It’s warm for December, sunny and forty-five degrees, as if God himself donated a beautiful day for this polo match fund-raiser.
I am dressed like new money: a bright pink-and-white Lilly Pulitzer dress I snagged during its After Party Sale, a navy blazer from my DC lawyer days, and Cynthia’s slightly-too-small-for-me nude Louboutin heels. The shoes are ridiculous to wear to a polo match, but here I am, standing on the balls of my feet to keep from sinking into the thick browning grass, determined not to ruin them.
Lipstick on a pig, girlie.
You look like trash no matter what you’re wearing.
I’m late because it was hard to leave Ester with Jack. There was relief on Jack’s face as I kissed him goodbye.
If you don’t come back, it’ll be the best day of his life.
I ignore my panic at the voice’s direct hit and take in the Newport Polo grounds. Like most of New England, there’s a lineage here going back to the Pilgrims. The ancient linden trees and fieldstone walls surround brand-new Mercedes and Audis and Land Rovers with black-and-white NPT POLO stickers on their bumpers.
I pass the cheaper seats where you can bring a blanket and cop a squat in front of the field. I loop past the vendors selling cocktails and NPT half zips. Next it’s old money, a few dozen tables where people can bring in their own shrimp cocktail and famous crab avocado dip.
Once I reach the VIP tent, I head up the few stairs leading to the wooden deck. I wink at a young man checking the tickets and wave toward an empty space among the tables and chairs and heat lamps.
Everyone knows you don’t belong.
He glances at my breasts, my cleavage a new tool I didn’t experience before Ester. He doesn’t stop me.
I march toward a corner table where three middle-aged men are dressed in bright pants with sweaters layered under blazers. There are similar facsimiles all over the room, and it’s a few seconds before I spot Alec. He and two older women are the only ones with butts in chairs. He’s slumped over, shotgunning champagne and forlornly watching the players and horses warming up on the field.
I was too emotional at his house five days ago. I didn’t ask the right questions. Now with more information, I need to go hard at Alec.
There are no poop bags being launched at him, but it’s clear there’s a stench. Groups of people glance his way and whisper. Even the two older ladies across from him are basically clutching their pearls at his presence. Misha avoids him, in the corner with friends who are equally tan and blonde and thin.
I start to approach Alec but pause when someone gets there first. He’s lean in a well-cut suit, his wavy hair brushed back casually. He grips Alec’s shoulder with a wiry intensity, bends down, and whispers. Alec laughs a little while shaking his head, a light in his gaze as he smiles at the man.
This charmer sets down a dark drink and goes in for what appears to be another joke. Alec notices me, and his face falls. I wave and head over.
You’re not good enough to pull this off.
“Hey there.” I bend down and kiss his cheek, feeling Misha and her gaggle of friends watching. “How are you?”
“What are you doing here? I said I’d meet you later next week.” His gaze darts around. “Oh my God, is Cal here?”
I let him squirm before answering. “No,” I say finally with a smirk. “We missed you at his holiday happy hour, though.”
Alec lets out a breath. “I doubt that.”
“Listen.” I drape the chain of my purse on the back of the folding chair next to him and sit down. “I’ve got some information you need to hear. Now.”
The stranger, still there, leans into Alec. “I just cheered up my boy.”
Alec smiles, but there is something off.
“Your boy is in trouble, and it’s closing in fast,” I say. “Give us a minute?”
The guy blinks slowly, and I recognize he’s assessing. He thinks I have money. That’s the point of this outfit and the expensive purse I got as a law school graduation gift from Uncle Cal.
“I’m Ricky Cardin, Alec’s business partner,” he says. “You are?”
A partner is news to me. Not that I knew much about his business until last night. “His college buddy.”
“Good for you,” Ricky says.
“She knew Belina.” Alec takes a fast slurp of the dark drink.
Ricky lets out a light whistle. “So sorry,” he says.
