11
After I got off the phone with Aunt Martha, I called Tanner to enlist his help too. I gave him the address of Winston’s realty office and five addresses Jack had visited in the previous two weeks—three clients, two potential clients. The plan was Tanner would pretend to be a business tycoon, shopping for real estate. With Jack’s clients, he would say he was thinking of hiring the Hill and Dale architect firm and wanted to see some of their designs for himself first. With the other two addresses, Winston would say their houses were exactly the size and location his client was looking for and ask if they would be interested in selling.
“Are you sure using Tanner is smart?” Nate asked after I hung up. “Ashley and Preston know he’s helping you.”
“Do you really think either of them are connected?” I snapped a picture with my phone of the vase and forwarded it to Tanner and Aunt Martha.
“Preston seemed too ready to cast Ashley’s brother in a questionable light last night.”
“That’s just the way he is. He spouts out everything he thinks you’ll want to know, on just about any subject you bring up.”
Since we didn’t want to risk being spotted anywhere near Tanner and Winston, I suggested we test Nate’s theory by gauging Preston’s reaction to the picture of the vase. But halfway to his house, I got a call from Isaak Jackson. “Hey, that was quick. Did you find something interesting on Joe?”
“No. Get over to Lucy Vincent Beach. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Why, what’s going on?” I pulled out the island map Nate had tucked between the seats and pointed to the beach.
Isaak’s response was in such a hushed voice, I couldn’t make out what he said—except it sounded like a body.
“What? I couldn’t hear you.”
“I can’t talk right now. Just get over there.”
Nate had already pulled a U-turn and was racing that direction.
I turned the phone over and over in my hand. “This isn’t good. This is so not good. I can’t believe this is happening.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The body. He said body. It’s got to be Ben.” My voice cracked and I looked away, watched the scenery whiz by without really seeing it. “This is how it always happens. If Aunt Martha were here, she’d tell you.”
“It?”
“In the mysteries she’s always watching. Just when the sleuth is sure she knows whodunit, the suspect dies. How could I have suspected him? He’d always been a good kid. When we found his backpack last night, I should’ve known something happened to him. Just like Carmen said. Only worse.”
“Take it easy.”
“I can’t! You heard Isaak. He told me to get over there. That means he’s got to believe it’s Ben too. To think I spent the last two days harboring suspicions about him. Imagining him smuggling antiquities. Imagining him actually killing Uncle Jack rather than risking going to jail. Imagining he’d tried to do the same to Dad and me.
“Poor Ashley, how can she survive losing both her uncle and brother in the span of three days?”
“Serena, listen to me. You don’t know it’s Ben. Don’t borrow trouble.”
Logically, Nate was right, of course. But deep down, I knew it must be Ben. It explained why Ashley hadn’t been able to reach him—and much more. “He probably came home early to surprise Jack and ended up surprising whoever had been searching Jack’s house. A killer who didn’t see a problem with killing one more person to avoid getting caught. Only whoever that person was didn’t know Ben had dropped his backpack behind the chair on the porch before letting himself in.”
Nate didn’t say anything.
Because he knows I’m right. I needed air. I lowered the window. “It makes sense. Doesn’t it?” I let my drive for answers blind me to my faith in my friends. My mind flashed back to long-ago trips with Ashley to the beach and Ben’s skinny little legs always trying to keep up with us. Why were we always so mean to him?
“Or Ben’s cohort decided he was a liability,” Nate theorized.
My stomach fell. “I like my theory better.” One that kept his reputation untarnished. Ashley deserved that much.
“You know if the police wind up ruling Jack’s death a murder, with Ben dead, Ashley would become their prime suspect since she’d stand to inherit everything.”
“One more reason we need to find that vase.”
By the time we neared Lucy Vincent Beach the sky had darkened to steel gray and a fine mist had started. Police cars and other vehicles jammed the parking area. My gaze skittered over a black sedan, and my heart missed a beat. “That looks like the car I thought was following us yesterday.”
“It’s a rental. There are probably dozens just like it on the island.”
