Yes. Sorry. We used to sail and swim off his Hinckley in Nantucket Sound all the time. I mean . . . What was your question?”
“Was your fiancé a good swimmer?”
“Ex-fiancé, you mean. Yes. To answer your question, Dex was an excellent swimmer.”
“Was he alone here at the pond late last night or early this morning?”
Buck looked straight at me. Deadpan.
“I don’t know. I never saw him here late last night or this morning.”
“But you did see him . . . right?”
“Yes, but that was last evening, up at the big house.”
“Let me get this straight. You’re making a distinction between ‘evening’ and ‘night’?”
“I guess so. Yes. ‘Night’ is later than ‘evening’—”
Buck shook his head as he interrupted me.
“You never came down here to the pond with him? Or saw him come down here?”
“No.” I glared at Buck. I’d already answered the question.
Buck is double-checking me.
“Why are you asking me so many questions? This was an accident. Right?”
Buck didn’t answer. “So, the last time you saw your . . . ex-fiancé, Mister Codman, was last evening?”
“Yes. In the big house.”
“And can you be more precise about the time?”
“After dinner we had an olive oil tasting party.”
“And who was at the party?”
“Well, Dex and the other four from Boston, Claudia Bacon Devereaux, she’s Dex’s assistant; John Cabot Wigglesworth—everyone calls him ‘Wiggy’—he’s an acquisitions manager; Coop, er, that is, Norcross Cooper Tarbox, the corporate lawyer; and the company numbers guy, Spencer Andover Fisk.”
“Go on.”
“They’d invited a few folks from the Abundance Bird Club to join them.”
“Including?”
I sighed. “I’m not sure I can remember, really . . . It was the club’s executive committee, I think.”
“Try.”
“Violetta Merganthal was there. She brought her daughter, Maisy, who I doubt is the least bit interested in birds. Daphne’s theory is, now that Maisy’s graduated from community college, she’s husband shopping, so she won’t have to get a job. Daphne says that Violetta brings Maisy anywhere there’s a chance of meeting up with a man.”
“Go on.”
“Let’s see, Millicent Page—you know, the librarian—came. She drove old-timers Eunice and Eugene Ord, who apparently never miss a bird club meeting despite the fact that neither one ever goes on bird walks anymore.”
“I should think not,” said Buck. “Neither one can get around without a walker or a wheelchair.”
“Right. Well, during the tasting, Eugene spent most of the time in the bathroom—citing prostate issues—and because Eunice forgot
her teeth, she dribbled more olive oil down the front of her dress than she was actually ever able to swallow. It was a mess. Plus, I doubted either one could hear anything that anyone said. Poor Millicent had her hands full with those two.”
“Who else was there?”
“Bernice Burnside came with Beula Beauregard.”
“If I remember correctly, our timber heiress, Bernice Burnside, joined the bird club years ago while she served on the Georgia House of Representatives, to counter the public’s perception about her anti-nature-loving timber business.”
“That’s what I heard. And philanthropist Beula Beauregard just loves birds and dumps a pile of money into the organization every year.”
“Anyone else?”
“Tree hugger Zippy Grann, along with Fern Taylor, Tweets Buckingham, and Tallulah Hayes were all there. And, Dilly Willard. That’s it, I think.”
“All locals. No one we don’t already know. Okay, I’ll talk to them. How late did they stay?”
“I’m not sure. Once I finished my tasting spiel, which only took about forty-five minutes, I left before they did. Why are you asking me about all this?”
“What time did you leave?”
“I left at maybe eight thirty or nine, I’d say.”
“And then what?”
“I went to bed.”
He can find out about the argument between me and Dex from someone else.
I didn’t need to make the situation any worse than it already was. Maybe no one would say anything about the argument, I reasoned. After all, Dex’s death was clearly just an accident. Although, really, I couldn’t imagine what had happened. Remembering Dex, I felt the blood drain from my head again. I reached out to grab something, but there was nothing to grab.
Buck had an extraordinarily good poker face. And he could be impossible to read, especially when he was on the job. Still, I knew him well enough. Better than anyone, I’d wager. And I couldn’t help but feel the ice behind his stare. He wasn’t helping me.
That’s fine, I thought. I steadied myself.
Given that I’d run off and left Buck with no explanation all those years ago, I owed Buck that much. Still, I was horrified to have to face him with the truth, even after all these years. Especially like this. He hadn’t deserved it then. And, as it’d turned out, I’d made a huge and painful mistake. Painful for all of us. And foolishly, once I’d moved on, I’d blithely gone through life, assuming it was all water over the dam and I’d never have to own up to what I’d done to Buck. I’d imagined my history with Dex would never come out.
Wrong.
“Can you be more specific about the circumstances between you and Mister Codman last evening?” asked Buck.
“Dex and his business associates checked in yesterday afternoon while I was out,” I answered, matter-of-factly. “I first saw him when they came down to dinner. The twins had the night off, so I filled in as server . . .”
Buck held his hand up. Without waiting for me to finish, he turned to Deputy Pierce. “Did you say you’d found his clothes?”
“Yes, sir, on a rock over there . . .” The deputy pointed to a big boulder in the grass on the other side of the pond. “Looks to me like Mister Codman mighta been skinny-dipping and drowned. Maybe he was drunk? Or he hit his head on something?”
“Thank you, Deputy Pierce. I’ve seen Mister Codman and have my own idea about what happened,” said Buck. “I want to get the doc’s report before we jump to conclusions. You can go, Deputy. I’ll catch up in a few minutes. I want to take another look at the body.”
“Okay, sir.” The deputy closed his little notebook and ambled over to speak with an EMT.
