by Kylie Logan
“Did he?”
Her shrug was barely perceptible. “Some. He was a smart guy and he made some good investments over the years. He was good-looking, too,” she added, and her shoulders slumped. “At least I thought he was good-looking. I don’t think Vivien cared about that. From what I heard, she’d made a mess of her life back on the mainland and she came here to get her head on straight. Estelle took her in, taught her the real estate business, but . . . well . . . Vivien never really fit in. She thought we were a bunch of hicks.”
It wasn’t a leap of faith, and I sure wasn’t reading minds. It just made sense. “Vivien saw Bill’s money as a way out,” I said. “A chance to get away from the island.”
Chandra nodded. “That girl set her sights on my husband and . . .” Her voice clogged. “It was a long time ago,” she said, giving her shoulders a shake. “And it doesn’t matter anymore.”
“It does. Because I think it still hurts.”
Chandra is nothing if not self-aware. She didn’t need me to tell her. She brushed a tear from her cheeks. “It would have been our anniversary next week. I’ve been thinking about Bill a lot.”
“Hank must realize that.”
Chandra is not dumb; she knew exactly what I was getting at.
She knows I’m not dumb, either, and that I was bound to catch on. Which is precisely why she went over to the cupboard where she knew I always kept a bag of cookies and dragged out the Chips Ahoy!
She popped an entire cookie into her mouth and washed it down with coffee. “What you’re saying—”
“Is that Hank has no choice but to consider you a suspect. At least until he has a chance to eliminate you. Obviously, that will be easy enough to do. All you have to do is tell him where you were this afternoon at the time of the murder.”
Chandra grabbed two more cookies out of the bag and tipped it toward me, and when I waved off her generous offer of my own cookies, she rolled the bag shut and put it back where she’d found it.
“That’s silly,” she said. “What difference does it make where I was this afternoon? You know I didn’t kill Vivien.”
“Yes. I do.” I finished my coffee and rinsed out the mug, and when I was done, I turned to Chandra and leaned back against the sink. “But you know how these things work, Chandra. You’ve been in on a couple of investigations with me. Hank has to get statements from everyone who might be involved.”
“Except I’m not. Involved, that is.”
“Then it will be quick, easy, and painless. But you might as well be ready for whatever it is he might ask. You know he’s going to ask how you felt about Vivien.”
“He knows how I felt.”
“Maybe that’s the problem?” I suggested.
Chandra finished her cookies in silence, and when she was done, I tried a different tack. “Hank might know how you felt about Vivien, but I don’t. I mean, I knew you didn’t like Vivien. But, were you still angry?”
“Of course not!”
“And you never confronted her or threatened her?”
“You mean any time in the last twenty years?” Chandra narrowed her gray eyes and choked back her anger. “I threatened her plenty back when she first set her sights on Bill. Is that what you mean, Bea? Because I’ll tell you what, I threatened her plenty more once she married him and then a year later when Bill got really sick and those of us here on the island who had known him all his life wanted to do anything we could to help him and Vivien wouldn’t let us near him. Is that what you’re talking about? About all those months I tried to see Bill before he died and Vivien never let me? Did I threaten her then? You’re darned right I did!”
I couldn’t begin to act the tough interrogator, not when there were tears in Chandra’s eyes. I closed in on my friend and pulled her into a hug. “I get it,” I told her. “No one can fault you for any of that. Vivien—”
“Vivien stole what was mine.” Chandra stepped away. “Bill was a little older than me, a lot older than her. And there she was, young and cute and chipper, and he fell for it, hook, line, and sinker. I forgave him long ago for being stupid. But I never forgave her, Bea. I never will.”
“And Hank understands that.” At least I hoped he did. “But he’s still going to want to know where you were and what you were doing this afternoon.”
Chandra’s shoulders shot back and she raised her chin. “I was out, that’s where I was. And what I was doing . . . well, that’s not any of Hank’s business, or yours, either! I was out. And if a friend can’t take my word for that—”
I wanted to tell her that of course I could. It was Hank she’d need to satisfy.
But Chandra didn’t give me a chance.
Before I could try to calm her down, she ran out of my kitchen, raced out to the porch, and banged the front door closed behind her.
7
That Friday night was quiet.
I ought to know—I didn’t sleep a wink of it. Instead, I took a cup of tea and a stack of Chips Ahoy! into my private suite with me and locked the door behind me, taking comfort in the fact that Levi had thoroughly checked every suite and I had locked each one of them, and that the attic and the basement were shut up tight and locked, too.
None of which made it any easier for me to relax.
I heard every creak of every board in the old house and every whisper of the wind against the windows. I listened when a brief but heavy rain fell, pattering on the leaves of the tree outside my bedroom window. I watched as flashes of lightning lit up the night, throwing my bedroom into relief, and as much as I tried, I couldn’t help myself—when I peered into the shadows, I wondered who might have gotten into the house, who might still be there, who might be looking back at me.
By the time the sun came up over the eastern end of the lake, it all seemed silly, of course. But that didn’t make up for the hours I’d spent being nervous and worried.
