“I don’t think so. And even if he had, I’m not sure he would have recognized me. Drue’s mother might have known me, but I think I maybe met her dad twice, the whole time the two of you were close.” My father’s voice was dry when he said, “Robert Cavanaugh wasn’t a parent-teacher conference, back-to-school night kind of parent. Not the kind of parent who was going to show up to put the books in boxes at the end of the book fair. I mostly knew him from the papers.”
“Drue said her parents hadn’t been happy for a long time. She told me that she knew in high school that her dad had been unfaithful, and that her parents couldn’t get divorced, because everyone would talk. And they didn’t have a prenup. They had a huge fight last night, at the party. Before…” I swallowed. “Before Drue died.”
“Be careful,” said my father. “And come home as soon as you can.”
“Thanks. I will. I love you, Dad.”
“I love you, too.”
Tears were rolling down my cheeks, dripping off my chin. I was thinking of Drue’s father, on the beach the night before, screaming in his daughter’s face, then turning his back. I pictured him walking around at six in the morning with another woman, bold as brass, as Nana might have said. I thought of my own parents, dancing in the kitchen, and it occurred to me for the first time ever that Drue might have believed that of the two of us, I was the lucky one. “I should go.”
“Go ahead,” said my father. “And please give our sympathies to the Cavanaughs.”
I promised that I would, and placed my next call. Darshi picked up her phone even faster than my mother had picked up hers.
“Daphne!” I could hear voices in the background. I imagined my friend at her conference, enjoying a cup of coffee and a croissant in some pleasant midlevel hotel where no one had died tragically the night before. “What happened? I saw the news alerts. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. But…” I gulped. “Drue’s dead.”
“I know. It’s on all the news sites.”
“I was the one who found her.” I made myself breathe. “And, Darshi, I was with a guy last night, the one I texted you about, and he’s not here. I woke up this morning, and he wasn’t in the bathroom, or anywhere, he was gone, and he gave me a fake name, and I…”
“Daphne. Slow down. I can barely understand you! Just breathe. I’m going to go to my room. I’ll call you right back.”
I ended the call and sat, trying to get it together, waiting for my phone to buzz in my hand, trying not to remember Darshi’s warning: If she fucks you over again, I won’t hang around to pick up the pieces. Maybe my friend would make an exception if it was Drue’s death, and not Drue herself, that had done the fucking over. Name five things you can see, I told myself, and looked around my room. But all I could see was Drue’s body, stiff and lifeless, her hair swirling around her as she lay facedown in the water. When the phone rang, I shrieked, and jumped a foot off the bed. My heart thundered as I answered the call.
“Hello?”
“Okay, I’m ready. Start from the beginning,” Darshi said.
“Drue is dead. No one knows how it happened, and I can’t find my alibi. The guy I was with—whoever he was—he gave me a fake name. And do you remember our texts from last night?” I whispered, and paused in a manner that I hoped communicated You sent me texts with knife emojis. There was a beat of silence, then Darshi inhaled sharply.
“She probably just got drunk and passed out and drowned in the hot tub. Or choked on her own vomit.”
I gave a horrified whimper. Darshi’s voice was dispassionate. “It happens,” she said.
“Yeah. Except what if that didn’t happen this time?” I dropped my voice to a whisper. “I deleted everything, but I don’t know if they can find texts.”
“I’ve got people who can tell the cops where I was last night,” Darshi said.
“Good for you! I don’t!” I hissed. “Not unless I can find this guy!”
“Okay,” she said. “Let’s think. In the unlikely event that this wasn’t just an accident, who would have wanted Drue dead?”
I shook my head, hearing the word “Everyone” as clearly as if one of us had spoken it.
“Here’s what you need to do.” Darshi’s voice was steady. “Chances are she died accidentally. If that isn’t what happened, you need to make a list. Write down anyone you can think of who’d want to hurt her. Her exes. Stuart’s exes. Are the police looking at Corina?”
“If they watch Lifetime, I’m sure they are.”
“I’d check. And, Daphne, you’ve got to find the guy you were with last night.”
