Had he come to pursue his persecution of Shotgun? Ought I to rush back and warn him? I drove past him, ignoring his wave to me over the steering wheel. As I approached the flat terrain surrounding Cranberry Hole Road that I now found so threatening, I wondered if I should have reported my nighttime prowler to him. But then I remembered what he had been doing to Franny and I knew that he was the last person to whom I would feel comfortable entrusting my safety.
CHAPTER 11
MIDWAY THROUGH THE MORNING OF YET ANOTHER glorious day, I realized with a certain amount of satisfaction that even though I had been at the cabin for less than a week I had already created a nest just like the one I had in London. I could come in, close the door, and dismiss the world outside. No one bothered me apart from a few squawking seagulls, but if I felt like company, I could pop over to the Old Stone Market and visit with Franny or pick up the phone and speak to Rufus.
And there was another reason why I was suddenly so content in my surroundings, one that I had a little trouble coming to terms with. I was on my own again. To be translated: Tommy wasn’t around. It was a bit of a shock but I had to admit that while I thought about him quite a bit, I didn’t actually miss him as much as I had thought I would.
Of course there was the trivial little detail that two grisly murders had been committed less than half a mile away and I had my very own personal nighttime prowler but you can’t have everything. And in the meantime I had a job to do.
I spent the day setting up my “office” in the desk area of the cabin and making notes on how to structure Shotgun’s story. I drove to East Hampton and bought the reference books without which I could not work—a dictionary, a thesaurus, maps—at BookHampton and I called Staples and ordered a printer, a supply of typing paper, and all the other stationery I needed. I was, as they say, all set.
I had planned to spend the evening preparing a leisurely supper of clams (provided by Rufus) and a tomato salad made with local tomatoes from the farmers market and fresh basil, and then I was going to tackle Tommy’s letter.
So when Martha appeared in the doorway brandishing a bottle of wine, I wasn’t happy.
“I’m not disturbing you, am I?” Whenever people said that, you could bet on it that they knew perfectly well that they were. “It was so good to talk to you the other day, I kind of hoped I’d find you here. And of course I wondered if you’d had a chance to—”
The look on her face was eager and pathetic and it infuriated me but I reminded myself that Martha had known Sean Marriott and I needed to keep her sweet. The one thing that could encourage me to be social was if it had something to do with my work. Yet why did she have to come and ruin my evening?
“I was just about to give the place a good clean,” I said in an attempt to steer her away. A total lie. I was hopeless at cleaning. Vacuum cleaners always saw me coming. I swear the minute I switched one on, it turned its suction off and began to shoot dust balls out all over the place.
“Oh, it’s too beautiful an evening for housework,” she said. “Why don’t we take a few chairs outside and have a drink there? Then we won’t have to look at whatever mess you were going to clear up.
“That’s the problem with living in a small space,” she went on, “you really have to keep on top of the clutter. I tell you, living in those trailers sure keeps me on my toes.”
As I remembered, the inside of the trailers was immaculate. Maybe she had her “girls” trained to pop out of their plastic covers and run around with a duster every day.
“No,” she said, “domesticity’s not my bag at all. That’s why I’m working on Louis. Have you been to his home?”
I shook my head. “I don’t really know Louis,” I said, wondering what “working” on him entailed.
“Well, he’s got money—a housekeeper and a maid, you know? The whole bit. If I married him, I wouldn’t have to lift a finger.”
“You and Louis are getting married? I had no idea.”
“I said if I married him. He hasn’t exactly asked me yet. You know I’ve always envied my women friends who were married to rich men.” Martha seemed to be in a confiding mood. “I don’t really need to live a fancy lifestyle but I do like to be pampered now and then. You have no idea how much I yearn to be whisked away for a romantic weekend, wined and dined. I want someone to buy me jewelry, clothes, to put me on their health care plan, and set me up with a nice little bank account.”
“Don’t we all?” I said. “Doesn’t Louis do all that for you? Sounds like he can afford it.”
“No,” she said sharply. “Oh, he buys me a hamburger every now and then wherever there’s a movie ticket included in the price of a meal. And he talks about taking me away somewhere but somehow he never seems to get around to it. Have you ever been married?”
“No,” I said and left it at that. I didn’t want to get into a discussion about Tommy with her.
“I’ve come close more times than I care to admit,” she said, “but somehow it never happens and I just don’t understand why. Here I am in my fifties, still hoping that one day I’ll go out with a guy and it will automatically lead to the altar. I mean, it’s not like I’m unattractive.”
As we carried the chairs outside I studied Martha out of the corner of my eye. She was certainly good-looking. I wondered if maybe she was the kind of woman who heard wedding bells the minute she started having an affair with someone and never realized they were only viewing it as a fling.
“So how’s it going with Shotgun Marriott?” she asked when we were settled. Mercifully she had not mentioned her manuscript again.
“Fine,” I said. “What about Bettina Pleshette? The woman who was murdered—she was originally going to work with Shotgun. Did you know her?”
“Never met her,” she said.