I jumped out of the car and squinted at the driver. He was wearing jeans and a dark green sweatshirt and flashed an official-looking ID to the officer manning the entrance to the beach. “He looks familiar.” I started after him.
“Probably because he looks like that actor,” Nate said, trailing after me. “Hey, we’re on Martha’s Vineyard. Maybe he is that actor from The Italian Job. What’s his name?”
“Mark Wahlberg,” I mumbled, remembering now where I’d seen the guy before.
“Yeah, that’s it.”
“It’s not the actor. It’s the guy who was watching me in the airport.”
“Serena, I hate to break this to you. You’re beautiful. A guy would have to be in a coma to not watch you.”
My heart did a silly pirouette in my chest. We were definitely treading beyond neighbors-watching-old-films-together-and-sharing-pizza territory. “That’s sweet. Thank you.” I stopped and, half-turning, pressed my palm to his chest. “I need you to wait here.” I pulled my FBI badge from my purse and hurried over to the officer who’d just let the Wahlberg look-alike through. The officer didn’t look as if he was old enough to shave yet, so with any luck, he was a rookie who wouldn’t question a fed’s interest in a floater.
I flashed my badge, and he lifted the tape for me to duck under.
“I’m with her,” Nate said, on my heels.
The rookie didn’t balk.
“I can’t believe you did that,” I hissed at Nate.
“Why? You’d rather I flash my Secret Service ID?”
“Ha ha. C’mon.”
Once we cleared the trees surrounding the parking lot, the wind picked up, whipping us with sheets of rain. It slicked right off Nate’s jacket, but my windbreaker was drenched within seconds. As we approached, the group of first responders gathered around the body opened for a stretcher to pass through.
Nate, a good six inches taller than me, craned his neck and said, “It’s not Ben.”
I tried to see. “How do you know?” I maneuvered through the group to catch my own glimpse and muffled a gasp. Gaudy Souvenir Guy—Charlie? The relief that I wouldn’t have to tell Ashley her brother was dead was dwarfed by heartache for Marianne and Carly.
I forced my mind to detach itself from the emotions. The cops were talking as if his death was a boating accident—out fishing without wearing his life jacket. But I wasn’t buying it. Not on the heels of Uncle Jack’s death. Then again, could the killer be stupid enough to not think that two deaths within a few days of each other wouldn’t raise a boatload of red flags?
Nate elbowed me and pointed my attention toward Wahlberg, who was staring at me from the fringes of the group.
I walked over to him. “Watching me is becoming a bad habit. Mind telling me why?”
“Let me guess. A fed?” he said.
“That’s right, and you?”
He scrutinized Nate.
“He’s okay,” I said, to reassure him he could talk freely, and showed him my ID. “He’s a friend from St. Louis.”
Wally nodded. “I’m with the state police.”
I pointedly let my gaze sweep his non-uniform.
He flicked his badge. “Drug task force.”
“So that’s w
hy you were standing around the airport the other day?”
“We got a tip.”
My mind zigzagged from the memory of Wally watching me in the airport to the K-9 officer and drug-sniffing dog checking out Charlie’s souvenir. . . . And now Wally was here. “A tip about Charlie?” It explained why Wally followed me—he probably saw me snap Charlie’s picture on my cell phone when he and Carly were having that argument on the sidewalk yesterday.
“What can you tell me about him?”
Are you kidding me? What can you tell me? I squashed my rampant thoughts. If I wanted Wally to divulge useful information, I’d have to lead him to it. “He caught my eye in the airport because there’d been a case where a dealer dipped priceless artifacts in resin to disguise them. I’m with the FBI’s art crime team. I came here to celebrate a friend’s engagement, and Charlie turned out to be the future stepson.”
“Jack Hill,” Wally said.
I should’ve known that any detective doing a half-decent job would’ve already made that connection. “That’s right.”
Emergency workers manhandled the gurney holding the body bag off the sand and into the back of a waiting ambulance.
“Do you think Hill’s death was an accident?” Wally asked as we headed back toward the parking lot.
“Why ask me?”