“I know that,” I moaned. “Don’t you think I know that?”
“Where could he have gone?”
“I have no idea. Darshi, I don’t even know his real name.”
“What do you know?”
“I know that he’s a local. At least, he said he was a local. He could be anywhere.”
“What did he tell you his name was?”
“Nick Andros. I knew that sounded familiar.”
“The deaf-mute guy from The Stand,” said Darshi. “Hmm. Do you think there’s a clue there somewhere?”
My head was starting to throb, right between my eyebrows, and my stomach felt like I’d swallowed a ball of lead. “I have no idea.”
“What else did he tell you?”
“He said he knew Drue from sailing camp, and that he worked on a boat called the Lady Lu.”
“Let me do my Internet magic,” Darshi said. “Meanwhile, try to keep calm. Write down every single thing you remember about the guy. And when you’re done, start asking people questions.” When I started to splutter my objections, Darshi said, “If this was suspicious, the cops are probably looking at everyone who had any kind of beef with Drue. You need to get off their list, and the best way to do it is to start making one of your own.”
Chapter Twelve
I found a notebook in my gift basket, made of soft hand-tooled leather, with the wedding date embossed on the cover in the same font as the invitations, the programs, and the “Welcome to Cape Cod” letter in the basket. I’d helped Drue find an artist on Etsy to make them. The girl had been so excited to be part of Drue’s high-profile wedding that she’d knocked twenty percent off her price without either of us asking. I wrote DRUE’S ENEMIES on the front page. Then, instead of listing them, I turned the page and began to write everything I could remember about Nick.
Curly, medium-brown hair. Hazel eyes. A little taller than me—five nine? Five ten? Tan. Callused hands. Six-pack abs. No tattoos. At least, none that I’d noticed, and I thought I’d gotten glimpses of every inch of him. He did have a scar on his ankle and a birthmark high on his left hip. I wrote that down and blushed, remembering exactly what we’d been doing when I’d seen them. I wrote down teaches breathing/yoga/emotional regulation in Boston. I wrote University of Vermont and Provincetown Yacht Club. I wrote down Lady Lu. I struggled to remember the names of the cousins who’d fought about a wedding. Annie and Emma? Something like that. I realized that he’d never mentioned his parents. He’d talked about an aunt and uncle and a grandmother; he’d referred to a family home on the Cape… and he’d asked me questions, kept me talking, while saying very little about himself.
I wrote it all down. Then I googled the Provincetown Yacht Club, which had a primitive-looking website fronted by a beautiful picture of a sailboat on the water. The phone number was listed under Contacts. I pressed the button that would make the call.
The phone rang and rang. Just as I was about to give up, a gruff, deep female voice said, “Yuh?”
“Hi! Hello. Is this the Provincetown Yacht Club?”
“Yuh.”
“My name is Daphne Berg. I’m hoping you can help me.” This was a strategy I’d read about and used when dealing with customer service people on the phone. Starting off asking for help makes people feel like they are on the same team as you. “I am trying to figure out the name of one of your former campers.”
“I’m having a surprise party for my best friend, and she spent her summers in Truro, so I’m trying to round up her old gang. I know she was friends with this guy, but if she ever told me his name, I’ve forgotten it.”
“When would this have been?”
“About thirteen or fourteen years ago.”
“Huh.”
“Were you there?” I asked. “At the club?”
“I’m the founder.” I thought I could detect the thinnest thread of amusement in the women’s voice. “Dora Fitzsimmons. I’ve been here every year since we started.” Stah-ted. “If your friend went here, she’d know me. I guess I remember just about every one of my sailors.”
“Okay. That’s great.”
“Who’d you say your friend was?”
“I didn’t. But her name is Drue Cavanaugh, and—”
Click. The line went dead in my ear.
