Dead In The Hamptons (6 page)

“Hey, Phil,” Cindy called. “How’s it going?”

He stalked over to us. Mirror shades hid his eyes, but the scowl above and below them expressed anger.

“Those bastards think I’m a suspect!”

“You had to talk to the police again? What did they tell you?”

“They didn’t tell me anything. They asked a lot of damn insulting questions that I’ve already answered over and over.”

“Sounds like they’re treating it as a homicide. Did they do the autopsy yet?”

“I have no idea. They acted like it was my fault they had to work on a holiday weekend, so they had a right to give me a hard time. How long had I known Clea, were we living together, was I seeing anybody else, when did I leave the city that day, could I prove it. What’s the sense of asking all those questions if they’re not going to believe the answers?”

“What don’t they believe?”

“When I got out here, for one thing.”

“You didn’t have a ticket for your garage?” I’d have been astounded if he didn’t garage that car.

“Sometimes I throw it away.” Phil pried a piece of gravel out of the tread of his fancy running shoe and threw it like a hardball. “Sometimes they stick it in my windshield and it blows away once I hit the highway.” The pebble glanced off the hull of the overturned boat. Phil threw another. “But I didn’t put the car in the garage the night before I came out.”

“You parked a Lexus on the street?” The shiny red hunk of overpriced machinery looked new. Garage space in the city cost a fortune. But so did theft and vandalism, in money or in hassle with the insurance company. So did retrieving it from the pound if it got towed. Even Jimmy garaged his Toyota.

“I had a lot of gear to load in the car, and I didn’t want the hassle of bringing it around to my building before I could take off.”

“Where do you live?” I asked.

“East Seventies.”

“Doorman building?”

“Of course.”

I lived less than a mile from Phil, but my building was an old-law tenement without a lobby or elevator. The closest it got to a doorman was when the super’s wife popped out in the hall in housedress, flip-flops, and curlers to see who was going up the stairs.

“Why can’t your doorman confirm you had the car parked on the street?” Cindy asked.

“He didn’t see it.” If Phil had sounded this sulky with the police, I bet he hadn’t endeared himself to them. “I parked around the corner.”

“You didn’t double park when you picked up your stuff?” That’s what everybody else does.

“The doorman wasn’t there. They’re not supposed to leave the lobby, but they always do.”

That left Phil with no alibi. He could have driven out to Dedhampton early in the morning. Or the night before. He might even have met Clea on the beach by prearrangement. If he killed her, he could have found someplace to hide out during the day and shown up at dinner time as if he had just come from the city. The red Lexus was a conspicuous car. Or was it? In the Hamptons, Lexuses and BMWs were a dime a dozen. He could have ditched it for the day, parked it somewhere it fit in. As for getting to the beach, his girlfriend was a runner. Maybe he was too. Maybe the fancy running shoes he kept picking gravel out of weren’t just for show.

So Phil had opportunity, but what about motive? Phil was the boyfriend in residence, but it sounded like Clea played the field. Could she have told him she didn’t want him with her after all? Would someone kill for a summer in the Hamptons? Or they could have quarreled about almost anything. He obviously had a temper and a streak of arrogance. She liked secrets and manipulating men, if she was anything like her younger self. She’d also chosen a profession that gave her license to be nosy. That could have given her leverage over a lot of people, including an uppity boyfriend she wanted to keep in control.

“You know, the autopsy could change everything,” Cindy said. “In a few days, if we allow for the holiday slowing things down, we could find out it was an accident.”

“Those bastards won’t make it that easy,” Phil said, “even if it does turn out she drowned. They asked if she’d ever tried to kill herself. Idiots. Nobody buys bagels and puts on their high end New Balances to commit suicide.”

When Phil left, Cindy and I picked up our tools without comment and started working on the boat again. He’d broken the mood, and I wanted it back. I hoped she did too. The rising heat of the day brought out all the country smells: dirt and flowers, green things growing, a tang of salt. Also the stink of two-day-old lobster shells. No garbage collection in Dedhampton. A heap of well filled black plastic garbage bags stood ready for a trip to the dump. Someone in the house had turned on the radio, and the strains of Vivaldi’s
Seasons
floated out the window on an undercurrent of bees buzzing and birds twittering.

I was mulling over ways to get Cindy to talk about herself when the crash and clatter of someone carrying too much beach stuff in not enough hands announced Barbara’s arrival. She dumped all but a tote bag with a brightly striped towel peeking out the top on the gravel near the Toyota and came over to survey our efforts.

“Wow, that’s quite a project,” she said. “Work— I could sit and watch it for hours. Wanna come to the beach?”

I looked hopefully at Cindy. She shook her head.

“Later. I don’t want to lose the momentum. This is the kind of project that partway gets you nothing.”

“Like a PhD in psychology,” Jeannette said, coming up behind her with Stephanie on her heels. “That’s why I’ve got a master’s in social work.” Her red flowered muumuu billowed about her. Stephanie, scrawny in a black bikini, carried a boogie board under her arm.

