He’d mumbled a response, then turned on the radio, immediately switching from his favorite rock station to one that played soft classical music.
“I know you did that for us,” Ginny said with a laugh. “That was very thoughtful.”
“Indeed it was,” Fran agreed as she stared straight ahead, her right hand holding tight to a grip above the passenger door.
After a few stabs at general conversation, Ginny gave up. It was clear Skip was in no mood to talk. They bumped along, the soft classical music nearly drowned out by noisy windshield wipers. When Skip finally pulled his truck into the crowded parking lot of Home Junction, Ginny clapped her hands. “Here we are!”
“I’ll drop you off at the entrance,” Skip said, “then find a space. No sense you two getting wet . . .”
They all tensed at the unintended irony of the words that had just escaped his lips.
Skip hit the steering wheel with his hand. “I should have worried about Mrs. Hopkins getting wet.”
Ginny reached over and put her hand on his shoulder as he drove slowly through the lot. “Oh Skip,” she said softly. “You can’t do this to yourself.”
Skip just shook his head.
An announcer’s voice suddenly came over the radio, loud and clear. “Time for our top of the hour newsbreak. We’ve received word of the tragic death of a woman named Adele Hopkins . . .”
In a flash, Fran reached over and snapped off the radio. “We don’t need to listen to that.”
“No we don’t,” Ginny agreed. “Skip, don’t drop us off. We’ll look for a space with you.”
“No.” Skip replied.
“We insist,” Fran said firmly.
“I insist,” Skip replied as he pulled to the entrance and stopped. “I know you’re doing what you can to make me feel better. But nothing’s going to change what happened. I’m going to have to somehow, someday, come to terms with it. I don’t know how, but at this moment I just want to park the car. So please, go ahead inside. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
Ginny patted his shoulder. “We’ll be waiting for you.”
19
Regan and Jack were welcomed heartily as they walked into Fern’s diner.
“Look who’s back!” Fern called out, rushing over and shaking their hands. “It’s great to see you. But what are you doing on Cape Cod on a weekend like this?”
“Sunday’s our first anniversary,” Jack said with a grin, putting his arm around Regan. “She’s still hanging in there.”
Regan smiled. “We thought we’d come up for a quiet weekend, but—”
“I heard,” Fern interrupted. “Come sit at my table.”
In the corner, Fern’s table served as her home base, a place where she ate her own meals while keeping an eye on the front door, an office where she did paperwork and met with suppliers, and—on occasions like this—a spot where she could sit and talk privately with special guests.
As they followed Fern across the bustling restaurant, Regan noticed that people were keeping an eye on the TV. Not surprisingly, a quick glance revealed that the station was covering the storm. When she and Jack were seated, a freckle-faced waitress who looked as if she couldn’t be much older than twenty, offered them coffee, which they accepted.
“I’ll be right back,” Fern said quickly. “I have to check on one table, then I can join you.” She hurried off.
“Menus?” the waitress asked.
Jack held up his hand. “I think we both know what we’re having. If you don’t mind, I’d love to order right away. We haven’t eaten all day.”
“Sure,” the young girl responded, putting the menus down on the table, then pulling a pad and pencil out of her pocket. “Fire away,” she said with a giggle.
After they placed their orders for breakfast food, the waitress scooped up the menus. “I’ll tell the cook to make this fast!” she said, then hurried toward the kitchen.
“What a nice kid,” Regan said, just as Jack’s cell phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket and looked at the caller ID.
“Must be someone from around here,” he said. “Hello . . . oh, yes, Pippy.”
Pippy’s calling so soon? Regan thought. As she listened to Jack’s half of the conversation, she was able to get the gist of what Pippy was telling him.
“Thanks for letting us know,” Jack said. “We’ll keep in touch.” He put his phone down on the table.
“It wasn’t our Adele Hopkins?” Regan asked.
“Not unless she was very well preserved,” Jack answered, then gave Regan the details.
