A Google search gave me Sunny’s address, and before I had a second to reconsider or lose my nerve, I grabbed my keys, coat, and purse and headed out the door.
Chapter 9
I parked on the street and stared at Sunny’s stately home for a good five minutes before working up the courage to approach her front door. I had only a vague idea what I might say, and I hated that I was so nervous about even starting a conversation with her. I mean, I used to run a multimillion-dollar firm. I’d stood before world leaders and attended parties with famous celebrities, and I’d spoken to a group of over a thousand businesswomen once, and none of that gave me the butterflies in my stomach like working up the nerve to speak to a woman who might already consider me a murderer.
Still, like my former congresswoman, old E. W., I persisted. With a shaking hand, I rang the bell, and a few moments later the door was opened by Sunny herself.
She gasped when she saw me on her doorstep. “Catherine,” she said. “Oh, my goodness! What a surprise. I heard what happened to you the other night at Pierre’s, you poor thing. Are you all right?”
Her greeting left me speechless. I mean, I’d been prepared for a number of reactions, but genuine concern for my person was not one of them, and without warning, I found myself welling up. “Hello, Sunny,” I said, blinking furiously in an attempt to chase away the tears.
“Oh, honey,” she said, stepping to the side. “Come in, and I’ll fix you some tea.”
I swallowed hard and dipped my chin slightly as I stepped carefully past her rounded belly. I found it hard to speak, and even more difficult to know what to say other than a hoarse “Thank you.”
She shut the door behind me and then moved ahead, waving me forward. “The kitchen is this way.”
We walked the length of a long hallway that gave way to a large, beautifully lit gourmet kitchen with a white marble countertop, gray cabinets, and a black slate floor. “Take a seat at the table,” she instructed, and I did, finding an upholstered chair to sit in.
Meanwhile, Sunny busied herself by filling the teakettle and getting down a teapot and two china cups from the cupboards. “You know, it’s so funny that you’re here; you’ve been on my mind so much this morning,” she said.
“I have?”
She smiled kindly at me. “Yes. I heard all about Pierre’s. I’m so sorry they did that to you.”
I bit my lip at the mention of the memory. “So . . . you don’t think I’m guilty?”
She laughed lightly. “Oh, honey, of course I don’t think you’re guilty! No one does!”
“That’s a surprise,” I said.
She nodded knowingly. “I’m sure it is. You were treated so unkindly by Heather and her posse, I think that if the situation were reversed, I’d probably think everyone thought I’d done it too.”
“Can you tell that to the police?”
“You mean my brother?”
It was my turn to gasp. “What?”
“The detective who arrested you. Steve Shepherd is my brother,” she said. “He’s my twin, although technically I’m older than him by almost twelve minutes.”
I stared at Sunny with large, unblinking eyes for at least thirty seconds. “But he thinks I’m guilty!” I finally said . . . perhaps a bit louder than I’d intended.
The whistle of the teakettle drowned out much of my outburst, however, and Sunny spent a moment in silence pouring the hot water into the teapot before coming over to sit down across from me. “Maybe,” she said. “And maybe he doesn’t.”
I stared at her in confusion. “That’s a little cryptic, Sunny. Could you be more specific?”
“What you have to know about Steve, Catherine, is that he’s very, very clever. I know he doesn’t always let on that he’s the sharpest tool in the shed, but he is. And sometimes he likes to run a good ruse to root out the real culprit, which I believe—and, mind you, I only believe it to be true, because he hasn’t spoken specifically to me about it—is what he’s up to with the whole public arrest thing at Pierre’s.”
I rubbed my forehead. “I still don’t think I’m following you.”
Sunny got up and moved over to the simmering teapot, bringing it over to the table with the two cups; then she also retrieved a small pitcher of cream and a matching sugar bowl. “Steve is trying to root out the real murderer by making it look like he’s focused only on you. It’s why he made your arrest so public, and why he pushed to have the D.A. file charges so quickly.”
