by Susie Gayle
These two make my head hurt. “Can you just tell us what’s going on? Can we go back to the beach house yet?”
“Ooh, ‘fraid not,” says the one on the left. “We’re still in the process of excavating. We haven’t found poor Victor yet.”
“If there’s a poor Victor to find,” his twin chimes in.
“Okay. Thanks.” I had really been hoping that we’d be able to go back today. “Keep in touch.”
I start to close the door when Sarah calls out. “Have you talked to Whitney Weatherby yet?”
The two officers glance at each other and frown. “No.”
“Why would we?”
“Well, because you found her sister’s… remains,” Sarah says the last word softly, as if she were trying to find any other word to use than “bones.”
“Correction: we believe we found her sister’s remains.”
“But until forensics verifies it, we don’t want to go notifying next-of-kin erroneously.”
“Especially after what she went through the first time,” the other says.
“The first time,” Sarah repeats. “You mean when Whitney thought her sister ran off.”
“Right,” agrees one of the twins. “Terrible depression. Hasn’t left the house in years.”
“Has everything delivered to her doorstep, and doesn’t come out until nighttime to fetch it. Like she’s afraid of the sun.”
“Okay, well, thanks guys.” I start to close the door again, but Sarah, now right beside me, interjects once more before I can.
“If you do confirm that it’s Julia, will Whitney be a suspect?” she asks.
Again the twins look at each other, except instead of frowning, they both smirk like she’s crazy.
“Why on earth would Whitney be a suspect?” one of them asks incredulously.
“Well… I mean…” Sarah looks at me and then back at them. “She was the closest to Julia, right? Doesn’t that at least throw some suspicion on her?”
“Not without a motive or some sort of evidence,” says a twin.
“Besides,” says the other, “we can say with some certainty that it wasn’t Whitney.”
“Why?” Sarah presses.
“Because…” One twin looks at the other as if Sarah should immediately understand what he’s getting at.
“We just know,” they say in unison.
“You just… know,” I repeat slowly. Their habit of alternating speech is already irritating, but hearing them speak at the same time is downright weird. “Okay!” I declare loudly. “Thanks again, officers. We hope to hear from you soon.” I finally succeed in closing the door, and then I add, “But not too soon. You believe those guys? ‘We just know.’” I shake my head. “I bet this is their first murder case.”
“Alright, don’t go getting a superiority complex just because this ain’t your first rodeo.” Sarah grins at me, but it fades quickly, her brow furrowing at the same time.
“What are you thinking?” I can tell she’s deep in thought.
“I’m thinking that we were right about one thing; if Whitney and Victor were ever involved, it wasn’t public knowledge… and that means that Whitney breaking off her engagement to Diego might not have been, either. At least, not the timing of it.”
“We also know the police haven’t yet talked to Whitney Weatherby,” I add, “so unless she’s the killer, we can assume she doesn’t know about any of this.”
“Right.” She raises an eyebrow. “Care to go for a little ride?”
“Wait, wait, wait.” I wave both hands in the air as if erasing an invisible board. “Are we going to ignore the part where we neglected to tell the police about Whitney’s potential motive? Diego’s suspicions about her and Victor? That’s kind of an important aspect of our whole theory.”
Sarah shrugs. “The police can’t yet confirm it was actually Julia we found in the sand, right? Well, we can’t confirm that Diego’s story was any more than a hunch on his part. Would you really want to imply guilt on someone to later find out they’re innocent?”
“Isn’t that what we’re kind of doing right now?” I reply.
“Well, yeah.” She rolls her eyes. “But we’re not the cops. We’re just a couple from Maine on vacation. And speaking of which, I think I want to see the jetty.” She winks at me as I pull on my shoes.
CHAPTER 10
* * *
“This feels wrong,” I tell Sarah as we look up at the Weatherby house. “If the cops haven’t told her, why should we?”