I got up, got dressed, and, in an effort at thumbing my nose at the Fates and the boogeymen who had robbed me of my sleep, I made myself French toast for breakfast. I was just sopping up the last of the maple syrup on my plate with the final bite of cinnamon-sugar-coated bliss when my phone rang.
“You’re up early.”
“Hi, Hank.” I would have bothered to mention that if he didn’t think I’d be up yet, he shouldn’t have called, but the French toast had sweetened my mood. “What’s up?”
“I need a favor.”
It wasn’t often that he asked, so when he did, I paid attention. After I took a drink of coffee, that is.
I swallowed and smiled back at the sunbeam that peeked through the kitchen window. I’d been foolish to be afraid the night before. No one had gotten into my house and I’d already decided to upgrade my security system and have cameras installed at the doors. Life was good. So was the French toast. My coffee, as always, was superior.
“What can I do for you, Hank?” I asked the chief.
“It’s Donahue. Zane Donahue.”
For a second, the wonderful sweetness on my tongue soured along with my mood. “You don’t mean something’s happened to him, too?”
Hank didn’t so much laugh as he snorted. “No, no. Nothing like that. It’s just that with what happened over at Estelle’s and then coming over to your place to take care of things there . . .” Something told me it was the first he remembered that in the name of being neighborly, he should ask. “Everything okay last night?”
“Fine. Everything’s normal,” I assured him, and added a little white lie. “I was fine last night here by myself. Snug as the proverbial bug.”
“Good.” I could tell he was glad to get the formalities out of the way. “So like I was saying, about yesterday.”
“Did you talk to Chandra?” I asked him.
This time, the sound he made wasn’t so much a snort as it was a snarl. “Tried. The woman is impossible.”
>
“I’m afraid I upset her.”
“You upset her. I upset her. Talking about Bill Barone upset her. Far as I can see, the only thing that didn’t upset her was thinking about Vivien being strangled.”
“You know that’s not true!” Of course, I didn’t. But it seemed like the right thing to say. “She didn’t like it that you thought she could have—”
“Well, of course I didn’t. Not really. Not seriously. But I have to cover all my bases. You know that, Bea. No stone unturned and that sort of thing. Chandra, she should understand that, too. She was married to me for three years. She knows what goes into this job. I wouldn’t be doing it right, not if I didn’t ask her what she was up to yesterday.”
“So you did.”
He grunted, and I imagined him nodding.
“And she told you . . . ?”
The grunted morphed into a rumble. “Told me she was out.”
“Out where?”
“Out taking a walk.”
“The weather was perfect, it makes sense that she was out,” I reminded Hank.
“Yeah, it makes sense, and she’s just the type to go skipping through the fields picking dandelions. But heck, Bea . . .” He sniffed. “If that’s what she was doing, that’s all she needs to tell me. Where she went. What she did when she got there. Instead, she said she didn’t remember where she was. She was out. Just ‘out.’ That’s all she’ll say.”
It would have been odd. For some people. But Chandra had always been a little airy-fairy. I didn’t need to remind Hank of that, though. “Did anyone see her?” I asked instead.
“She says she doesn’t remember that, either. She might have been down at the state park. At least for a little while. And there could have been some people around there. And she may have made a stop over at the winery near the marina. But she says they were so busy, she didn’t stick around and she didn’t order anything and it was full of tourists and she didn’t see anyone she knew. She claims she was just wandering.”
“Other than the fact that she missed out on that appointment to read tarot cards for some tourists, it sounds like something she would do.” I didn’t need to remind him about that, either.
“Yeah, but . . .”
He didn’t need to remind me what “Yeah, but” meant.
“I can try talking to her again,” I suggested.
“Exactly what I was calling about.”
My lack of sleep gave me an excuse for being confused. “I thought you said you were calling about Zane Donahue.”
“I am calling about Zane Donahue.” I heard a long slurp and knew Hank had decided he needed more coffee. I thought we both did, so I poured myself another cup. “That’s great that you’d talk to Chandra again, Bea. I’d appreciate that. But Zane Donahue is the one I’d really like you to talk to.”
“Me? I don’t know the man.”
“Exactly.”
Any other day, I may have been able to follow what he was saying. That Saturday morning, things were a little hazy, and I was so not in the mood for games. “Explain.”
He did. “Donahue showed up here on the island for the first time maybe five or six years ago. He used to rent the Albertson place over there on your side of the island, near the nature preserve. You know the house.”
I did. It was big and splashy and pricey.
“It’s not like Donahue was ever a real problem. He’s never been arrested. But we had a few calls from the neighbors. You know, noisy parties, scantily clad women racing through the yard. That sort of thing.”
I could only imagine, and it was way too early in the morning for that.
“Then, when he bought that property from Vivien Frisk . . .” Hank whistled low under his breath. “That’s when all the real problems started, the two of them going at each other like Rocky and Apollo Creed. One of them would call me to complain, and no sooner would I hang up than the other would call me with a conflicting story. I’ll tell you what, Bea, those two just about made me nuts.”
From a seasoned law enforcement professional, this was tantamount to baring his soul. I sat down at the breakfast bar to hear more.
