“Are you from the insurance company?”
“No.” Just hoping to get the only suspect in your husband’s murder off the hook. I blew out a long, quiet breath to get my nerve up.
“I worked for the FBI, Mrs. McGee. I moved here yesterday and this situation has my full attention.” I straightened my spine, hoping to pull off the mental equivalent of a heist. Taking advantage of a distraught woman was inexplicably low. Adrian owed me big.
“I can’t say I’m surprised. After the way that monster attacked him in front of half the town. When Brady got him good, I knew he’d retaliate. Men don’t like to look bad. Getting beat up in front of all those people...I knew he’d come back. I never dreamed he’d...” She pulled a wad of tissues from inside her blouse and pressed them to her eyes. The hanky must’ve been on nose duty.
“Mrs. McGee, is there anyone else who might’ve wanted to hurt your husband?”
“Macy, please. Call me Macy.” She blew her nose. Shifting in her chair, she crossed her legs, exposing the red soles of her bejeweled black peep toes. My mouth pulled open.
“Are those the new Louboutins?” Claire would freak if she knew I was this close to them. The elusive twentieth-anniversary peep toe. We had drooled over them together at Barneys. Recruiting at NYU had its perks. You couldn’t get a shoe like that in Virginia. Online ordering didn’t count. Something as marvelous as those had to be acquired through the full department store experience. Men in dress clothes tossing ties over one shoulder had to place it on your foot and tell you how stunning you looked while girls in suits offered you refreshments. Otherwise, half the thrill was lost.
“Oh.” She dabbed her nose and perked up. “You know them?”
I nodded. My mind reeled at warp speed. Those shoes were $3,995. Fishermen probably made thirty grand a year around here. Brady owned the company. That meant he made more, but how much more? Enough to spring for the Louboutins?
“It’s nice to meet someone who can appreciate them,” Macy said. “My style is lost on this town.”
I shook my head to regain my focus. They were her shoes. Not mine. Envy was never a pretty look to wear. “Um, did anyone else have a reason to want to hurt your husband? Did he have any enemies or debts?” I let the last word settle before moving on. “Anyone ever cause him any problems?”
“No.” She rubbed the pad of her thumb over a mark on her heel. “He fought with Perkins more lately, but that’s to be expected.” She shrugged.
“Perkins?”
“His partner.” She took a long look at me for the first time. “Who did you say you’re with? The FBI?”
Lie or no? I sucked at lying. Plus I didn’t want to. New plan: avoidance.
“Did he and his partner argue often?” Perhaps Perkins knew something useful in this matter. “Have you spoken to him?”
She blinked, derailed. “Let me get you his card. I think it’s best if you talk to him yourself. Do I need a lawyer?”
“No.” I stood. “Not at all. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make this harder on you. I’ll talk to Perkins and let you rest.”
For a moment, I thought she’d toss me out the front door, or worse, call the sheriff. Instead, she pulled a bright green leather hobo from the coat tree in the hall. Marc Jacobs. Yeesh. Maybe I needed to take up fishing.
“Here.”
The business card caught between two perfect red fingernails.
“Thanks.” I drifted out the door reading the tiny lead. MVP Fishing. McGee and Perkins I understood, but what did the V stand for?
I slid back into my Prius and drove the mile and a half to my parents’ house on the water. Dinnertime. Having already splurged on enough meals, I planned to play the I-am-your-child-you-must-feed-me card. I angled my car in beside the Volkswagen bus in the drive. My childhood home looked exactly as I remembered. It towered over the neighboring houses along the harbor. Two tiers of stairs separated me from the front door. The rear decks overlooked the water. The house stood atop massive poles seven feet high, protecting it from a lifetime of East Coast storms. Mom thanked some ginger root or premonition or demigod. I thanked the men who installed the double-sized pillars under their home.
I shut my door and pressed the auto-lock button. A flock of seagulls protested the sound. From the look and smell of things, I timed my visit just right. The gulls complained but continued to swirl and land on the back side of the house. The air smelled of grilled tilapia and buttered-up veggies. The salty sea air made it all feel like a pair of comfortable shoes.
On my way under the house, I trailed my fingers along the first pole. My initials were carved there above Adrian’s. My fingers traced the grooves, but I refused to look.
A few seconds later, Dad came into view. “Hello, Peepee.”
“Hey, Dad.” I dashed up the first set of steps to the rear deck and stopped short. Something moved in the bamboo beside the house. Waning sunlight hit Mrs. Davis’s awful red tips. My shoulders slumped, and I nodded and moved on. Her stalker act was getting old.
“I see you’re not alone.” Dad waved a spatula overhead.
I looked back into the bamboo. No sign now of Mrs. Davis or her red woodpecker hair.
“You brought your appetite along.” A smile formed on Dad’s lips.
“Yep. Me and my appetite. What’s on the menu?”
He ran a hand over his graying ponytail. “Scallops, tilapia, salad from your mom’s garden and mai tais.” When he winked, he looked decades younger, the way he had at my track meets and swim competitions.
“We made all your favorites.” Mom’s tinkling voice arrived with the sliding of the glass patio doors. “The moment we knew you were coming, we visited The Harbor for fresh scallops.”