“We can still try to get in touch with the woman who sent the e-mail,” Regan said. “It’s probably a long shot, but maybe our Adele Hopkins is related to this other Adele Hopkins. A love for rowing could be in the genes.”
“It’s possible. But our Hopkins was Mrs. Hopkins. If that was her married name, then she wasn’t related by blood.”
“And what about us?” Regan asked.
Jack’s eyes widened. “You’re absolutely right, Regan Reilly Reilly.”
Fern came over and plopped down into a seat. “Hello again. You must have had an exciting morning. Skip found the neighbor’s body?”
Regan cringed. Poor Skip.
“Yes,” Jack answered, then related to Fern just what happened.
Fern pointed back to the TV. “About twenty minutes ago they did a report from the Carpenters’ backyard.”
“Already?” Regan asked. “What did they say?”
“Nothing you don’t know, I’m sure. The reporter was quite dramatic. He was standing by the staircase down to the beach and began the story with something like, ‘Adele Hopkins couldn’t possibly have known that when she started down these very steps this morning, her life was about to come to an end.’” Fern waved her hand. “Give me a break.”
“I hope he’s not there when we get back,” Jack said.
“Don’t count on it,” Fern replied bluntly. “I get the feeling he’ll hang around for a while, hoping the body will wash up and he’ll be there to catch all the excitement.”
Regan rolled her eyes. “The only advantage to the news coverage is that the family may hear about her death and come forward. We’re trying to help locate them, which is why we wanted to talk to you.”
Jack nodded. “I got in touch with Dorie Carpenter this morning. They rented Adele Hopkins the house themselves. Dorie said she tried to get names and numbers for people to contact if there was a problem, but Adele Hopkins never gave her any. Are you aware that the Carpenters met Hopkins right here in your diner? Hopkins overheard them talking and introduced herself.”
Fern stared at him. “How did that get by me?” she asked, clearly disappointed in herself.
“I can’t imagine,” Jack answered teasingly. “This woman was reclusive, but we thought if anyone knew anything about her, it would be you. Dorie said that when they met Mrs. Hopkins here last November, Hopkins said her breakfast had been delicious. We thought she might have come back. She was about sixty. Gray hair. Five foot four. Pug nose.”
Fern frowned. “If Hopkins had been here regularly since November, I certainly would have met her and known her name. If she only came in a few times, I could have missed her. I work hard, but I’m not here every minute of every day. I’m not even sure who I’m supposed to be remembering.” Fern lowered her voice. “Of course, there are some people you meet once and never forget. This morning a traveling theater group that just arrived in town came in for breakfast. The head of the company is such a pompous phony—and he has the strangest hair! I know I’ll never forget him, whether he comes back or not.”
“A traveling theater company?” Regan asked. “Where will they perform?”
“Down at The Castle by the Sea. They’ve got a permit to set up a tent on the lawn from Memorial Day through the end of June. Tomorrow night they’re having a cocktail party to introduce themselves and raise money. Mr. Phony Baloney invited me but I’m sure I’ll be busy.”
The waitress came
out with two plates of eggs, toast, and fruit, and placed them in front of Regan and Jack.
“Looks delicious,” Regan said.
“Sure does,” Jack agreed.
“Don’t you know?” Fern asked dramatically. “It’s the world premiere of those eggs.”
“Huh?” Regan asked.
“The theater guy told me that their production would be the world premiere of his play. I’m telling you, he really got on my nerves.”
20
Devon sat in the cavernous living room of the mansion, guffawing as his actors read aloud the scene from his play that they would perform at the cocktail party. Grandpa arrives at his son and daughter-in-law’s new country home to spend the weekend. They are unnerved by his obsession with the gift he brought them—a collection of the sharpest, most expensive brand of kitchen knives, which he’d managed to find on sale. The family had been happy that he recently began taking acting classes. After Grandma died, he’d been spending too much time alone, which worried them. What they didn’t expect was that out of the blue he’d begin reciting speeches from his favorite plays, or that he’d grab the biggest knife in his gift set and dangerously wave it around the air for emphasis. His granddaughter is mortified. Her new boyfriend is coming for the weekend. She’s convinced that by Sunday night he will have dumped her. Sunday night at the latest.
