“I’m with Evan Morrison on this,” said Martha. “His theory is the only one that pans out. There’s no one else around here with a likely motive for killing Bettina. Whether he actually pulled the trigger or not, Shotgun did it.”
“Did what?” said a voice behind me and Martha gasped.
She had gone very pale. She was on her feet and moving past me out the door before I could say anything.
Shotgun looked after her, puzzled.
“Look, if it’s not a good time? I just wanted to come and tell you how sorry I am about Philip Abernathy. For you I mean. I didn’t know him. But that woman who just rushed out of here, I think I’ve seen her somewhere before. Who was she? And what am I supposed to have done?”
He was looking immaculate in freshly pressed linen pants and a crisp white shirt. His only concession to the fact that he was in a beach environment was a pair of rope-soled espadrilles in a virulent shade of purple. Didn’t he ever wear beat-up shorts and sneakers like the rest of us? What was the point of living at the beach if you didn’t get down and dirty in the sand once in a while? He appeared more formally dressed than I was and I had just been to a funeral.
“We’ve just had Phil’s funeral,” I said, “down at the beach.”
“Yes, I saw them packing up on my way over here—oh, sorry,” he looked mortified for a second, “that makes it sound like you just had a picnic.”
“I know what you mean.” I smiled. “They’re taking the coffin to a crematorium and later they’re going to scatter his ashes over the bay. Did you walk over here?”
He nodded. “Dumpster told me where you were staying. He said it would be a short and beautiful walk and he was right. I just wandered down through my woods and there I was. I really have to get out and about more. I’ve become such a recluse.”
“That’s what they say about you round here—that you’re a total hermit. No one ever sees you and the only way people know you’re here is that you hire local people to work at the house and they’ve seen you. Like Dumpster.” I looked at him. “Dumpster told you where to find me? So you’ve seen him around Mallaby lately?”
“Sure,” said Shotgun, “like half an hour ago. He came by to take care of a few things around the house, in Sean’s old room above the stables as a matter of fact. He’s helping me clear the place out and maybe I’ll let him move in there permanently. He seems to be sleeping there most of the time anyway.”
“He’s hiding out with you?”
“Hiding out?”
“As far as his mother’s concerned Dumpster’s disappeared.”
“Is that right?” said Shotgun. “Well, maybe you’d better keep quiet about the fact that Dumpster’s with me.”
Shotgun was shielding Dumpster.
“So who was that woman who just left? She didn’t exactly act like she was one of my fans.”
“On the contrary,” I said, thinking of Martha’s remark about me introducing Shotgun to her as a rich and eligible suitor, but I thought better of mentioning it. “That was Martha Farrell. She’s lived round here for—what?—twenty years? So you’ve probably caught sight of her at some point—on one of your rare excursions outdoors during the daytime.”
“Martha Farrell,” he repeated it slowly. “She said ‘Shotgun did it.’ What am I supposed to have done?”
“You mean you really don’t know?” I forced myself to continue the banter between us and hoped he’d let it go at that. “So, when would you like me to come over for another session? I think I’m ready to go back to work—now that we’re past the funeral.”
He didn’t answer me. Instead he seemed preoccupied with something he could see through the open door.
“Shotgun? Kip, I mean?”
“Look,” he said, turning around suddenly, “this is awkward. I really did come over to offer my condolences about Philip Abernathy but there’s another reason I wanted to see you. I’m through with the book. I don’t want to go on with it.”
I was staggered.
“But you were doing it for Sean.”
“I was. Only for Sean,” he confirmed. “But I’ve changed my mind. No more book.”
“But why? This is very sudden.” I couldn’t understand it. All his talk about tying the book into his music comeback. “What about the cross-promotion of the book and the concert tour?”
“I’m just going to work on the music. No book. I’ve been thinking it over and it’s too much to do all at once. I just don’t have the energy. I’m not as young as I once was.”
He gave me a weak smile.
It had to have something to do with what he’d raked up out of himself about the night the groupie died. Could it really be that he had something to hide about what happened that night, something a prying investigative writer like Bettina would uncover? But hadn’t I gained his confidence in the short time I had known him? Hadn’t he said he had a story that he really needed to tell and he needed me to help get it out of him?
Suddenly I felt immensely depressed. On top of the agony of the Phillionaire’s death, now my work looked like it was going to evaporate into thin air. Tears welled up in my eyes and I looked away from him quickly.
But he saw and he came over and before I could move away, he put his arms around me.
“I’m sorry. I really am, I’m sorry. I didn’t come over here just to tell you that. I wanted to help you get through your loss. Dumpster told me you were pretty close to Philip Abernathy. I mean, I know how it feels.”
Well, that was true, sure enough. He was still mourning Sean’s death.
“Of course you do,” I said as gently as I could. “You’ve lost a son. I only knew Phil for a few weeks but still I—”
I couldn’t help it. The sadness had lodged itself inside me now and I felt myself heaving. I expected him to pat me on the back, embarrassed—what had he got himself into with this hysterical woman? But instead he drew me closer to him, brought my head to rest against his shoulder, and soothed me with the kind of murmurs one would use to comfort a baby or a high-strung animal: “There there, it’s all right, easy now.” And I began to relax safe in the knowledge that it was okay to let go like this, I was with someone who was going through the same thing, someone who understood.
