by Cleo Coyle
Matt sighed and shook his head. “And she wonders how she got involved in snooping.”
SIXTY-ONE
MY head was still spinning, but the questions wouldn’t stop. So I took my first sleuthing step, realizing many of the answers were probably right here next to me.
“Babka, you’ve been Annette Brewster’s friend for years. What can you tell us about all of this?”
She tapped her chin. “I don’t know. Some of it sounds fishy.”
“Fishy? What part?”
“The part where you ‘remember’ Annette telling you she’s selling the Parkview Palace. It was built by her family in 1885 and passed down through generations. Are you sure you didn’t dream the whole thing up, Clare?”
Great! I thought. You lose your memory and people think you’re crazy. Then you get some of it back and people still think you’re crazy!
“That’s what Annette told me,” I insisted. “There are things I don’t recall, sure. But I do remember that.”
Pausing to think, Babka repeated Annette’s words. “Under a cloud? If Annette really used those words, she was probably referring to the lawsuits—”
Detective Quinn perked up. “Lawsuits? What kind of lawsuits?”
Babka looked uncomfortable all of a sudden and theatrically threw up her hands. “Any kind of lawsuits! If you’re in business, you get lawsuits. They come like flies to a lekach. Slip and fall. Damaged property. Failure of service. Failure of product. You name it.”
“But you can’t remember anything specific?” I pressed. “Come on, help us out here.”
Babka went silent. Finally, she admitted, “Okay, maybe one. The one about the cameras. Annette was pretty upset about that suit—”
“Cameras?” Matt said. “You mean the security cameras at the Parkview? Is a pending lawsuit the reason they’re off?”
“The threat of a suit,” Babka said with a nod. “Annette was in the middle of settling it to keep it all from going public. She discovered her husband was using the security cameras to spy on guests. She worried someone on the hotel staff, maybe even the security staff, was helping him.”
“Why would Harlan Brewster spy on his own guests?” I asked.
Babka shrugged. “She said it was some income scheme of his. That’s all I know.”
“Income scheme, huh?” Quinn rubbed his jaw.
“What do you suspect?” I asked.
“A lot of famous people frequent that hotel. Harlan could have used the camera images for some form of extortion. When people like that misbehave, it’s usually worth something to news outlets. If Annette’s husband had no scruples—which is what it sounds like—he could have made a small fortune on his own version of ‘Catch and Kill’ stories.”
“What’s a Catch and Kill story?” I asked.
“A tabloid-type publication asks for money to keep a story from seeing the light of day—things like football stars abusing wives or girlfriends or politicians hiring escorts from a service that deals in underage sex trafficking.”
“Good Lord,” I said, and turned to Matt. “We need to find out more about Harlan’s car crash. Is there a paper out here? Something that covers local news?”
“The Hamptons Ledger. Come on, there’s a computer in the study.”
A few moments later we were all packed into the sunny, half-empty room. The bookshelves were as barren as the spindly modern desk, which didn’t hold much more than a personal computer.
Matt navigated to the news website. Unfortunately, the Hamptons Ledger published only a single article about the so-called accident that took the life of Annette’s husband. The location and time of the crash were listed, along with an interesting sidenote.
“There was a witness to the accident,” Matt read. “But no name is given.”
“They do say the witness was uncooperative,” Quinn said, reading the text over Matt’s shoulder.
“What do you think that means?” I asked.
Detective Quinn’s blue eyes shifted to me. “Most likely, it means this person didn’t wish to speak with the police.”
“Then we’ve got to find this witness.” I turned to Matt. “Are there any other places that report the local news? Maybe they’ll have the witness’s name.”
“Well,” Matt said, “for real Hamptons news, sprinkled with innuendo, gossip, and borderline libel, you don’t read the Ledger. We’re going to Facebook.”
“That’s an odd name for a news site,” I said.
Matt shook his head. “It’s a social media platform, Clare.”
“A what?” I looked at Detective Quinn and back at Matt.
“Facebook is a site where people create a public page all about their lives,” Matt explained. “They write up a profile of themselves, and post pictures of friends and family, news about jobs, vacations, kids—”
“You said it was public, for anybody to see?” I asked, perplexed.
“You can lock down your profile, so only friends and family see it, but plenty of people go public with their pages for more friends and likes—”
“Likes?”
Matt nodded. “You post something trenchant or witty, and your friends hit an emoji to show their reaction.”
“Emo-what? Is that Japanese?”
Matt waved his hand. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Do I have a Facebook page?”
“You never took the time to create one, though you asked Dante to make a pro page for the Village Blend.”
“How much do you have to pay for this service?”
“It’s free. Facebook makes its money with display ads, and also by selling users’ personal info to marketers.”
“They sell your personal information? And that’s legal?!” I cried, horrified, and then I remembered I had woken up in a world where your mobile phone can tell government authorities where you are and what you’re doing at all times.
Matt shrugged. “There are opt-out buttons and site warnings galore, but these days, life online is basically a trade-off. People give up their cherished illusion of privacy for cherished illusions of convenience and popularity.”
While I mulled that over, Matt tapped the computer.