“Thank you,” I say. “Can we have a minute alone?”
“Sure, sure,” Ricky says, waving his hands. “What are you drinking, miss?”
“Mrs. Burges,” I say. “White wine spritzer, please. Take your time.”
Ricky gives me a nod and then heads toward the bar.
“Alec.” I put my hands on the arm gripping his drink. “The police are coming for you. You have to help me figure out what happened.”
“Jesus, Devon, not here,” he snaps. He scrubs his face up to his hairline and back. “I don’t know who killed her. Or how my DNA was there. She had on my jacket—”
“I know,” I cut off his rising voice, not needing to hear more of the same. He’s agitated and defensive. The detectives will have him twisted up and confessing in an hour, maybe less. “Why was she wearing your jacket? Did you give it to her?”
“No,” he says softly. “But I never minded when she borrowed it.”
“She did that a lot?”
“Sure, if she didn’t bring hers. Kinda nice to give her something she needed.”
I don’t roll my eyes, which is no small feat. This isn’t about their relationship, whatever it was, right now. I think back to the earliest entries of Belina’s planner. “Who did Belina set up the meeting with? A month after she started working for you.”
He pales. “How the hell did you know that?”
“Answer me, Alec.”
“I really don’t remember.” He sniffs and sips his drink.
“You always were the worst liar,” I say, ignoring his glare. “What did you talk about the day she died?” I ask, referencing her planner and the task to “tell Alec.”
“Emmett had some overdue books. Um, she finished some other work for me.” Alec takes a sip of his drink. “Nothing much to it.”
Nothing much? When someone tells me how to interpret his or her statement, I assume the opposite. “What work?”
“She does our accounting. For the business. She did it at her last job.”
“Really?” I scan through our conversations, trying to recall any hints of our connection. She certainly knew I was in her field. We even talked about some of my clients. Perhaps she didn’t want me to know what she was doing. “What did she do? Payroll? Taxes?”
“Sure, and kept our numbers straight week to week.”
“Did you pay her for it?” I ask. “That’s a lot of extra work.”
“She liked it,” he says meekly.
“You were taking advantage of her,” I say and wish I didn’t. He turns from me, sullenly sips his drink.
This is where Belina connected to Alec’s business and why Uncle Cal, predictably, isn’t wrong to be concerned.
I spent my mostly sleepless night reading through information on Alec’s grant, while wearing Ester, trying to keep her calm and quiet. Alec’s grant from Uncle Cal’s Economic Development Council funded his new commercial fishing business, which trained people recently released from prison to be commercial fishermen. It was an all-cash business, revenue based on a set number of fishing licenses Alec had been granted, twenty of them, thanks in large part to the doors opened by receiving an Economic Development grant.
Every commercial boat in Rhode Island must have a license to fish and sell what they catch. It’s tightly regulated by the New England fishing board. The day’s worth of fish is usually paid for in cash. Money that’s collected by Alec, who then distributes it to his twenty captains. While Alec’s business didn’t grow past the initial twenty licenses, his profits continued to increase by thousands of dollars each month. That’s a bi
g red flag.
Pouting time is over for Alec.
You want him to be something he’s not.
Spoiled rich boy you helped all along.
You’re the sucker.
“I looked into your company’s financials,” I say.
Alec’s sullen face snaps my way. “Why the hell did you do that?”
“Because you asked for my help,” I say evenly. “This is what my help looks like.”
“I want you to find who killed Belina,” he says. “I don’t need you and your tornado brain digging around my business.”
I forgot that was what he’d called me in college when he needed help, asking for my tornado brain to figure out what’d be on his calculus final. At the time, I’d taken it as a compliment with a nod to Kansas roots. But maybe it was a judgment.
You’re an unnatural disaster.
First smart thing he’s come up with in his whole life.
“Oh my God, Devon,” he says with a gasp. I know the question before he asks it. “Did Cal tell you to do this? That old bastard needs to stay away from me.”