Maybe I relaxed too much because I have no idea how it happened. One minute I was snuffling quietly against his shoulder, deep in my own thoughts about the Phillionaire, and the next he had eased me gently away from him to bring his face to mine and we were kissing.
I think what surprised me the most was that I didn’t stop. I didn’t leap away from him and go Whoa, what are you doing, stop that! I let it go on and on because he was a wonderful kisser, the kind that makes you feel as if he has all the time in the world and there is nothing else he wants from you. This kiss is not a means to an end, I’m just enjoying it for what it is and I’m going to go on and on until you’re the one who starts begging to take it a stage further.
“Uh-oh,” his lips left mine long enough to murmur into my ear, “we’ve got company.”
I backed away from him, as much from the shock of hearing his voice as from what he actually said. My instant assumption was that it must be Martha who had thought better of her hasty exit.
But there was no one at the open door and I stood waiting for Shotgun to explain, not looking at him and wondering if he could hear my heart thundering in my chest.
“It was a bloke,” he said, “big hairy guy. Anyway, he took off like the proverbial bat out of hell when he saw us.”
Of all the big hairy guys in the world—and there had to be zillions, literally—I knew instantly who it was. I dashed outside but the only person there was Franny. She pointed to the bay where a figure was beating a lumbering retreat down the sandy trail to the beach. He had his battered old knapsack that had been falling apart for years on his back and he had abandoned an equally dilapidated suitcase on wheels that had become entrenched in the sand.
“TOMMY!” I yelled after him. “Tommy, come bac
k here. Please!”
CHAPTER 14
AS I STOOD SHOUTING AT HIM TO COME BACK, I could already see the reproachful hunch of his shoulders rising with each shambling step. I could almost hear his thoughts. I just caught you kissing some bloke and if you think I’m going to turn around and trot meekly back to you, you’ve got another think coming.
“Franny,” I said, turning to her, “you brought him here?”
“He turned up at the Stucco House in a cab. He said he knew your mother and Phil and he’d come to Amagansett and everyone had told him where the funeral was taking place.”
“He came for the funeral? He barely knew Phil.”
“Who is he?” said Franny.
“He didn’t say?”
“Well, he gave me his name, Tommy Kennedy, and he said he was looking for you too, so I brought him over here.”
“Nothing else?”
“What else is there?”
“I’m sorry to blurt this out in a rush, Franny, but right before I came out here, he and I were going to be married and then he backed out. Now he picks this moment to turn up just when I’m kissing another man.”
“You are? I mean, you were? Who?”
“Shotgun Marriott.”
“You’re not serious?” Franny looked extremely impressed and I wanted to throttle her.
“It didn’t mean anything. We were just comforting each other—for his son’s death and Phil’s.”
“Yeah, right,” she said, still grinning.
“It’s true,” I said although it wasn’t, not entirely, and I was still trembling inside with the memory of Shotgun’s kiss. “But Franny, whether you believe me or not, I need you to do something for me. Please would you go after Tommy and persuade him to come back. Tell him I really want to see him. Tell him anything you like but get him to come back here.”
“Why can’t you go tell him yourself? You’ll catch up with him easy. He’s not exactly making a speedy getaway.”
That much was obvious. Tommy looked to be in even worse physical shape than when I’d left. Even though he was out of earshot I could hear him huffing and puffing along the beach just by watching him. He was a perfect example of an overweight Englishman whose shorts were too long and too baggy to be cool, whose lager paunch was not quite covered by his flapping T-shirt, and whose flip-flops appeared to be rubbing and hampering his every step. His sweaty progress as he lumbered along the water’s edge could not have been more removed from the sleekness of Shotgun’s perfectly laundered linen.
“Because he’s not going to listen to me. He’s going to make me pay. But if there’s even the slightest chance that he actually does still want to see me, he might just listen to you. So, Franny, please—”
She took off without another word.
I returned to find Shotgun had settled himself in the Phillionaire’s kitchen. He was perched on a stool at the island, pouring himself a glass of San Pellegrino.
“You don’t mind?” He held up the glass. “I helped myself. This is a quaint little place you’ve got here.”
Suddenly I was furious with him. Irrational, of course, as only I could be, because of course I was furious with myself more than anything. Shotgun hadn’t really done anything wrong. He had offered comfort and I had accepted it. The comfort had just evolved into something I hadn’t been prepared for but which I hadn’t exactly resisted. How long had he wanted to kiss me? Had it been a spur-of-the-moment thing? Was this the real reason he was canceling the book? Did he want to avoid mixing business with pleasure?
“Could you please—like—leave,” I said to Shotgun, awkward and abrupt in my urgent need to have him gone before Tommy reappeared. If he reappeared.
Shotgun was on his feet in a second. “My God, of course. Do forgive me. I’d no idea I was intruding.” He spoke with an exaggerated politeness, almost mocking me. No allusion to the fact that just a few minutes ago I’d been perfectly happy to be ensconced in a passionate embrace with him.