“This is the Facebook home for Hamptons Babylon, the official web page for a content farm of advertorials that also reposts news items and gossip columns about anything having to do with the Hamptons community. And let me tell you, this page’s postings were required reading when I was married to Breanne.”
“You turned up in a gossip column?” I asked, surprised.
“Sometimes. But only because of Breanne being mentioned.” Matt visibly paled. “Man, I dreaded those days. The snark was always nasty, and she’d either throw a tantrum or pout all week, or both— Here! I found something.”
He pointed to a news item that someone named Roberto had posted about Harlan Brewster’s accident. Roberto’s comment about the story read:
I heard it was Galloping Gwen who had her eyes on the road when Harlan met that tree. True?
“Is Roberto talking about the uncooperative witness?” I asked.
“There are more comments under that posting.” Matt pointed. The first comment came from a woman named Valerie:
Yes and not surprised, given their festering feud.
Valerie’s comment gathered a number of little blue “thumbs-up” icons. Then at least six people asked “What feud?” and begged for more info. A woman named Justine made things clearer:
The Prescott/Brewster Feud was the Hamptons’s own Hatfield and McCoys. Now it’s over, with only two casualties—and no shootings, as far as I know!
“The Prescott they’re talking about is Gwendolyn Prescott,” Matt explained.
“I’ve seen her at parties,” Babka said. “Mrs. Prescott is an amazon.”
“She’s certa
inly athletic,” Matt said, “and well known among the horsey set. Galloping Gwen is what the locals call her because of how we always see her whenever we drive by her place—on the back of one of her horses. She owns Deerfield Horse Farm and Stables.”
“So you actually know this person?” I assumed.
“Only because of Breanne. She—”
“Took riding lessons at Deerfield,” I finished for him. “You mentioned that last night. But what’s this ‘feud’ with the Brewsters?”
Matt shrugged. “No idea.”
“Me, either,” Babka added. “Nothing specific, anyway. But I can tell you that Harlan was a piece of work. The man had an ego the size of Montana. He cheated regularly on Annette, and he made plenty of enemies. Why exactly Gwen Prescott had a grudge, I couldn’t tell you.”
“I’m going to Deerfield Farm to find out,” Quinn said and turned to Babka. “Why don’t you come with me and ask her yourself.”
Babka shuddered. “What do I look like, Ben-Hur? Horses are for Cossacks. And the stink of their plop wrecks my palate for a week. Count me out, Detective, but you have fun.”
Quinn turned to leave. I blocked his way.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“First, I’m getting into my suit and tie. Then—like I said—I’m heading over to Deerfield—”
“Not without me, you’re not!” I said. “Didn’t you read the article? That woman wouldn’t talk to the police. And if you flash your badge, she’s not going to talk to you.”
Quinn arched an eyebrow. “So you want to talk to her?”
“Sure. Matt says he knows her.” I turned to my ex. “You can make the introductions.”
Matt put up his hands. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Come on, please? You claim you want to help me. Prove it.”
After a little more arguing (and cajoling), Matt finally sighed, agreeing to come with us for the interview on one condition. “As long as he doesn’t dress like a J.C. Penney mall store mannequin.”
Quinn opened his mouth to object, but Matt was ready—
“You’ve gone undercover, right? Dressed yourself well, or maybe like a gangbanger?”
Quinn nodded. “Sure, both.”
“Then you already get it, because high society in the Hamptons has a lot in common with criminal gangs. You have to look like you belong, or they will never accept you. And if you’re not accepted, then to them, you might as well be dead.”
SIXTY-TWO
“NO way!” Matt cried an hour later. “We are not driving to Deerfield Farm in a rented Toyota Corolla.”
“Now you’re going to complain about my car?” Quinn griped.
The three of us were standing in the driveway: Matt, Quinn, and I. By now, Babka was long gone, and I was back in my blond wig and fake glasses. The afternoon had turned unseasonably warm, with birds chirping happily among the autumn leaves. Unfortunately, the chatter on the ground wasn’t quite so happy.
“You’ve already pointed out that my clothes were inappropriate,” Quinn told Matt. “You stopped me from shaving, and made me dress like a beach bum—”
“Out here, an off-the-rack suit is like a cross to a vampire,” Matt lectured. “The Hamptons elite instinctively recoil at the sight of one. But in my polo shirt and chinos, you almost look tony. The celebrity stubble is a must.”
My ex-husband was right. The detective looked quite dapper out of his wrinkled suit.
“Okay, it’s not perfect,” Matt conceded. “Your haircut’s still dorky and your big flat feet won’t fit into my deck shoes. Let’s hope Gwen Prescott thinks those clodhoppers are some sort of fashion statement.”
Quinn spun the car keys in his hand and pocketed them.
“If my car isn’t good enough, I take it we’re riding in your rattletrap getaway van?” Quinn paused. “Yeah, that will sure impress the smart set.”
Matt’s grin was as smug as his reply. “I’ll show you what will impress.”
He led us to the nearest of the twin garage doors and pressed a button. The door rolled up and the interior lights sprang on to reveal a sleek black-and-chrome ride, gleaming in luxury-car glory.