“That’s not how the world works, Alec.” I lean into his personal space. “Your whole business started because I vouched for you to Uncle Cal. If I’m going to help you, I will need to assess what exactly you’ve done.”
He blows out a bratty breath. “Whatever, Devon.”
I almost laugh, but I’m too annoyed. Instead I’d rather twist. “Where was the additional money coming from for your business? Not your boats. The slight increases in fish prices do not correlate with your profit increases.”
“Why does it matter?”
“Everything matters.”
I let him huff and puff. It’s classic Alec to think I’d just trust whatever he said. To not put together that with my background, of course I’d dig into his finances. Perhaps he just wanted me to fix everything like college. Share notes he couldn’t be bothered to take. Write the paper for him, even though I wasn’t in the class. Take his online tests. Help his study group. Ask my new uncle-in-law for a favor, even though Alec wasn’t prepared.
Loyalty made you a joke.
You’re only worth using.
“My business has nothing to do with Belina’s death,” Alec says in a long breath, the anger evaporating. “I have nothing to do with Belina’s death. I need you to help me. Not make things worse.”
“Do you have the documents she prepared for you?”
“Um, yeah. The police wanted them. There’s nothing there. It’s a lot of numbers.”
“I’ll manage,” I say. “Just forward what you sent to the police.”
“Fine.” Alec flips his dark hair in that preppy, privileged way and reaches for his phone. After a few clicks, he puts it back in his pocket.
My phone buzzes in my purse, and I check it to be sure he sent it. I’m also relieved Jack hasn’t texted about something wrong with Ester.
“Misha is staring daggers,” Ricky says behind us.
Alec starts to stand. “I should—”
I rise enough to push him into his seat. “Sit down, Alec.”
“You can sit down too,” he says to Ricky.
I start to argue but stop when I see Misha air-kissing friends goodbye. I don’t have time to argue, and it’s possible since Ricky is a business partner, he’d have information Alec won’t give. Out of options, I press forward. “I have Belina’s day planner.” I say it plain, but there’s plenty of subtext. “She recorded a lot of information about you, Alec.”
He grimaces. “Like what?”
“She told you something important the day she was murdered.” I scoot my elbow on the table until it meets his forearm. “What did she say?”
“What I told you. It was about Emmett’s books being due. Some accounting stuff. I didn’t see her again. Not ever again.”
“This could be your break,” Ricky says, patting Alec’s shoulder. “Does the planner have any names of who she was meeting?”
“There’s a code that I haven’t broken yet.”
“Oh my God,” Alec says, sitting up. “Did she say she was meeting with me?”
“No, it’s not you.”
Alec’s face is pale. “Did you hand it over to that detective? Get him to investigate?”
“Yes,” I say. “I also have to give a statement. He’ll pick apart our friendship and look for dirt that would stick with a jury. If you don’t tell me everything, I can’t help you.”
“I don’t know what to say,” he yells.
I freeze at the outburst. He’s so close to breaking.
“We’ll help you, man,” Ricky says. “Take a breath, okay?”
“Oh shit,” Alec whispers, something catching his eye across the room.
Ricky’s gaze goes to where Alec is looking. They both sit up straighter, glance at the other.
“I gotta get outta here,” Alec says.
Misha makes her way toward us, and Alec points toward the exit.
“Tell me what happens with the detective,” Alec says to me, nodding goodbye to Ricky, and hurries to catch Misha.
And just like that, you’ve failed again.
I grit my teeth and turn toward where Misha left. Her so-called friends are already tossing each other dramatic, wide-eyed looks. I want to linger there and understand better what Misha’s up against. How much she cares about preserving her life as is.
But that’s not why I’m here, not where the evidence is pointing. It’s Alec that matters. What he’s done and what he’s hiding.
I find the people who made him run. There’s a good-looking Hispanic man with his focused gaze on us. He’s next to an older man, who is also very well dressed.