“And Shotgun?” I said, deciding to turn the tables on her and see where it got me. “Did Sean ever take you up to Mallaby and introduce you?”
“No, he didn’t,” said Martha and I could tell she had been disappointed. “He said his dad didn’t really like him taking people up to the house, that he’d become a real recluse. Shame,” she added reflectively. “I mean he would have been the perfect catch. All that money from his rock ’n’ roll days, there must be some of it left.”
Something told me that she wasn’t quite as mercenary as she made out. Of course her age and circumstances had probably made her paranoid about how she was going to support herself for the rest of her life but there was something about Martha Farrell that made me think that wasn’t the whole story. At a guess, I’d have said what she was really desperate for was warmth and affection from a red-blooded male.
“Maybe you could introduce me?” she said casually and then warmed to her idea. “Now there’s a thought. How could we do it, do you think?”
“We couldn’t, I’m afraid,” I said firmly. “Sean was right. Shotgun Marriott keeps himself to himself. Besides I thought you were working on Louis Nichols.” I smiled.
“Yeah, but at my age I can’t really afford to put all my eggs in one basket.” She laughed again. A softer sound than her previous cackling. Maybe that had been a nervous tic and she was beginning to relax with me. “And I haven’t really noticed him working on me in return.”
“Besides,” I said, without thinking, “I think Shotgun’s still in love with his wife.”
Now why had I said that? I didn’t have anything to go on other than the way he had spoken about his early years with Angie.
“Really?” Martha sounded very interested. “Are they getting back together?”
“Did Sean talk about his mother?” I asked, ignoring her question.
“All the time,” said Martha.
I turned to her, surprised. “He did?”
“Well, of course he did. He was getting ready to get out of here and go and be with her in London. At least that’s what he told me. And he was excited about her coming here.”
“Angela Marriott was due here?”
“Se
an was thrilled because he believed she was going to come and confront Shotgun about Sean’s living with her in England. Sean was proud of his mother, that she had the guts to come and discuss it with his father face-to-face. He’d always thought his mother didn’t care about him and the fact that she suddenly wanted to reestablish her relationship with him made him so happy. So it was just tragic that he died before he got to see her. Just tragic,” she repeated and for a moment I thought she was going to break down.
“Anyway,” she said, recovering, “I’m not so sure I want to meet Shotgun. Not if Sean was so anxious to get away from him.”
“Is that what he said—that he wanted to get away from Shotgun?”
“Well, what’s Shotgun’s side of it? What’s he going to put in this book of his?”
“Martha.” I hesitated, trying to hang on to my patience. So far I’d been amazed that Franny and Rufus hadn’t pressed me for gossip about Shotgun. I’d known it was only a matter of time before someone like Martha Farrell stuck her nose in. “I’d love to tell you but I really do have to keep everything confidential at this stage. I’m just starting to get some rather delicate material out of him. I really couldn’t jeopardize our relationship—”
“You have a relationship with him?” She jumped on it.
“A professional relationship—”
“But you’ll tell me later? When you can? We’re going to see a lot of each other. We’re virtually neighbors, I can just walk up the beach and—”
I had a mild panic attack at the thought of Martha descending on me at unexpected moments but before I could think of a tactful way of dissuading her, she had disappeared back to the cabin.
She reappeared almost immediately and I nearly groaned out loud.
She was carrying her manuscript.
“I saw this on the counter,” she said cheerfully. “You haven’t started it, have you?”
I opened my mouth, searching around for an excuse.
“Don’t worry,” she said, “I understand. Here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to give you a taste of it. I’m going to read you the first chapter.” And she positioned herself in front of me so that she was outlined against the crimson sun as it began its descent into the bay.
“You’ll see why I wanted you to read this,” she said before she began. “As soon as Franny said you were English I knew you were the reader I wanted. My story is about two Englishwomen in an uneven and destructive friendship”—she looked at me—“that ends in tragedy.”
I was a captive audience and all I could do was take a large slug of wine and pray that it would soon become too dark for her to see.
Which it did, but that didn’t stop her. She just carried her chair indoors and continued reading. And to my utter amazement, by that time I was hanging on her every word.
It was melodramatic but from the first page it succeeded in moving me. It was narrated in the first person from the point of view of a nervous schoolgirl whom I suspected was based on Martha herself. It described her first meeting with another girl, someone with a much stronger personality who was clearly going to dominate the “Martha” character in a powerful and twisted way. I felt a shiver run through me. Stories of female friendships were strong commercial bets for the women’s market and as I listened I had a hunch the time would come when I would be telling Genevieve about Martha.
But there was something else about Martha’s reading. The former actress in her had come to the fore and she had given it everything she had—in a British accent. And it was brilliant! I closed my eyes at one point and it could have been an Englishwoman sitting beside me.
“What do you think?” she said when she’d finished the first chapter.
“Martha, I think it’s spellbinding.” I was embarrassed to see her face break into a look of such pathetic gratitude that for one moment I thought she was going to leap up and embrace me. “You’ve succeeded in carrying me right up into your story from the first page and I can’t wait to read more.”