My jaw dropped. “But that’s so unfair!” I exclaimed. My goodness, I was having a hard time controlling my emotions.
Sunny eyed me with sympathy. “I know it seems that way, Catherine, but if it works, then it might all be worth it.”
“But you haven’t talked to your brother about it, right? So you don’t really know that’s what he’s up to.”
“Correct. I haven’t spoken directly to him about the case. But I do know him well, and that’s what I suspect he’s up to with all of this public attention on you as the suspect.”
Sunny poured me some tea and then offered the cream and sugar. I spent a little time trying to sort out all this new information by filling my tea with a bit too much cream and sugar. The tea was light and delicious all the same. “Can I ask you something that may sound weird?” I said at last.
Sunny grinned. “You want to know why I don’t think you did it, right?”
“Yes.”
“Well, because, what’s the motive? I mean, you’re going to kill Heather over a misunderstanding? That doesn’t make any sense to me.”
“It wasn’t a misunderstanding,” I said. “Heather meant for me to show up looking and acting like the hired help.”
“Well, of course she did. That bitch was just plain mean, Catherine, and everyone thought so, but we were all a little afraid of her, so no one was ever willing to stand up against her. And she’d hazed all of us at some point or another. Even me, and I’d known Heather since grade school.”
“So that’s what you think that stunt at the luncheon was all about? Just a hazing?”
“No,” Sunny said. “No, I think it went a little deeper than that. She really did hate you.”
“Do you have any idea why?”
“Well, I think it’s because you got to Nigel.”
“I got to Nigel? You mean her ex?”
“Yes.”
“What does that mean, though. That I ‘got’ to Nigel?”
“The oceanfront lot,” she said simply. “You got him to sell it to you. What you might not realize is that Heather tried for years to get him to sell it to her. She was furious that he’d sold it to someone else when she’d done everything she could think of to entice him into selling it to her.”
“Why was that lot so important to her? I mean, isn’t her estate big enough?”
“I sure thought so. But I believe Heather had other plans for it. She was going to build one of those awful mega homes—you know, a real pig-mansion—or maybe even squish two houses onto the lot and turn a nice profit.”
I blinked again. “Heather was in construction?”
“Yes. After her ex—Tony—met with an untimely end, Heather took over her husband’s construction firm, and she’s been building these god-awful homes all over the area ever since.”
“What do you mean by Tony’s untimely end?” I asked. This was one of the most interesting conversations I’d had in a very long time, and I felt like someone asking to be read the Cliff Notes on an engaging saga.
“Well,” Sunny said, taking a sip of her tea, “there were rumors that Tony was involved with the wrong kind of people, if you get my drift.” For effect, Sunny pushed at the side of her nose.
“Ahh,” I said. “The kind that likes to fit their enemies with cement shoes?”
Sunny winked. “Exactly. A few years ago, Tony was found dead at the base of a bridge on the other side of the Hamptons. His car was parked and still running by the side of the bridge when his body was found. The M.E. rul
ed it a suicide, but no one—including my brother—thought he’d killed himself. Steve spent a lot of time looking into Tony’s business dealings, trying to find something that would point to evidence of foul play, but he could never find anything substantial, and Heather flat out refused to cooperate.
“In fact, for a long time after that, I remember Heather ran pretty scared. Always flinching at loud noises, declining social engagements. And she was seen very little in public. When she was spotted, she was always wearing last year’s fashions. My housekeeper even told me that she let all but one of her staff go, indicating she’d fallen on hard times. But then things seemed to improve for her, and she started socializing again and boasted that her business was booming.
“The jewel in her crown was going to be Nigel’s lot and the new houses she’d build on it.”
“It’s hard to imagine more than one large home on that lot.” I said. It was a short trip from my back door to the beach—maybe only a hundred feet, so it was impossible to picture two large homes on the site.