“Look, if Whitney was a… you know, regular person, she would’ve heard about it by now from the rumor mill anyway,” Sarah says. “Really, we’re doing the cops a favor by softening the blow when they later confirm it was Julia.”
When Diego told us that Whitney Weatherby lived in “a house by the jetty,” he neglected to mention that it was the only house by the jetty. And that it’s downright creepy.
Juxtaposed against a backdrop of Angler Cove’s bright buildings and quaint style, the Weatherby house is a large colonial-style place that at some point used to be white. I have to say “used to be white” because the paint is peeling in long curls from the wooden siding and in many places has turned a greenish hue from algae, likely due to humidity and the house’s proximity to the ocean. Even the waves crashing against the jetty not more than a hundred feet away and the sound of gulls squawking overhead seem out of place as Sarah and I stand before the house. It looks more like it belongs in an eighties horror movie than on a beach in North Carolina.
“Jeez,” she practically whispers. “Did Diego say she’s been a hermit for three years, or three hundred?”
“I’m guessing renovations aren’t high up on her priority list,” I murmur. “You realize she’s not going to answer the door for a couple of strangers, right?”
Sarah purses her lips and nods. “We’ll just have to say all the right things, then.”
“Oh, boy.” I follow up her up the walkway to the creaking front porch, Rowdy at my side on his leash.
The front door of the house is yellow with age and badly chipped. A few brown paper bags sit off to one side of the entrance; I’m guessing that Whitney has all her food delivered.
Sarah knocks three times on the door and waits. After about thirty seconds, she knocks again. No answer. She tries a third time.
“Miss Weatherby?” she calls out. Knocks again. “Miss Weatherby, we know you’re home.” Another minute ticks by. Sarah knocks again.
“Just leave the package by the door.” The voice that comes from inside is not at all what I expected. For some reason, I imagined Whitney Weatherby to sound like an eighty-year-old woman; I guess I forgot that her sister disappeared only three years earlier. Her voice is loud and clear and somewhat deep, yet still feminine.
“Miss Weatherby, we’re not here to deliver a package,” Sarah calls back.
There’s a pause, and then Whitney asks, “We?”
I wince.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Sarah Cummings. I just want to talk to you for a minute. Will you please open the door?”
“No.”
Sarah blows a breath through her nose. I can tell she’s getting frustrated. “Whitney,” she says, “I’m not leaving until you talk to me.”
“Then I’m afraid you’ll be waiting quite a long time, Miss Cummings. There’s a rocking chair on the porch; feel free to make yourself comfortable.”
Sarah looks at me. I shrug. She holds up one finger, signaling that she has an idea.
“Whitney, my boyfriend Will and I are staying at the Estes beach house. Do you know it?”
“Yes, I know it,” Whitney responds plainly. “Why aren’t you there now?”
Sarah rolls her eyes. I can see what she was trying to do; if Whitney has already heard about Julia, she’d know that she was found at our beach house. If she hasn’t heard, and there was any inflection in her voice, it could point to her knowing something about what we might find there.
But that didn’t exactly pan out, so Sarah tries a different tact. “We’ve spoken with Diego.”
Another lengthy pause. “So?”
“He… told us about you and your sister.”
On the other side of the door, Whitney sighs audibly, almost a scoff. “Miss Cummings, I’m a very patient woman, but I have to imagine that sooner or later you’re going to arrive at a point.”
Sarah mutters a swear under her breath before taking a moment to gain her composure. “Whitney,” she says slowly, “we have information about your sister, Julia.”
There’s a long, pregnant silence. Sarah and I look at each other, unsure of whether we should say more or not.
Then Whitney says, “My sister has been missing for three years. I’ve given up on anyone finding her; I don’t think she wants to be found. There’s only one thing that I’m interested in: Do you know where she is?”
Sarah bites her lip. She looks at me with her eyebrows raised, as if to ask, Should I tell her? I shake my head, no.