The scene ended. Devon jumped to his feet and began applauding. “Bravo!” he cried. “Bravo! I couldn’t be more proud of you all. My goodness. If you knew all your lines, we could open this show tonight!” he said, with exaggeration.
Five of his actors were smiling. Everyone except Floyd. He didn’t look pleased.
Oh no, Devon thought. Here we go and it’s only Day One. But he is absolutely marvelous as Grandpa. Putting up with his difficult personality will be worth it in the end. At least I hope. “Floyd,” he asked, “do you have any comments about the reading?”
“I need a knife.”
“What do you mean?”
Floyd sighed. “I know tomorrow night is just a reading of the scene, and readings don’t usually involve props. But it won’t work for me unless I’m brandishing a great big knife.”
Devon could tell what the other actors were thinking. Everyone was aware of Floyd’s volatile reputation. This was just the first story about working with him that they’d relate to their friends in the theater world. “Floyd,” Devon said sincerely, “I thought this scene was perfect. I honestly don’t think the knife is necessary. When we did the reading in New York—”
“This isn’t New York,” Floyd interrupted.
“I’m aware of that,” Devon said, trying to laugh. “If you are more comfortable using a knife tomorrow night, that’s fine. The truck with the props and the scenery won’t be here until next week, so I’ll go out and buy you a knife that . . .”
“You don’t have to do that. There’s a big knife at the house where I’m staying. The blade absolutely glistens,” he said in a menacing tone. “I’ll bring it with me tomorrow night.”
“Are you sure, because I can always—”
“I’m always sure,” Floyd interrupted.
“Okay then,” Devon said. “Let’s read the scene one more time . . .”
Floyd shook his head. “You just said it was perfect. We all had a long trip yesterday. I’m tired and so is everyone else. I want to go home and rest.”
“You have a point,” Devon agreed quickly. “It’s probably best to keep the scene fresh. Very well. Floyd, we’ll see you back here tomorrow afternoon at 5:30 for the press conference.”
Floyd nodded.
“We’ve gotten a wonderful response from the media on Cape Cod,” Devon informed his cast. “After taking questions from the press, the cocktail party will begin at six o’clock, and our reading will be at seven. I just hope this storm has blown away by then! Have a good day, everyone.”
The group started to break up.
Floyd walked over to Devon. “I’d like a second copy of the script.”
“A second copy?”
“I like to keep one by the bathtub.”
“Of course.” Devon laughed. “If it falls in, what a mess. A waterlogged script is tough to work with,” he chattered.
Floyd just stared at him.
“I have an extra script in the other room,” Devon said quickly.
Three minutes later Floyd was back in his car heading home. It was a quick ride. He pulled into the driveway, turned off the car, and hurried up the front steps. He was about to unlock the door when he caught sight of the doorbell. His face lit up. With a big smile on his face, he rang the bell, waited a few minutes, then rang it again. Laughing uncontrollably, he pressed the bell over and over, like an impatient child. I’m enjoying this a lot, he thought. Finally he stopped, put his key in the door, turned the knob, and pushed it open. “Anyone home?” he shouted as he dropped his bag and hurried toward the stairs to the basement.
Adele’s heart was beating rapidly. When she heard the doorbell she’d shouted as loud as she could, but when it started ringing incessantly she just knew it was Floyd. He’s clinically nuts and gets a thrill out of torturing me.
Floyd came thumping down the steps and flicked on the light. “Miss me?” he asked. “That music is much too loud, don’t you think?” He strode across the room to the radio and shut it off. “Much better.” He turned and started walking toward her. “You didn’t answer my question. Did you miss me?”
“No,” Adele spat.
Floyd’s eyes widened. “A live wire! I love it.” First he untied the ropes around her feet, and then freed her hands. He stood before her, and pointed his finger. “I’m warning you,” he said, mimicking the witch from The Wizard Of Oz, “Don’t try and escape, my little pretty!”