“I’ve refereed so many fights between those two, I can’t even begin to tell you,” Hank said. “There was the time at the park when she dumped lemonade on him and he claimed it was on purpose and she insisted he’d stuck out his foot to trip her and she was only defending herself. And the time at the Christmas in July festivities last year when she ran over the inflatable reindeer on his front lawn. He says he saw her aim her car right at Rudolph. She says a raccoon darted out into the road in front of her and she had no choice but to swerve or she would have flattened it. It was always something between those two, and it was never something good.”
I got it. Or at least I think I did. “So you’re thinking that if you go to talk to Zane—”
“Well, he’s going to clam up the minute he sees me, of course. Too many bad memories associated with me, and too much bad blood. If you talk to him, Bea—”
“So what do you want to know?”
Hank chuckled; he knew he’d be able to convince me to help. But then, as I’d proved since moving to the island, there wasn’t a mystery I could resist. “Just the usual. Where he was yesterday. What he was doing. When he saw Vivien Frisk last if it wasn’t at that memorial service where he dumped that bucket of water on her. And if it really was him you saw over near Estelle’s last night.”
Yeah, I figured he’d come around to that.
I glanced out the kitchen window. Last night’s rain had left the world looking fresh and shiny. The sun was out and it glinted against the petals of the zinnias planted in the bed outside the kitchen, intensifying their jewel colors. “It’s a nice day,” I reminded Hank. “He’s probably out on the lake.”
“Oh, come on, Bea!” His chuckle turned into a full-throated laugh. “We might be a small department, but we’re not dumb! We kept an eye on Donahue all last night. Didn’t like the idea of him slipping onto his boat and sailing off to Canada while we weren’t looking.”
“So you know he’s home.”
“As of right now . . .” Why did I have the feeling Hank glanced at his watch? “I just talked to Jenkins, who sat on the house all night. He’s home, all right. If you get over there fast . . .”
I grabbed my jacket. If I was lucky, Zane Donahue would have a pot of coffee going when I got there. If I was really lucky, his coffee would be as good as mine.
• • •
What had Alex Canfield said about Zane Donahue buying this property, then finding one with a better view?
I couldn’t imagine it.
Zane’s house stood atop a bluff on the north side of the island, and there was nothing at all between him and the Canadian shoreline twenty-six nautical miles away except a glimpse of Middle Bass Island, a peek of tiny Sugar Island, and miles and miles of water that was a glorious blue that Saturday morning. Here, I knew the sunrises were sure to be breathtaking and the sunsets were spectacular.
Something told me that’s why the Native Americans who’d buried their dead on the property had chosen the spot.
Yeah, I couldn’t help myself—it was all so crazy, I had to smile when I waved to Officer Jenkins in his squad car and walked up the paving stone path to the front door of the charming Cape Cod.
An Indian burial mound. As they say in the cartoons, who would have thunk it?
Obviously not Zane Donahue.
It took three rings of the bell before he answered, but I guess I could understand that. It wasn’t even nine, and when Donahue showed up, he was wrapped in a maroon satin smoking jacket. The robe actually might have given him a rakish look if there weren’t smudges of sleeplessness under his eyes and if he wasn’t wearing just one gray sock.
“I hope I didn’t stop by too early,” I said.
He blinke
d at me in silence for a few moments, then shook his head as if to clear it. “Who are you? Why have you stopped here at all? I don’t want to buy it, whatever it is you’re selling, and I don’t want to be saved, either, if that’s what you’re looking to do. So why don’t you—”
He’d already started to close the door when I put one hand on it. “I’m Bea Cartwright. Hank Florentine asked me to talk to you.” Yeah, yeah, I know . . . Hank didn’t exactly want his name bandied around, not in Zane’s presence, but I could see where this was headed, and it was headed straight for Go away and don’t come back. I had to risk a little name-dropping.
“Oh.” I guess in the great scheme of things, the single syllable meant I was successful. Zane stepped back, opened the door a little wider, and waved me inside.
The house, storybook-pretty on the outside, had been remodeled within, and not that long before, if the smell of new wood and fresh paint meant anything. What I imagined had once been a living room and a dining room had been combined into a single great room with a timbered ceiling open to a second-floor loft and floor-to-ceiling windows on the back wall that looked out over the lake. I could understand the windows. Sunrises and sunsets, remember. The rest of the decorating was too modern for my taste. There were glass and stainless steel tables scattered throughout the great room, one of those sectionals that opens up into lounge chairs on either end, and a chair that was too low to the floor and with a back too pitched to look really comfortable. It was turquoise and it sat next to a table that had an open bottle of scotch on it.
Outside the windows was a patio with a strip of lawn beyond and then the edge of the bluff. From here, we looked as if we were floating above the water and I imagined the scene in the fall with the waves dancing and chopping or in the winter when the lake froze and mounds of ice pushed through the surface and created an Arctic landscape.
“So?” I turned away from the view to find Donahue watching me, his arms crossed over his chest. “What do you want to know?”
“Sorry.” I’d always been told (and not just by Levi) that I had a nice smile. It didn’t work its magic on Donahue, but I managed to keep it in place anyway, in the hopes of putting him at ease. “Your home is spectacular,” I told him. “The view is—”