“Miss Cummings? Do you know where she is? I’m not interested in clues or a goose chase or some random sighting. Either you know, or you don’t. If you don’t, kindly leave.”
“I do.” Sarah says it softly, but apparently still audibly enough for Whitney to hear through the door.
A moment later, a chain slides aside, followed by several deadbolts turning. The door squeaks open, only a few inches, and a large brown eye looks out at us. The eye flits up and down, inspecting us.
Then the door swings open.
“You should have just said that in the first place,” Whitney tells her.
CHAPTER 11
* * *
If Whitney Weatherby’s voice was not at all what I expected, then the woman herself is downright shocking. Whitney is slight, a bit too skinny, her skin pale as porcelain from a lack of sun and the bags under her eyes somewhat heavy. Her dark hair is tangled and unkempt, in a messy bun atop her head.
Despite all that, she’s disarmingly beautiful.
Of course, I don’t say that out loud, but I can tell by Sarah’s expression that she’s thinking the same.
“Come in,” Whitney mutters, avoiding eye contact with either of us. She sweeps her arm in a grand gesture as we enter her home. Then she notices Rowdy on the leash and puts up a hand, “Ah! Not the dog. He stays outside.”
“Alright,” I mutter. I loop Rowdy’s leash around an arm of the wooden rocking chair on the porch. “Sorry pal, but we’ll just be a few minutes, okay?” He lets out a little whine and then lays down as I follow Sarah inside.
The house is unusually dark, considering how bright the sunshine is outside. Layers of newspaper have been taped over every window, and not a single light is on. The walls have been painted shades of gray and brown, further throwing shadows across surfaces.
Whitney closes the door behind us and without another word she leads us into a sitting room, where three sofas are arranged against three walls. Two of them have white sheets stretched over them, so we take a seat on the third. Stacks of old newspapers are piled in the corners and open cardboard boxes grace every tabletop like ornaments.
Whitney chooses to stand, with her arms folded and each hand grasping an elbow—which I learned from Patty Mayhew, the chief of police of Seaview Rock, means someone is guarding him or herself.
“Excuse the mess,” she says offhandedly. “I haven’t had anyone in here for quite a while. I suppose I should offer you something to drink.” She doesn’t say it like a question, but rather states it like a fact.
“No, thank you,” Sarah tells her.
“I’m fine,” I say.
She gestures toward me with her chin. “I know her name. Who’re you again?”
“My name is Will. Will Sullivan. Nice to meet—”
“Great,” she cuts me off, disinterested. “All that’s out of the way. Now, where’s Julia?” She reaches between two boxes on the long coffee table between us and plucks up a glass of red wine and sips deeply.
Sarah folds her hands in her lap and studies the carpet. “Miss Weatherby… Whitney… there’s no easy way to say this—”
“Sure there is. Open your mouth. Say the words.” I can’t help but feel that the residents of Angler Cove might be better off with Whitney as a shut-in. She’s kind of mean. But that might be a result of being alone so long, or feeling abandoned. All I can say for sure is that the woman before us is a far cry from the happy, adventurous girl that Diego described, sitting at his bar and flirting with tourists.
Sarah takes a deep breath. “Whitney, a body was found on the beach at the Estes house. The police came and found an ID that belonged to your sister.”
For a long moment, Whitney stares at Sarah with her lips pursed tightly. As she watches Sarah, I watch her, and for almost a full minute nothing happens.
Then Whitney’s lips tremble, only slightly, and a single tear falls down one cheek.
“Oh, god,” she breathes. She puts one hand over her face and turns away from us. “Are… are they certain?”
“Not yet,” Sarah tells her. “That’s why they haven’t come to speak with you. But… you have to admit, it looks likely.” After a moment, she adds, “We only know because we were staying there for vacation. We thought you deserved to know.”
“I always suspected… but I never thought… oh.” She breathes a ragged breath and wipes her eyes with a finger before she turns back to us. “And Victor? Do they know where he is?”