“Trust me,” Sunny said, “Heather would’ve found a way to cram in more than one home on that lot. At some point, I think that Nigel figured out Heather was just using him, and he did an end run around her by selling the property to you. At least that’s my theory. She was absolutely furious when she found out. She dumped him the second the news reached her, and then she went around town issuing threats and vowing revenge against him. It was as if she was coming unhinged, and it scared Nigel enough to pack up and leave the Hamptons.”
“Wait, he left?” I asked. I’d had no idea.
“Yep. I heard he headed to Florida. Now that she’s dead, I don’t know if he’s coming back, but I wouldn’t count on it.”
“Wow,” I said, stunned by these revelations. “And here I thought the bad blood between me and Heather was because I’d blocked her view of the ocean.”
“Oh, she was pretty ticked off about that too, but by then that was just adding insult to injury,” Sunny said. “She had several reasons to hate you.”
I shook my head. I’d had no idea the ill will had run so deep, but it helped clear up a lot of questions. “Sunny?”
“Yes?”
“Do you know who might’ve killed her?”
My host shrugged. “Pick any name out of a hat, Catherine, and they’re as likely to have killed her as the next person. Heather was deeply disliked, but revered. Nobody crossed her if they could avoid it. All these years, we put up with her crap because when she turned on you, she went for blood.”
“Besides me, who do you know that she had turned against?” I asked.
Sunny made a derisive sound. “That list is long. She turned on business partners, construction workers, friends, family, neighbors, staff, service people, city workers . . . and, rumor has it, some of the people that might’ve had a hand in her husband’s death.”
“Really,” I said. “Wow. That’s intense.”
“Yep. Just like Heather.”
* * *
I left Sunny’s home a short time later, feeling like I’d had several important questions answered, but then I realized that they weren’t the most important questions I should’ve been asking. I’d had no idea that Heather had so many enemies, and from places much more sinister than the local Junior League.
I drove back to Chez Cat more frustrated than I’d been when I’d left it. The other thing that bothered me was this whole arrest thing with Detective Shepherd. I found myself furious that he’d arrested me in public like that when he knew I hadn’t killed Heather.
I mean, what the hell had I ever done to him?
As I pulled into the drive and waited for the garage door to lift, the seed of an idea came to my mind. It was a bold idea for sure. And it could totally backfire. But it was one I felt I needed to see through.
Lifting my phone, I dialed the now-familiar number.
“Catherine,” Marcus Brown said, his voice warm, possibly amused. “What’s happened?”
“Hello, Marcus. So sorry to disturb you on a Sunday.”
“Not an issue. What do you need?”
“Information.”
“What kind?”
“The self-revelatory kind.”
“Intriguing. Continue.”
“How good of a defense attorney are you?”
“Exceptional.”
I exhaled in relief. He hadn’t even hesitated, and I felt that Marcus wasn’t the kind of man who issued falsehoods about himself to pump up his own ego. No, I had the feeling that he was someone who held himself to a very high standard and worked to uphold that standard at all costs.
“Perfect. Can you meet me at the East Hampton Police Department tomorrow?”
“What time?”
“Let’s say around eleven?”
“May I ask why?”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
“Fine. See you tomorrow, Catherine.”
Marcus hung up, and I pulled into the garage, my palms feeling sweaty on the wheel. I was about to make either an absolutely brilliant move or an impossibly stupid one, and the only way to know which was to see it through to the end.
* * *
The next morning, I headed to my office to meet Erma. All the drama in my own life aside, I was anxious to see how she was faring after I’d given her what I was sure was terrific advice.
I hadn’t woken Gilley when I left; I’d seen that the kitchen light in the guest house was on when I’d gone to bed at ten, and I knew he’d likely stayed up late trying to hack into Heather’s iCloud account. I could handle Erma on my own.
“So, how’ve you been?” I asked when she and I were seated across from each other.
“Good,” she said, in a voice that sounded only a little unsure. “Mostly good.”