I looked down at the phone and called back, only this time it just rang and rang. Fuck. The woman probably thought I was a reporter or something. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I moved on and discovered that the Lady Lu actually existed, and had not just a phone number but a website. Fishing tours by the half day or full! Bass and bluefish! You catch a “keeper,” or your money back! And—thank you, God—a click-through gallery full of beaming men, women, and children displaying their catch. But, after ten minutes of scrolling through pictures, I’d hit the end of the gallery and all I’d gotten was a headache. No Nick. When I called the number, I got an answering machine. “If we’re not picking up, it’s because we’re busy reeling in those big ’uns, but if you leave your name and number, along with the dates and times you’re interested in, we’ll get back to you as soon as we’re on land,” said a voice that was not Nick’s. Typing “yoga” and “breathing” and “Boston elementary schools” and “Nick” into Google got me a yoga instructor named Nick with a degree from BU. He was cute, but he was not my guy.
What now?
I put the notebook down and decided to go next door, to Sea Breeze, and eavesdrop on the other guests. Maybe I’d overhear something that might jog my memory, or help me find my vanished paramour, or give me some names to add to my list.
Five minutes later, I stood at the entrance of the house next door, taking a moment to gather myself. When I knocked, I found the door unlocked. I walked inside, into a living room that felt like a meat locker. The air-conditioning had been cranked up high, making the room glacially chilly. It made sense. By now, the house should have been filled by a dozen people getting dressed, jostling for space at the mirrors, touching up their dresses with steamers, and blow-drying their hair. Now, the living room was half-empty, with some guests slumped on the white linen couches, others sitting at the dining room table, toying with plates of miniature muffins and fruit, looking woebegone, or grief-stricken, or hungover, or just bored. To make things worse, I realized belatedly that the outfit I’d chosen—Leef’s crisp white blouse, the Jill, and a high-waisted black skirt, the Tasha—made me look like a member of the waitstaff.
But maybe I could make that work, I thought, as I spotted the woman in the chignon who’d grabbed Drue the night before and had piled Lily Cavanaugh into the SUV that morning. Given her resemblance to Lily Lathrop Cavanaugh, I guessed that she was Drue’s grandmother. Spying an empty tray, I put a plate on it and carried the tray toward the corner where Grandma Lathrop was having an intense, whispered conversation with a woman who looked so much like her that she had to be her sister—maybe even the great-aunt whose dead dog had ended up in a beer cooler. The two of them had identical silvery hair, the same fine-boned frames and heart-shaped faces, but Grandma Lathrop was taking genteel sips from a porcelain cup of coffee, while Great-Aunt Lathrop had both hands wrapped around a tall Bloody Mary, like she was worried the glass would fly away if she loosened her grip.
“Will you go?” I heard Aunt ask as I came over with my tray.
Grandma shook her head. “There’s no point. You know that Lily is given to hysterics. They’ll sedate her and send her right back.”
“And I suppose Robert’s with her,” Aunt said, her voice rising slightly as she spoke, turning the statement into a question.
That guess earned an audible snort from Grandma. “I imagine he at least headed in that direction. He’s off to see one of his friends by now, I assume.”
“It’s a disgrace,” murmured Aunt.
Grandma waved an imperious, veiny hand. A heavy gold signet ring hung loose on one knobby finger; a large, square-cut emerald sat on the finger beside it. “That man has been a disgrace for years. And I, for one, am glad we can finally stop pretending.”
I edged away from them, bending over a coffee table and pretending to be busy gathering cups and crumpled napkins.
“Thank God we made Drue get her will notarized,” Grandma said. “Thank God she has a will at all. At least now that…” Her lips curled. “…television star won’t get all of it.”
Aunt murmured something that I couldn’t hear.
“Oh, yes,” Grandma blared. “Our lawyer insisted. Drue had all of these ridiculous bequests. She wanted to leave Robert half of it”—a noisy sniff let me know what Grandma thought of that, and of him—“and a million dollars to some charity for schoolchildren in Boston.”
“That was kind of her,” Aunt ventured. Grandma sniffed.
“Half a million dollars to some high school chum. And to each one of Robert’s by-blows.”
At this, Aunt looked shocked. “Did Drue know?” she asked.
Grandma shook her head. Her expression was grim. “I don’t know how she found out. I wouldn’t put it past that fool to have told her himself. Miss?” She raised her voice. I straightened up and froze when I felt her gaze on me.