I sighed. Because she knew I was coming before I did. My mom, the psychic.
“Your mom tells me you’re going to help Adrian get back on his feet.” Dad pushed veggies around a sea of bubbling sauce on the side burner.
“I haven’t made any decisions. I’m curious. Nothing more.”
“You remember how curiosity worked out for the cat, don’t you, sweetheart.” Mom smoothed my frizzing hair.
“Of course.” Coming from the most curious woman I knew, the reminder didn’t feel weighted.
“How’s it going?” Dad flipped fish.
“It’s not going. There’s nothing to go.” I sank into a wooden chair.
The patio table overflowed with Mom’s harvest. I rolled an uncut bell pepper between my palms. My parents’ backyard was cut short after about fifteen feet by a cement barrier. Low harbor waves lapped against it. Salt water probably ran through my veins, considering the way I’d lived life surrounded by it. Even in Norfolk, the water was everywhere. Living someplace that didn’t smell faintly of brine and fish seemed iffy to me. I couldn’t trust a place like that.
My parents exchanged a glance and knowing smiles.
“What?” This again. More about me and Adrian. I placed the pepper on the table so as not to throw it. The island put most people at ease. It raised my blood pressure.
“Relax. Take your time deciding,” Mom advised.
“Haste and passion are easily confused.” Dad spoke into the air, as if his words of wisdom weren’t aimed at my heart.
I rolled my eyes and looked out to sea. A gull made a swoop for the scallops and Dad shrieked. Cooking seafood beside the ocean, surrounded by seagulls, was an at-your-own-risk practice. We’d lost more than one meal on that deck.
HONK! HONK! HONK! HONK!
Mom held an air horn overhead. The birds scattered, swarming and landing on the roof, unwilling to get too far from the feast. She kept an air horn with the grill the way most people kept a small fire extinguisher.
“Let’s eat inside.” Dad rolled the grill to the sliding doors and moved at lightning speed, pu
lling his hard work from the grates onto trays. Mom and I followed the food.
Each bite of fresh-grilled seafood saturated my brain with happy hormones. I sipped my frosty mai tai and smiled. Rum overtook my senses, clearing away the buttery seafood goodness and my sinuses in one waft. “Whoa.” My eyes popped wide. “What’s in this?”
“Light rum, dark rum, triple sec.” Mom ticked off her fingers.
I held up a palm and gulped ice water from the glass she’d set before me.
“Lightweight.” Dad dug into his salad.
I left the mai tai alone. Then came the questions I knew they’d wanted to ask all along.
“What’s your apartment like? Have you noticed anything strange? Maybe an icy breeze or a three-dimensional shadow?”
They looked hopeful. I bit my tongue against the argument that the phrase “three-dimensional shadows” was an oxymoron.
“Nope.”
“Do you need any help over there? Rusty hinges, rattling windows, creaky drawers? Your father’s still pretty handy.”
“Oh, Sheila.” Dad waggled his eyebrows at her and sucked on his drink.
“Ew. No thank you. And please don’t gross me out.”
“Sorry, sweetie. So, nothing spectral?”
“No. I did find a little kitty.”
“Could be a spirit guide.” Dad shoveled a forkful of roasted peppers and greens into his mouth.
Oh boy. Though I could maybe use a spirit guide. I had no idea what to do about Adrian. I couldn’t punish him if he was safely behind bars somewhere.
“What do you know about Mrs. McGee?” I forked a scallop and pointed it at my dad. He shifted in his seat. I waited him out. His lips were looser than Mom’s. If my parents knew something, he’d talk.
“Your mother knows her better than I do.” Clever.
Always a surprise with my parents. I turned to Mom and set my fork down. She had information and I had all night.
“She’s a nice lady. Last year she helped me organize a protest against fisherman coming too close to the coastlines. It’s practically poaching when they press them into shallow water and net them.”
Well, that made zero sense. “But her husband’s a fisherman.”
They nodded.
“He must have had a problem with her protesting his career. It had to be bad for business.” I shoved a scallop in my mouth and let that settle. He had more reason to kill her than the other way around. Maybe he’d tried. An attempted murder gone awry?
“I don’t think they were close.” Dad looked at Mom for approval.
She rubbed his forearm lying on the table.
My phone buzzed in my purse. I didn’t recognize the number. Holding a finger up, I answered.
“Miss Price? This is Jamie with Selvetto Realty. You called about the boathouse?”
“Yes.” I held my breath.
“The space requires a deposit equal to one month’s rent, plus this month’s rent in advance of occupancy. I shared your counteroffer on the monthly rental fee with the owner. He found the reduced amount acceptable. Does your offer still stand?”
“Yes.” The reduced rent was modest, but it was all I could afford, minus a few hundred for paint and cleaning supplies, at least until I found a few clients. From what I saw through the windows, there was plenty of space for a nice waiting room, an office and kitchen area. This was it. Nothing on the island would come at a lower cost than an abandoned boathouse.
He cleared his throat. “The owner accepts.”