“They’re excavating the entire beach, in case he was with her,” Sarah explains.
Whitney scoffs angrily. “They won’t find him there. He could be anywhere now.”
“So you think…?”
“Of course I do!” Whitney snaps. “If they found her, that means she never left Angler Cove. That… that…” She lets loose a string of unkind words that make both me and Sarah blush.
“So… there wasn’t any jealousy between you two?” Sarah asks.
“What are you suggesting?”
“I mean… you and Victor weren’t…”
Whitney’s mouth drops open as if Sarah slapped her in the face. “God, no! No. He was a despicable man, leeching off my sister. She let him stay with us for about a week, and the whole time he was here she waited on him hand and foot.” She scoffs in disgust.
“Why did she agree to run away with him, then?” Sarah asks.
Whitney shakes her head sadly. “Because of me. I kicked him out of our house; I didn’t want him anywhere near here. I tried to convince Julia that she was being deceived, that she should never see him again. He knew that I was the only one that could sway Julia away from him. So his little scheme was to promise her a life in a tropical paradise somewhere, just the two of them—so that he could manipulate her any way he pleased.”
“Then why did you break off your engagement to Diego?” I ask candidly.
Whitney sinks down to one of the covered sofas, sitting atop the white sheet. “He told you about that, did he?” She stares into her glass. “Oh, Diego. That poor, sweet man. Ending our relationship had nothing to do with Victor; it was just bad timing on my part. See, at the time I thought I was ready to settle down. I wanted someone kind and gentle. Diego was all of that, but ultimately… I came to the realization that he loved me more than I loved him. I couldn’t live the lie.
“But then Diego got it in his mind that I did it because of Victor. In fact, the night that I broke it off with him, Diego saw Victor and Julia out. He flew into a rage. He attacked Victor, and then he grabbed Julia and tried to drag her away before he realized that it wasn’t me.” She looks up sharply, her eyes wide. “Oh, please don’t tell anyone I said that. I don’t want the police to suspect Diego in any way. There’s no way he could have done something like this. Just no way.”
“Wait, wait,” I interrupt. “Why would Diego mistake Julia for you?”
Whitney stares at me blankly. “Don’t you know?”
Sarah and I both shrug. “Know what?”
“Julia and I were twins.”
CHAPTER 12
* * *
“What gives? Is there something in the water around here?” I muse as we drive back toward the motel.
“Twins aren’t as rare as you might think,” Sarah tells me. “I don’t know the exact numbers, but the chances are something like one in thirty-five.”
“Huh. Didn’t know that.” Then a thought hits me and I slap the steering wheel. “Ah, that’s why those weird cop twins said they ‘just know’ that Whitney wouldn’t be a suspect. As twins, they probably assume they know a thing or two about the way twins are.”
“Right, like the way people say twins have, like, a psychic connection between them.” Sarah shakes her head. “Still, I don’t think they should discount her based solely on that.”
“And what do you think about her?”
She shrugs. “I’m not sure. She seemed honest. And she really doesn’t want us telling the police that Diego attacked Victor.”
After our shock of discovering that Julia and Whitney were identical twins, the latter made us promise three more times that we wouldn’t mention Diego’s behavior to the cops. It seems like some part of her still loves him, or at the very least, doesn’t want him to be a murder suspect. With no more questions for Whitney, we thanked her and left her to whatever it is she does alone in that big house.
“I suppose that explains why Whitney became a shut-in, too,” Sarah continues. “Her twin sister abandoning her was probably like losing a piece of herself.”
“Yeah, except that Julia didn’t abandon her. She was murdered.”
“Right. There’s that.” Sarah sighs.
My cell phone rings from the center console between us. Sarah picks it up.
“It’s Sammy,” she announces, and then she answers. “Hey, Sam. It’s Sarah. Uh-huh. Sure, one sec.” To me, she says, “He wants to talk to you. Should I put it on speaker?”