Wally nodded toward the departing ambulance. “I don’t like coincidences.”
“That makes two of us. What can you tell me about Charlie?”
Wally scrutinized me for a long moment and seemed to decide his chances of coming ahead in the information trade would fare better if he loosened his lips. “He was spotted having lunch with one of South America’s wealthiest drug lords. We think he’s connected to a local drug ring. Maybe the kingpin.”
“Then maybe we should get a closer look at those souvenirs he brought home with him. He could be using antiquities as currency to pay for drugs.” If we followed the money, maybe we’d find Jack’s killer.
Wally shook his head. “Currency’s going the wrong way. Americans pay the South Americans for the goods, not the other way around.”
My chest deflated.
“When you looked at the body, you seemed surprised it was Charlie. Who were you expecting?” Wally asked me.
I glanced at Nate to buy me an extra moment. On the drive here, while believing I’d find Ben, I’d convinced myself he was innocent. Now . . . I couldn’t be sure. But Wally didn’t need to know any of that. “A friend of the family is missing. I was afraid he might’ve been the victim.”
Wally’s interest piqued, just as I’d feared. “A drug user?”
“No.” Never mind that I hadn’t seen him since he was sixteen. If his sister were concerned his disappearance was connected to a drug problem, she would’ve said something.
With an acknowledging nod, Wally pulled out his wallet, pried out a business card, and handed it to me. Real name Alan Moore.
I stifled a frown. I’d grown kind of fond of thinking of him as Wally.
“If you hear anything that may be of help, give me a call,” Wally, I mean Alan, said.
“Will do.” I texted Isaak to let him know our floater wasn’t Ben, then climbed into the car beside Nate. “Head to Preston’s?”
Nate glanced at his watch. “How about we have lunch first?”
I plucked at my jacket that had already dripped a puddle onto my pants. “Can we swing by Ashley’s so I can change into dry clothes first?”
“No problem.”
We passed Preston’s on our way and seeing that Ashley’s car still wasn’t there or at home, I didn’t feel as bad about taking Nate up on his lunch offer. And with Tanner busy playing newcomer-interested-in-property, I wouldn’t have to worry about what he might say or feel guilty about ignoring him.
The instant Nate pulled to a stop, I told him to give me five minutes and ran inside. I quickly changed into my black jeans and a lightweight, soft pink, cotton sweater, pulled a comb through my drenched hair and looped it into a ponytail, then borrowed one of Ashley’s jackets hanging on the row of hooks by the door. An umbrella hung beneath it, so I grabbed that too.
As soon as I stepped onto the porch, Nate rushed out of the car, then relieved me of the umbrella and holding it over me, escorted me to the car.
My heart did another silly dance at the attention.
Fifteen minutes later when he parked outside Lucky Hank’s, he said, “Stay right there,” then grabbed the umbrella and rounded the car to open my door for me once more.
Okay, I was impressed. Sure, over the years guys had opened doors for me, but Nate was the first to actually ask me to wait so he could. And for some reason his attention was starting to make me nervous.
As Nate ushered me inside, a familiar voice made me jump.
“Well, well, well,” Tanner said, sounding all jovial. But his eyes weren’t smiling. “So now we know why you really sent Winston and me out on this wild goose chase.”
12
“Hey, guys, you stopped to grab lunch? Any leads yet?” I asked in my brightest voice.
“Sure,” Tanner said. “I’ve got my eye on a house that would be an amazing summer home if I ever decide to go on the take.”
I laughed. Tanner was the most passionate and hard-core FBI agent I knew. He knew every last dot and dash of the FBI book, and the only reason he’d so much as bend the rules was if it helped him get the bad guys faster.
But perhaps glimpsing a sales lead, Winston declared in true realtor form, “The homes can be pricey, but they’re great investments.”
Tanner patted him on the back. “Let’s keep our eyes on the goal and let these two eat.” He offered Nate a terse nod as he passed him out the door. So much for not feeling guilty.