“I give you this year’s model of the Mercedes-Benz S-Class, fully loaded.”
Silence followed. Cars didn’t interest me much, but Quinn had the opposite reaction. He was speechless for a moment. Finally, he said a single word.
“Nice.”
“I have this until the lease runs out at the end of the year, and Breanne stops paying,” Matt explained with (I had to admit) admirable honesty. “It’s good to get some use out of her before I’m forced to give this baby up.”
Detective Quinn didn’t reply. He was too busy ogling the fawn brown leather interior and the space-age control panel. I could see Quinn was impressed. Matt could see it, too.
“You want to drive?”
Quinn blinked. “Sure.”
I breathed a sigh of relief as Matt tossed Quinn the keys. It appeared my ex-husband was about to bury the hatchet.
“Get behind the wheel and I’ll brief you,” Matt said. “Some people find the technology in the S-Class a bit challenging.”
“Please,” Quinn replied, close to rolling his eyes. “I drove a sector car for years—in Manhattan, with advanced-pursuit training. And I’ve driven high-performance vehicles on undercover assignments. I think I can handle this wagon just fine.”
Quinn adjusted the seat and started the car. A moment later he gently rolled it out of the garage.
“I can feel the power under that hood,” he said, nodding.
“It’s a convertible. Pop the roof.”
It took a moment, but Quinn worked it out. With the top down and the sun at our backs, Matt closed the garage door. I climbed into the backseat. To my unhappy surprise, Matt jumped in beside me.
Only then did the detective realize that Matt had tricked him into the role of chauffeur.
“Drive on, Quinn!” he commanded, ramming home the point. “Take a left at the end of the driveway, another left at the first crossroads, and push on until you see the sign to Deerfield Farm.”
I had seen that sign the night I arrived, but I never imagined I’d be visiting the place—or looking for clues in a murder investigation. I was a little nervous about this “undercover” act, but eager, too.
Because of the balmy temperature, I’d left Esther’s Poetry in Motion jacket hanging in the bedroom closet, though Matt probably would have objected to my wearing it, anyway. At least he approved of the lovely sweater, comfortable jeans, and low boots that I’d found in the bag Madame had packed for me—and Detective Quinn had delivered. Apparently, the future me was making enough extra dough to spend on clothes that were good enough to pass muster in these parts.
Minutes later, we turned onto the estate’s long, curved tree-lined driveway. The forty-acre horse farm had been professionally landscaped, with natural jumps interspersed with open pastureland, dense wooded areas, a large natural pond, and lots of cross-country trails.
Though I was able to glimpse the ultramodern stables, the paddocks, and riding trails through the colorful autumn trees, the feel of Deerfield Farm was very private and secluded—much as I imagined the Hamptons used to be in the days when Jackson Pollock painted masterpieces out here, before the arrival of old money, nouveau riche, tourists, and celebrities.
We parked in the small lot and followed the signs to the Main House. Aggressively modernized to provide all the twenty-first-century amenities, the nineteenth-century farmhouse appeared to be the centerpiece of the sprawling property.
A member of the staff informed us that Gwen Prescott had been riding most of the afternoon but was expected to return at any moment. I was glad for the delay since it gave me time to enjoy the magnificent view from the Main House’s expansive front porch.
When I saw two stable hands scrambling ten minutes later, I knew the rider galloping up to the house on an ebony stallion was Deerfield Farm’s owner. Seeing her approach, Detective Quinn moved toward the steps. Matt stopped him with his hand.
“Where are you going?”
“To question the Prescott woman on what she saw,” Quinn replied.
“And you’re going to flash your badge?”
“If I have to.”
Matt rolled his eyes. “That will get you nowhere. Let me do the talking.”
SIXTY-THREE
“MRS. Prescott, what a delight it is to see you again.”
Ignoring Matt, the statuesque woman dismounted and stroked her steed’s powerful neck. The horse nickered and pricked his ears at Matt.
In her boots, Gwen Prescott stood as tall as my ex, but not quite as tall as Detective Quinn. Though I’d placed her in her mid- to late forties, the owner of Deerfield had an athlete’s physique and dressed youthfully, in formfitting riding tights, knee-high leather boots, and a long-sleeve polo shirt bearing the Farm logo. Streaming out from the back of her baseball cap (also emblazoned with the Farm logo) was a glossy black ponytail nearly as long as the one on her horse.
As a stable hand led away the stallion, the woman belatedly acknowledged our presence.
“Mr. Summour. I haven’t seen you since last year’s Fourth of July soiree. How is Breanne?”
“I wouldn’t know. We’ve been divorced for several months.”
“Pity. Your first divorce?”
Mrs. Prescott’s half smile told me she was already aware of the answer, but asked anyway.
“Second.” Matt shrugged. “That’s how it is in love and war.”
Mrs. Prescott nodded once. “I’ve found love and war are often the same thing, Mr. Summour.”
“It’s Allegro now. I’m back to using my maiden name,” Matt corrected good-naturedly.
“So, Mr. Allegro, what brings you to Deerfield Farm?”
Matt wrapped his strong arm around my waist and pulled, until we were hip to hip.