I decided to stick to as much of the truth as I was capable. “I’m sorry. It looks like a friend has turned up from England earlier than I expected. He knew Phil and—”
“Don’t say another word. I don’t know whether to say something like It’s been nice working with you—” I couldn’t believe it. He was actually holding out his hand as if nothing had happened. I shook it nervously but to my relief I felt none of the electricity his kiss had transmitted.
Of course as he was going out the door he ran straight into Tommy and Franny.
“Hello, Kip Marriott. I’m sorry for your loss.” Shotgun held his hand out again to Tommy.
Tommy just stared at him open-mouthed and I could have killed him for being so gauche. He wasn’t normally impressed by celebrities. Maybe he just felt awkward being greeted by a man he had just seen kissing me.
“Is that your real name? Kip?” said Franny. “I’m Franny Cook by the way, Dumpster’s mom.”
“Oh, I know who you are. I owe you a debt of gratitude,” said Shotgun, all charm now. “Dumpster does incredible work for me at Mallaby, plus I’ll never be able to repay you both for speaking up at my arraignment. You must be very proud of him.”
“I’d welcome the opportunity,” said Franny, as she followed him out of the door, “I never see him. He’s taken off, disappeared. Actually, you know? I was going to come by and see if you’d seen him.”
“Was that who I think it was?” was the first thing Tommy said to me when Shotgun and Franny had left.
“Shotgun Marriott,” I said, “the man whose book I’m doing. Was doing,” I corrected myself.
“Oh yeah?” said Tommy. “Your kisses not up to snuff? He’s broken up with you, has he?”
“I’ll ignore that,” I said. “And although I don’t feel I owe you any explanation, you should know that the kiss you just saw was an accident.”
“Like he was on his way to the bathroom and you were in the way?”
“Don’t be crass, Tommy. His son was murdered, I’m upset about Phil’s death. He was comforting me or I was comforting him, whichever way you want to look at it. And it must have looked to you as if we were kissing that way.”
“You were kissing that way.” We were standing about two feet apart and I could reach out and touch him if I wanted. It was incredible to me that even though we had been about to marry—and had not seen each other for several weeks—as yet we had had no physical contact. He was still sweaty from his exertions along the beach and the paunch and the floppy shorts were still very much in evidence. But all I saw in front of me was the tousled little-boy look that had always been one of my biggest weaknesses when it came to Tommy. He generally presented himself this way when he was not at all sure of his ground and somehow his vulnerability was irresistible.
“I know how you kiss that way, remember.” He almost stamped his flip-flop in his frustration. “I came all the way here from London to kiss you in the other way, to console you about Phil. I read about his death and I knew you’d be devastated. I called his apartment in New York and they told me your mum had left for the funeral and it would be in Amagansett. I planned to—you know—surprise you. Only you’re the one who gives me a surprise. I turn up and find you snogging away with that creep of a has-been.”
But however much I want to let it all ride over me, something about Tommy’s needling always gets to me. I think it has something to do with my stupid pride. I stared at him standing before me all puffed up with resentment and I told myself firmly: He’s hurt and disappointed as he has every right to be. I should be sweet and understanding with him and I should rise above my irritation at his petulance and bend over backward to make him feel that I need him and want him and I’m unbelievably touched that he’s come all this way to be with me.
“Oh fuck off, Tommy!” I said. “You know absolutely nothing about Shotgun Marriott. You walk away from our wedding for no reason, you humiliate me and hurt me, and instead of hanging around and whining, I pick myself up and get myself a pre
tty impressive assignment far away from you so you won’t be embarrassed by me hanging around. And what do you do? You come over here and start slinging mud. Well, you can fuck off!”
So much for sweet and understanding!
“I heard you only got the job because his first choice got herself murdered.”
Trust Tommy to ignore everything else and hone in on the one thing I said that wasn’t quite true.
“And—” he said, backing out of the door and returning a few seconds later, lugging his battered suitcase behind him—“and, as I said, I came over here because Phil Abernathy bought the farm, no other reason.”
“What does ‘bought the farm’ mean?”
“Kicked the bucket.”
“So if that’s the only reason you’re here why have you packed for a six-month stay?” I pointed to the vast suitcase. “And why are you bringing that in here?”
Tommy started shuffling his feet a little. I knew the signs. If I kept up my shrewish tone with him, he’d give in eventually and tell me why he was really here. He always caves before I do because fundamentally he’s a nicer person than I am. He can’t sustain confrontation the way I can.
“You got any beers in that fridge?” I knew what this was. He was proffering an olive branch. Why oh why did I feel compelled to ignore it?
“No.” I glared at him. “Just milk.”
“And cookies? Phil told me you two sat up one night with milk and cookies and put the world to rights. I must admit, I became quite jealous listening to him talk about you.” Tommy was smiling now, tentatively, and he had taken a step or two toward me.
“He was like a father to me,” I said, not looking at him. “Or an uncle, more like. He listened to me and he gave me good advice. He seemed to really care about me, I don’t know why.”
How to Marry a Ghost Page 23