The unfortunate meeting put a damper on our lunch. I chattered on about what I’d come to think of as Jack’s case, and Nate didn’t attempt to steer the conversation in any other direction. By the time we headed back to Preston’s, I wondered what I’d been so nervous about.
Then it hit me like a two-ton truck. I was afraid this transformation in our relationship or aberration or whatever I should call it wouldn’t work. I couldn’t remember the last guy I’d dated more than a few times. And I really, really liked my friend Nate. I didn’t want to lose that because I . . .
I what? I slanted a glance across the car at Nate, straining to keep my pounding heart from matching the staccato of the rain spattering the windshield. I didn’t even know why I always cut bait. The bad habit, topped only by turning down dates in the first place, had always been my friend Zoe’s favorite topic of conversation since it exasperated her to no end. I’d told myself that a serious relationship could wait until after I found the art thief that killed my granddad.
Of course, I’d been a naive rookie at the time.
After more than a year and a half on the job, I knew in my head that finding Granddad’s killer was more a question of “if” than “when.”
But I wasn’t ready to give up.
“A penny for your thoughts?” Nate asked, and spotting Preston’s driveway, I suddenly realized we’d driven the whole way in silence.
“I’m sorry. Just mulling.” What if my unfinished business with Granddad’s killer had skewed my perspective of Jack’s death? “Um . . . do you think I’m letting my imagination get the best of me? Maybe Jack did just fall. Maybe Charlie’s and Jack’s deaths aren’t connected. Maybe that guy who swerved at Dad and me the other night on the road was just a drunk kid. It’s not as if any more attempts have been made on our lives. Whoever ‘owns’ that vase might not even know Jack was about to report it.” I stopped for a breath, and Nate’s expression grew even more empathetic.
“I think you need to follow your heart and the evidence and see where they lead.”
My heart did a somersault, because I was pretty sure that Nate wasn’t just talking about Jack’s case.
Nate parked behind Preston’s car, and we let ourselves inside. “We’d better not men
tion Charlie’s death,” I whispered, “just in case the police haven’t notified Carly and Marianne yet.”
“Whatever you say.”
Ashley and Aunt Martha weren’t back yet. Mom and Dad were reading quietly in the living room.
“Where’s Preston?” I asked
“In his workshop downstairs,” Dad said.
Downstairs was a basement, built into the side of the hill with a walkout on the back. From my recollection, Preston’s father had had a woodworking shop on the far end. On sunny days, it’d been bathed in natural light from the sliding-glass doors and multiple windows. But Preston had always favored the fine arts, so I suspected he’d converted the workshop into a studio.
He must’ve heard the stairs creak as Nate and I padded down, because he appeared at the door of the workshop as I reached the bottom stair and pulled the door closed behind him. “You’re home. How’d you make out with everything?”
“Good.” I filled him in on the arrangements, then asked for a tour of his studio.
“Actually, I can’t right now. I’m working on something personal, and I want Ashley to be the first one to see it when it’s finished.”
“Of course. I understand.” Although I had a twinge of doubt when he didn’t meet my eyes as he said it. Then again, maybe he’d just remembered the last time he’d given me a tour of the workshop . . . and presented me with a heart pendant he’d carved for me. I unfolded the photocopy of the photo of the Mayan vase. “I was wondering if you’ve ever seen a vase like this on the island?”
He studied the photo. “A Fenton Vase?” He shook his head. “The closest one I know of is in the Boston museum. Why?”
“Uncle Jack had this picture in the jacket he was wearing.”
Preston’s eyes widened. “So you think this might be what he was on to?” His voice rose with excitement, and he studied the photo more closely. “There was an article about these vases in a recent edition of that Arts and Antiquities magazine your uncle gets. Nothing about a discovery of another one though.”
“Jack never mentioned seeing one to you?” Nate spoke up.
Preston glanced at him. “Me? No.” He rubbed his fingers and thumb over his forehead as if deep in thought. “I can’t recall visiting any collector on the island who has Mayan artifacts, and when people learn I’m an art history professor, they’re usually eager to show off their collections.”
Over Maya Dead Body Page 11