He told me I could come collect my key anytime. The owner had given permission for immediate occupancy. Never one for squealing, I did a mental victory dance and pushed the phone back into my purse with one finger. Step one: accomplished.
“I have office space.”
“Lovely. Where? On Main Street, I hope. You can meet us at The Pony for lunch.”
“I rented the old boathouse near the park.”
My parents exchanged another sideways glance then filled their mouths with fish.
“I know it needs some work, but it’s private. People won’t worry about being seen getting therapy. Which—” I raised my fork high, “—is silly. Besides, it’s all I can afford right now. You’d be proud, Daddy. I negotiated lower rent and won.”
“You need to keep an open mind about your idea of counseling, sweetie.” Mom lifted her glass. “There’s more than one way to reach the moon.”
Whatever that meant. Too excited to take another bite, I excused myself. I couldn’t wait to admire my new office space. Mom packed a to-go bag and promised to see me soon. I was down the driveway and on the road in ten minutes. This time I vowed to snap a few shots with my phone and e-mail them to Claire. In fact, I considered framing a few before and after shots in the reception area one day.
Mine would be the one professional building this side of the mainland without a tropical island or boat theme. Hunter green walls, cherry-stained woodwork. I’d buy black-and-white photographs with one-color detail to add interest. Like a dramatic print of the Eiffel Tower with a distant umbrella in bright yellow, or a black-and-white wedding shot where the bride’s lips were romantically red.
The Prius slid against the curb at my new office with a hush. I couldn’t wait to get started. When I climbed out onto the street, my dusty Chucks came into view. Not the four-thousand-dollar, twentieth-anniversary Louboutins, but things were changing. No more working HR for the man. I was the man.
My shoulders slipped a bit. Seriously, how did she get those Louboutins?
And that bag. The implications of such high-end accessories on a fisherman’s wife had my wheels spinning. Could she have been having an affair with a wealthy businessman? If so, would he have wanted to be rid of the husband to have her to himself? Could she have been involved in something illegal? The HBO series Weeds came to mind. Selling smack to island folk?
Questions distracted me as I walked the perimeter of the boathouse. I couldn’t get inside without a key.
How did she have those shoes?
I held my breath and made a decision while heading back to the car. One phone call. I would make one phone call for Adrian’s sake. Scrolling through the contacts on my phone, I dipped back into my driver’s seat. There was someone back at the FBI I wouldn’t mind talking to. This seemed as good a reason as I would ever have to call him.
“Clark.” He answered on the first ring, before I’d thought my plan through. A recurring theme in my week.
Sebastian Clark had been my first new hire as HR manager. I’d based the recommendation on facts, numbers and his healthy two-inch-thick file of achievements. He’d served overseas and led numerous squads and teams on various life-threatening missions. He never lost a man, though he’d been shot twice. He had a degree in psychology, training in military intelligence, and boasted a stint at the White House. On his application he said Secret Service limited him to guarding political figures. He wanted to protect the people, not their representatives. I liked him immediately. The special agent in charge agreed and I took mental credit for discovering Sebastian in a pile of hopefuls.
When he rolled into my office for his first face-to-face interview, I dropped my pen into my coffee. Thirty-five at the time, he looked more like any guy in upper-middle-class America. His suit fit him like it was tailored for the purpose. His shoes were Italian. Not the typical applicant for special agent. His personnel file and his face didn’t mesh. He threw me off. No one else ever did that, and I liked it.
His dark hair shined under fluorescent lighting. He wore it disheveled and youthful, not the über-popular military crew cut, or the I’m-trying-too-hard side part. I flipped his file open to the inside cover once more and checked his age again. Thirty-five. I might’ve given his marital status a quick peek too. Single agents had more time and less distractions. As
the woman who hired him, he was off-limits to me. A pipe dream, anyway. Sebastian was fierce. I was a marshmallow.
Now, as back then, air caught in my throat.
“Patience?” I pulled the phone from my ear to examine it then clipped it into the holder on my dash.
“Hey.”
“Everything all right?”
“Sure. Hey, can I run something by you? Get your thoughts.”
“Absolutely. Do you want to meet for drinks?”
I caught a glimpse of myself in the rearview. My eyes stretched round. My lips opened and shut looking for words they couldn’t find. I looked like a fish out of water.
“I’m sorry. It’s okay to ask you that now, right? I heard you’re not with the agency anymore.”
“Right. Yes. No. They fired me. Downsized. I was downsized. I’m not in town, though.”
Idiot. My head hit the steering wheel.
“Oh. Well, go ahead then. What’s on your mind?”
If he knew, he’d have me arrested.
I gave him a rundown of the last two days while I drove home.
“So, you’re investigating your ex-boyfriend’s murder charge?”
I bit my lip. “Kinda.”
During the next few beats of silence, I contemplated driving my Prius into the harbor.
“Have you talked to the sheriff?” Sebastian’s voice was low and steady. He’d slipped into cop mode while I considered a saltwater death.
I cleared my throat, hoping to sound mature and professional. “Yeah. He hates me, but that’s a long story.”
“What about the victim’s family and friends? What’d they say when you spoke with them?”
Murder by the Seaside Page 5