“Did those men spook Alec?” I ask Ricky.
He makes a clicking noise. “They’re newcomers to the fishing game. Jealous of what we’ve got.”
“All right,” I say, letting it go for now. “I’ll need your phone number.”
“Business or pleasure, Mrs. Burges?”
I know Ricky then, in that moment. He’s good looking but a fuckup. Probably still does coke even though he’s in his midthirties. He’s smarter than all his friends and likes it that way.
He’s a lot like my younger brother. In all the best and worst ways.
You led him to those ways.
“I’m joking,” he says, likely not able to read my stare.
“Really?”
“I want to help Alec,” Ricky says. “You’ve got a great lead with this planner. However I can help, I will.”
I have fifteen questions outlined in my mind. But I don’t trust him to give me a straight answer. Not yet. The smart ones are always a lot of work, but I can crack him.
No one is cracking today except you.
Ricky holds out his arm for me, and I take it. He leads us to the only bar set up in the tent. He nods at the bartender, and two martinis arrive. I’m not going to drink a whole martini before giving a police statement, but I raise the glass.
Ricky smiles, glancing at my purse. “You’re not a real Newport girl,” he says after his sip, which is much longer than mine. “Though you’re dressed pretty close.”
I set the drink down. “That so?”
“The purse,” he says. “Too new to be vintage and too old to be fashionable. You’re pretending. Like me.”
“That’s quite an admission.”
“Back when I was just driving a fishing boat, I’d spend half a day’s wages on a decent ticket to come here. I like pretending. Great Gatsby syndrome or something, right?”
I appreciate the confessional angle he’s running. Trying to quickly befriend me, getting us on the same page. I’ll have to play my own game, flirt to keep him wondering if I’ll let him fuck me or get money out of me or both. That’s my angle to keep him interested while I dig.
You have no idea what you’re doing.
He knows it too.
“Fitting in is a good skill,” I say, “if you don’t like where you’re at.” I glance aro
und at the people in the VIP tent, all born exactly where they want to be. Maybe they want to marry a little better or upgrade the summer home but nothing that would make them frauds.
Like you.
You don’t belong here.
We all see it.
“That’s why I wanted to work with Alec,” Ricky says. “He’s a little bit pretender, little bit genuine article.”
“Don’t tell Misha that,” I say, taking another sip, even though I shouldn’t.
“She figured it out. Alec used to ride in these matches. Was pretty damn good. He’d take side action to keep the lights on in his parents’ big place over in Newport. Gotta respect hustle.”
I did, in fact, but obviously Ricky was doing a little hustling of his own.
“Marrying well also helps,” I say.
“I noticed you got a quality ring.”
“My husband loves real vintage,” I say. “And I love big diamonds.”
This isn’t true, but I can see it’s what Ricky expects to hear. If he knows what a woman’s purse is worth, he certainly knows a thing or two about what big diamonds mean.
I lean toward him. “So Alec brought you into the business?” It must have been a recent change. Ricky wasn’t in the grant application or any of the subsequent reports Alec filed with the Economic Development Council, which I went through last night.
“We met two years ago,” Ricky says. “He needed help, and I liked his shine.”
“What’s your role in the business?”
“My role,” he says mockingly, perfectly articulated without any Rhode Island accent. “I’m in charge of the holy trinity: boats, captains, and fishing licenses.” He counts each off on a finger in front of his cocky grin. “I keep the coffers full. Or I used to anyway.”
“Do you handle the books?” I ask.
“No way,” he says. “The money is Alec’s thing.”
I wonder if Ricky is pushing the money troubles onto Alec. “Were you friendly with Belina?”
Ricky’s face doesn’t move, which is different than previous statements, as if he’s trying to lie well. “I saw her around.”
She didn’t make any notations of a Ricky or RC. “You have a nickname?” I ask.
“Nothing I’d say to a lady,” he says. “What’s your first name, Mrs. Burges?”
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