I was so impressed that for half a second I actually contemplated inviting her to join me for supper. But the last thing I wanted to do was to set a precedent and have her thinking she was going to hang out with me all the time. In any case she seemed to realize her visit had come to an end, if only for different reasons.
“I’ll leave you to get on with it,” she said, “and I’d better make a move before it gets too chilly to walk home along the beach. I didn’t bring a sweater.”
Not long after she left I happened to glance out of one of the back windows of the cabin. What I saw caused me to lean over the counter and sink my head in my hands in despair.
There were headlights halfway up the drive again. They weren’t moving, which meant someone was parked, watching. And I was fully illuminated. There was no point pretending it was Martha come back for something she’d forgotten because she couldn’t drive.
It was the fact that someone was out there watching me that got to me. I think I would have even preferred it if they had shown themselves. Suddenly I needed to see exactly who—or what—I was up against.
And then the headlamps went out and I screamed involuntarily. Now the voyeur was totally invisible—and possibly creeping up on me.
I dialed 999.
Nothing happened. I waited for a voice to say “Emergency—police, fire, or ambulance?” but there was complete silence.
Then I suddenly remembered. They didn’t dial 999 in America. It was something else. I rushed to the cupboard in the kitchen where the Phillionaire kept a set of phone books and was frantically flicking through the pages at the front when a figure went past the window.
I screamed again, grabbed a bread knife, and rushed to hide behind the shower curtain. It was thick and expensive and double layered so providing I kept the light off in the shower, I should be hidden from view. My heart was pounding in my chest as I waited.
And then there was a knock on the door.
What did he expect me to do? Answer the door so he could shoot me at point-blank range?
But I’d left the door open and I heard the handle being turned.
I raised the bread knife high above my head, trembling all over. But my hand was shaking so hard I dropped the knife and it clattered onto the tiles.
The curtain was yanked open and I stood face to face with Detective Evan Morrison.
He looked at the knife in my hand.
“I didn’t know who you were,” I said in a terrified squeaky voice I didn’t recognize as my own. “Someone’s been parking out there at night and watching me.”
“Really?” He sounded almost amused.
And suddenly a horrific thought popped into my head. It had been him spying on me? He had turned up at Franny’s late at night. What was there to stop him doing the same to me?
“What do you want?” I said brusquely. “What are you doing here? Have you been here before?”
“You mean have I had you under surveillance?”
From his tone of voice, I knew that one way or another that was exactly what he had been doing. Either he had been tailing me or sitting parked outside watching me, or he had told someone to keep an eye on me.
“Ma’am, I’m here to ask you some questions about Shotgun Marriott.”
“It’s a little late.” I couldn’t look him in the eye.
“And I apologize for not calling first.”
I didn’t want him inside the Phillionaire’s special space. I didn’t want him here at all and I was nervous about him being so close to the Stucco House while Franny was there. I picked up the knife, stepped out of the shower, and walked across to the kitchen. Then I leaned against the counter and confronted him. I couldn’t bring myself to invite him to sit down.
“It’s a great spot you’ve got here,” he said. “Belongs to Philip Abernathy, I believe. You friends with the Abernathys for long, Miss Bartholomew?”
“My mother and Philip Abernathy are partners,” I said, surprised at how easily the description of t
heir relationship came to me now.
“Partners.” He let the word hang there for a beat as if he were slightly disgusted by the thought of it. “No one gets married anymore. Men, women, they’re all—partners.”
“Are you married?” The last thing I wanted to do was to let the conversation take a personal turn but I couldn’t resist it. And I wished he’d stop smiling. I hated people who smiled all the time because generally these were the insincere kind of smiles that never reached the eyes.
He held up his left hand by way of reply. No wedding ring. “So you’ve been hired by Shotgun Marriott to help him write his autobiography?”
I nodded.
“How does that work?” He leaned forward and his belly flopped over his belt, straining at the buttons of his shirt. I think what I hated most about him was that he was so fleshy. I remembered what Franny had said about him pushing up against her and I felt sick.
I described the process of interviewing subjects, transcribing the tapes, and roughing out a first draft that I then reworked with them. “It’s a collaborative process,” I explained, “most of the time anyway. Occasionally people leave it all to me, never even read the finished book, but that doesn’t happen very often.”
“When did you start work?”
“Last Saturday.”
He looked surprised. “Really? Not till then? Didn’t I see you at his house earlier?”
“That was the first time I met him. We hadn’t started on the book then.”
“But you have now?”
I nodded. I didn’t want to look at him and I didn’t want to speak to him any more than I had to.
“So is he talking about his son’s murder? What has he said about Bettina Pleshette? And what made him want to write his memoirs now, after all this time?”
It was a very good question and one that I didn’t yet have the answer to. Shotgun had said he was writing the book for Sean but why now?
“I never reveal what my subjects tell me until we’re done,” I said. “Everything that isn’t in the final book is confidential. It’s a rule of mine.”
How to Marry a Ghost Page 19