Buck pulled his aviators on top of his head and stared at me, hard, hands on his hips. His chocolaty eyes simmered. There was an awkward silence. I crossed my arms and looked away, staring across the pond. Then Buck sighed and dropped his arms. Leaning in, he touched me on my elbow, speaking softly.
“So, do you mind telling me why your former fiancé decided to show up here, to little backwater Abundance, Georgia, all the way from Boston to go for a skinny-dip in your daddy’s farm pond right behind your cottage? Did he follow you here? Were you together down here at the pond last night?”
I was pretty sure no one else around us could hear him.
“No!” I cried, a little too loudly.
Buck’s eyes darted around. Still, no one seemed to notice my outburst. I lowered my voice.
“Look, I have no idea why he came here. Like I said, when I first saw Dex, I’d been told that he’d come for a bird-watching vacation and that it’d been a coincidence that he’d turned up at our place. Apparently, he and his friends first arrived in town late Wednesday night and were staying somewhere else—a bed-and-breakfast, in town. Then yesterday while they were out on some sort of nature jaunt, they passed our place and stopped in to check out the plantation and ask about putting together an olive oil tasting party.
“According to Daphne, they said that they hated the B&B where they were staying. And as it turned out, this was the only open week we have until after the New Year. As you can imagine, Daphne was all too eager to accommodate them. Heck, she probably did somersaults in front of them to get them to stay here. And whatever she did, it worked. She assigned them rooms; they settled in immediately. They never even went back to the other place to get their stuff; the B&B owner had to make two trips to get all their things over here. Until the moment when I stepped into the dining room to serve dinner last night, I had no idea that the people I’d be serving were the same people I’d known once upon a time in Boston. Daphne had no idea, either. She still doesn’t.”
I decided not to muddy the waters, so to speak, by mentioning the fact that Dex had requested my old room. No need to rub Buck’s nose in the fact that the man I’d jilted him for had come to town and slept in my childhood bed. Besides, it was creepy. I was still hopeful that by not acknowledging certain facts pertaining to Dex, all my troubles would somehow wash away . . .
Fat chance.
“Then after dinner,” I continued, “they had this party with the local bird people. Even though it was last-minute, Daphne insisted that I host the olive oil tasting for them . . . like the one I did a few weeks ago for your mother and the ladies club. And you know Daphne.” I rolled my eyes. “There were no ifs, ands, or buts about it. So I did the tasting party. And that’s it. That’s all I know. Before yesterday, I hadn’t seen Dex Codman in years.”
Buck raised his eyebrows. He didn’t look convinced.
At all.
“Eva, this pond is a stone’s throw from your cottage. And you never sleep. Are you asking me to believe that you had no idea that this man, your former fiancé, was down here last night? And that you weren’t here with him?”
“No. I mean, yes!”
“A man whom you were once engaged to? A man who came here—from more than a thousand miles away—was down here, at the pond, right behind your cottage, naked, and you had no idea he was out here?”
“Exactly.”
“You actually went to bed shortly after nine o’clock and didn’t hear or see anything unusual?”
“Nope. I slept like a baby.”
Buck looked at me sideways.
“You’re honestly telling me that you had nothing to do with his being here . . . that he just happened to stumble upon Knox Plantation, the very place where his ex-fiancée grew up?”
“It’s true!” I cried. “I had no idea Dex was in town! Why do you keep insinuating that I had something to do with whatever happened here?”
“Am I insinuating something?”
“Yes!”
“So, we’re to believe that you had no other dealings with him last night except to serve him?”
“Yes. Believe me, Dex Codman is the last person I’d ever want to see again. Let alone someone I’d be s
kinny-dipping with!” I actually managed to laugh. “And it took all the professionalism I could muster to serve him, as you say. From the ill-mannered way he and his cronies behaved last night, he hadn’t changed one bit from the way I remember him.”
Buck’s eyes snapped. He held up his hand. I knew I’d said too much. I bit my lip.
“Don’t say another word, Eva. Right now, this looks like no more than an unfortunate accident. Still, I’d like it if you don’t go anywhere today. I’m sure I’ll have more questions for you.” Buck stepped off the pier. Then he turned back. “I always do.”
Striding briskly across the grassland, Buck headed toward his deputies on the other side of the pond. I watched as Dolly skittered down the hill from the cottage and trotted after him.
She always did.
CHAPTER 3
Standing together at the top of the hill, enjoying their cold drinks—evidently our “hostess with the mostess” Daphne had provided her guests with sweet iced teas, although under the circumstances, a round of bourbons, neat, might’ve been more appropriate—Dex’s cohorts from Boston were hardly a picture of grieving friends who’d just lost their steadfast companion of twenty years. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the flashing lights, emergency vehicles, and grim-faced rescue people dashing around the yard, looking at the four of them you’d be hard-pressed not to think that Claudia, Wiggy, Coop, and Spencer were merely looking for a spot to pull up some lawn chairs for an afternoon of socializing. Or bird-watching.
But, then, wasn’t that the idea?
Still, when a juvenile bald eagle—the holy grail of North American birds—let out its distinctive high-pitched, piping cries from a tall pine tree down by the pond, none of the Boston crowd even blinked. In fact, they didn’t even look up when the bird sailed overhead, with its characteristic, squeaky cries.
No doubt about it, I thought. Our Boston birders are a sham.
I’d been right all along to suspect them of being up to something. Still, what was it?
Overlooking the dismal scene as Dex’s covered body was loaded up and onto a stretcher while a deputy bagged Dex’s pants, the Bostoners tittered to one another, as if they were standing at a cocktail party. Or at a gallery opening. Not at all how you’d expect them to react, watching their dear friend get hauled off to the coroner’s freezer.