“I wouldn’t think of it,” Adele answered.
“Good. Now get up.”
Her body aching, she struggled to get out of the chair.
“Start up the steps. I’ll be right behind you,” Floyd instructed.
Adele obeyed, wondering how she was ever going to get away. Grabbing the banister for support, each step she took was an effort.
“Did you know they think you’re dead?” he asked from behind her.
“So I heard,” she snapped.
“I’ve always wanted to be at my funeral so I could hear the nice things people say about me,” Floyd informed her. “If they have a memorial service for Adele Hopkins, I’ll sneak you in.”
“Somehow I doubt there will be any service,” she answered.
When she reached the top step, she hesitated.
“Go sit on the couch,” Floyd demanded.
It’s hard to believe that for a brief moment in time, sitting in this room, I dared to believe this guy might be the end to my loneliness. Adele wondered how she could have been so stupid. She sat and noticed that Floyd was fumbling through his bag. “What now?” she asked.
Turning around, he tossed a script in her direction. “You’re going to help me learn my lines.”
I knew he wanted to torture me, she thought.
21
Regan’s best friend, Kit, had been in Boston for two days on a business trip. She was meeting a friend from college for lunch, and planned to drive home to Hartford. I don’t relish the trip, she thought, closing her suitcase and rolling it out the door of her hotel room into the lobby. Her cell phone rang. Kit stopped and pulled it out of her purse. “Hey, Meg,” she said, recognizing the phone number.
“Kit, I am so sorry. There’s a crisis with one of our accounts. I can’t leave. Any chance you can stick around this afternoon and we’ll meet for an early dinner?”
“Oh Meg, I’d love to see you,” Kit answered. “I really would. But right now I’m in the hotel lobby with my suitcase. If it were a nice day I’d walk around and go shopping. But with this rain, I think I’ll just get going.”
“I’m sorry!” Meg repeated.
“Don’t worry about it. We’ll get together soon.”
/> Kit hung up her cell phone and shrugged. She’d had nothing but meetings for the last couple of days and it would have been fun to unwind and have a few laughs with a friend. What can you do? she thought as she proceeded to the valet and handed him the ticket for her car.
“It’ll be right out,” he said.
Twenty minutes later an attendant pulled the car around. I guess that’s what he means by “right out,” Kit thought as her bag was loaded into the trunk. The attendant then opened her door. She handed him a tip as she was getting in the car.
“Thank you. Please visit us again soon,” he mumbled.
Kit put on her seat belt and adjusted the rearview mirror. As she started to pull out of the driveway, she felt a case of the blahs. She was single and had no big plans for the weekend. Regan is so lucky she met Jack, Kit thought as she pulled into traffic. My father would do anything to help me meet a guy, except get kidnapped. Regan’s father, Luke, had had no choice. He’d been kidnapped in New York City, and Jack Reilly, head of the NYPD Major Case Squad, had been called in. He was so perfect, he even had the same last name as Regan. On top of that, he helped save Luke’s life. Kit braked as she approached a red light.
A moment later the light turned green. She pressed on the gas just as a man ran from the sidewalk in front of her car. “You idiot!” Kit screamed, slamming on the brakes, barely missing him. He kept running and made it to the other side of the street. Her heart beating wildly, Kit pressed on the gas again. That’s definitely not road rage, she told herself. What a day this has been. I’d love to talk to Regan right now, but I’m not going to call.
Regan was away with Jack this weekend celebrating their first anniversary. She was sure they’d be relishing their quiet time alone and she didn’t want to disturb them. Their lives were hectic and they’d been looking forward to a weekend free of obligations. Not that Regan would feel like it was an obligation to talk to me, Kit thought. They were best friends and Kit was sure they’d remain that way for life.
As Kit drove along, she felt increasingly down in the dumps. Just the sound of Regan’s voice cheers me up, she thought. But I can’t call. It’s her anniversary weekend.
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