“More coffee?” I squeaked.
“And less eavesdropping,” she said tartly, handing me her empty, lipstick-stained cup.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. My heart was thundering in my chest, and I felt light-headed. Money to some high school chum. Could that have been me? Under normal circumstances, an unexpected windfall might have been a good thing, but if it turned out that Drue hadn’t died of natural causes, it meant that I had a theoretical windfall, and an all-too-real motive.
“And I’ll have another one of these,” Great-Aunt Lathrop said, gulping down the last of her drink and passing her glass, empty except for a red-tinged stalk of celery, over to me. My heart was beating even harder; my thoughts racing frantically, caroming around my head. I needed to find out what the will said, and if I was the high school chum who’d gotten lucky. I needed to find out who Mr. Cavanaugh’s by-blows were, and if Drue had known any of them.
“Right away,” I said.
“And here’s a tip,” Aunt replied. She hiccupped and said, “Make sure you get paid in cash.”
I nodded and hurried away, knees wobbly and heart pounding, to drop off the dirty dishes and score a Bloody Mary. Say the Cavanaughs were broke, I thought. Say Drue was marrying Stuart for money or, more likely, the money they could earn together by treating their wedding and their honeymoon and possibly even their entire lives as a branding opportunity. Who would want her dead? Stuart? Corina Bailey? Some other big-name bridal influencer, angry at being edged out of the action?
In the kitchen, I found a giant coffee urn. I filled the coffee cup, found a fresh pitcher of cream, and carried them to the bar.
“I need a Bloody Mary,” I told the bartender.
“Popular choice this morning,” he said as he stirred and poured.
I carried the drinks back to the Lathrop ladies and took a look around. Drue’s grad-school friend Lainey had donned her “Drue & Stuart”–monogrammed hoodie, which struck me as in not very good taste. She was sitting at the dining room table, typing on her laptop. Natalie, Drue’s assistant, was curled on her side underneath a blanket, seemingly asleep on the love seat. Pregnant Cousin Pat had pulled a chair into the corner and was hunched over her phone. “No,” I heard her sa
y as I drifted close enough to listen. “None of us can leave until the police talk to everyone.”
I opened one of the sliding doors and stepped onto the deck. It was windier than it looked from inside. The air was fresh and cool, scented with salt and pine. A stiff breeze churned the waves to lacy froth. I breathed in and turned, preparing to head back and resume my eavesdropping when a familiar voice called my name.
“Hey, Daphne?” I turned and saw Arden Lowe, the not-groom’s sister, in yoga pants and a tank top that revealed wiry arms and jutting clavicles. “Can I speak to you for a moment?”
Arden led me through the living room, down a flight of stairs, and out to the pool on the other side of the house, where there was barely even a whisper of breeze. The water’s surface was pristine, without so much as a leaf or a pine needle to mar its surface. The attached hot tub—I swallowed hard at the sight of it—was bubbling away pointlessly, wisps of steam swirling around its surface. The air smelled like chlorine and chemicals. I took a seat at a chair that was one of four set up around an umbrella-covered table. Arden perched on the table’s edge.
“How are you doing?” she asked. “This must be just awful for you.” Arden had her brother’s compact, made-for-TV build, as if she’d started off normal, then been condensed to seven-eighths of her original size. The large nose that looked perfect on her brother’s face was a little too big for hers, and her ponytail revealed slightly protuberant ears.
“I’m okay.” I smoothed my blouse. “I mean, I think I’m still in shock.” In shock at Drue’s death, in shock at everything I’d learned since finding her body.
“It must have been awful,” Arden said again.
I looked at the hot tub, as if its bubbling had suddenly gotten interesting, and weighed the risks and the potential payoff of telling her what Nick had told me. Finally, I decided to go for it. “I’m not sure if you’ve heard, and, if you haven’t, I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news. But there’s a rumor going around about your brother.”
Arden didn’t look entirely surprised. She tilted her chin up, lips thinned, eyes narrowed. “What rumor is that?”
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