“Excellent,” I said, beaming at her. “Did you take my advice, Erma? Did you start asking for help from others?”
“I did!” she said, using that booming voice of hers.
I winced. My goodness, the woman was loud. “And how did that work out for you?”
“Good. Mostly good.”
I nodded, hoping she’d be forthcoming with the details, but apparently the woman needed to be prodded. “Sounds fabulous. Any examples you’d care to share?”
“Well, after I left here last week, I went to the grocery store and bought a lot of stuff.”
“Wonderful! I love a well-stocked fridge, don’t you?”
“For sure. But not much of what I bought would go in the fridge.”
“Really? What did you buy?”
“Mostly doughnuts.”
My eyes widened.
“That guy who works here?”
“You mean, Gilley?”
“Yeah. Well, he just got my mouth watering for doughnuts even after the six he brought me. And there was a sale at the supermarket. So I bought a couple dozen more.”
“I see,” I said, feeling my smile tighten. “But how does that work into the advice that I gave you?”
“Well, there was this sale on Mr. PiBB, and I just love Mr. PiBB, so I bought a couple cases. Anyway, my grocery cart was really loaded down, and when I left the store, I passed by these kids sitting on a bench outside the grocery store, so I asked if they would help me load the groceries into my car, and they said, ‘Sure!’ That’s not something I ever would’ve done if you hadn’t told me to.”
I clapped my hands. “Excellent! See, Erma? When you ask for help, good things happen!”
Erma nodded with enthusiasm. “Yeah, I know, right? It was good. Well, mostly good.”
My brow furrowed. “Only mostly good? Didn’t the kids help you load the groceries into your car?”
“Not exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means they mostly helped load my groceries into their car, and then they took off.”
I blinked. “They . . . stole your groceries?”
“Um . . . yeah. They did.”
“Did you call the poli
ce?”
“Um . . . no. I didn’t.”
“Why not?”
Erma shrugged and shook her head. “I guess I didn’t think about it. Plus, it would’ve made me late for work, and I had another chance to put your advice to work.”
I perked up again. “You did?”
“Yeah. So my boss, Mr. Gutworth, likes to dump a lot of stuff on my desk. Like, my job description doesn’t cover half of what he gives me to do, and I always do it, even though most days he makes me get there by seven a.m. and there’s so much work that I don’t get to go home until about seven at night.”
“That’s a twelve-hour day,” I said. I was impressed. I didn’t know Erma was such a hard worker. “What do you do again, Erma?”
“Mostly it’s data collection. I work for an attorney who specializes in tax-lien relief. I do all the background research—like tax logs, credit checks, etc., etc.”
“Sounds . . . interesting,” I said.
Erma laughed and waved her hand dismissively. “It’s dull as dirt. But I’m going to miss it.”
I shook my head, thinking I hadn’t heard her right. “You’re going to miss it?”
“Yeah. I got fired on Friday.”
My jaw dropped. “You got fired?”
Erma’s eyes welled up. “Yes. Yes, I did.”
“Why? I mean, did your boss give you a reason?”
“Well, after I got to the office and saw the stack of work on my desk, I decided to take your advice, so I marched right into my boss’s office and told him I couldn’t do these twelve-hour days anymore and that I needed help with the workload.”
“He fired you for that?” I asked, incredulous.
“No. He fired me because I walked in on him and Mrs. Man-dlebam. She’s one of his clients. They’re both married to other people. And while that might not’ve gotten me fired on any other day, last Friday Mr. Gutworth’s wife showed up just as he was yelling at me and pulling up his pants. I’d left the door to his office wide open, and Mrs. Gutworth came running when she heard yelling, and well . . . she kind of saw everything.”
“Oh, Erma, I’m so, so sorry!”
Erma shrugged. “I spent the weekend crying—and packing, of course.”
I gulped. Could this story get any worse? “Packing?”
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