“Bruce, why don’t you come?” Barbara said. “Stephanie’s going to show me how to use the board.”

“If the waves are right,” Stephanie said. “If it’s too calm, you can’t even body surf. And if there’s a rip tide, you may not want to risk going out past the breakers. We don’t want another accident.”

So Stephanie thought it was an accident. Or she wanted us to think it was. Could she have something to hide? What was her relationship with Clea? Who was she? I knew she had a tendency to push her food around on her plate and was afraid of getting fat. Now I knew she was at home in the ocean. If she’d left the house the morning Clea died, would we have known? Could she have slipped out early, when Clea did? Even if she had, she had come home before the police arrived, after we found the body. Or had she? All the rest who’d spent the night in the house were accounted for when they strung that damn yellow tape around it. Could Stephanie have gone out and slipped back in during the commotion? She was almost skinny enough to slither through the keyhole.

If it turned out Clea’s death was a simple drowning, the police would drop the investigation. That would be better for all of us. But I wasn’t so sure I’d be satisfied. Our housemates seemed to have a tangled web of relationships. When you added Oscar and his crew into the mix, things got downright knotty. To mix the metaphor, I sensed currents beneath the surface.

“Earth to Bruce,” Barbara said. “Are you coming?”

“No, I’m going to stay and help get this boat seaworthy.” I would have said “help Cindy,” but I didn’t want to kindle the matchmaking gleam in Barbara’s eye. “I’ll be along later.”

“How will you get there?”

“Someone will give me a ride,” I said. “Don’t worry, Mommy. I can take care of myself.”

“We can take Stephanie’s car,” Jeannette said. “Barbara offered to drive, but we could leave her car for you.”

“Whatever.” Stephanie shifted the board from one arm to the other. Her shell necklace jingled as she moved. “Let’s make up our minds and get going.”

“Here!” Barbara tossed me her car keys. I caught them on the fly. “Try to talk Jimmy into coming down. Tell him I left a whole tube of sun block on our dresser.” Stephanie was already throwing the boogie board into the trunk of her sand-colored Chevy as Barbara scurried after Jeannette. “We’ll be on the beach by Oscar’s house,” she called over her shoulder.

Clea had run the four miles to the beach that morning. She hadn’t planned to get killed. She’d simply gone for a run. Still, she might have told somebody she’d meet them on the beach. Wouldn’t anybody planning murder come by car for a quick getaway? Our car had been the only one in the Dedhampton parking lot. We hadn’t passed any cars on the one through road from the group house to the highway. Clea had given us directions to Dedhampton Beach. It was the only public parking on that stretch of the beach. But Stephanie could have left her car at Oscar’s or hidden off the road between the parking lot and where we found her. So could anyone else in the house who had a car.

Or maybe there was no car. Maybe the killer lived within walking distance of the beach. If the murder was premeditated, he could have checked the tide table and deliberately walked close to the water, where his footprints would soon be washed away. His or hers. Or in the shallows, leaving no footprints at all.

In the next hour, I learned how come the word barnacle is the usual metaphor for clinginess. I took off my shirt. Cindy took off her sweatshirt. She had a bikini underneath. I discarded my sweat-soaked bandanna. Cindy produced a dry one from the pocket of her cargo shorts. Karen and Lewis came out of the house and asked us if we wanted to go to the beach. We remained industrious.

I was filling a bucket from the spigot on the side of the outdoor shower, planning to dump the contents over my head and Cindy’s if she’d let me, when a weatherbeaten man in overalls came around the corner of the house. He had a farmer’s tan— face, neck, and forearms— and wore a straw hat.

“I’m here to fix the shower,” he announced.

I twisted the tap shut and stood up. We both listened to the showerhead drip.

“Be my guest,” I said. I stuck out my hand. I don’t know why. Working class solidarity, maybe. “Bruce Kohler.”

“Dowling.” His thin lips tightened in what might have been meant for a smile.

“Well, I’d better let you get to work.” I picked up the sloshing bucket.

Dowling hefted a heavy wrench in his hand.

“I’ve got a boat,” he volunteered. “If you folks want to go out for blues, let me know and we’ll set it up.”

“Fishing? Thanks, maybe we will.” I nodded and started back toward Cindy.

“Any time you want a bucket of clams,” Dowling called after me, “no problem either. We’re right down the road.”

Cindy and I were thinking about quitting for the day when a car came scrunching up the gravel.

“Damn, more company,” Cindy said. “Want to talk to them while I make a break for that outdoor shower?”

“I don’t think we get a choice,” I said as Sergeant Wiznewski emerged from the unmarked car.

“Good morning, Sergeant,” Cindy called out. “How can we help you?”

I was glad she’d spoken up. I might have led with “Go away” or “It wasn’t me.” I wondered if Cindy’s stomach was fluttering inside. Mine was. She seemed cool as a debutante in spite of the dirt that streaked her legs from the knees down and the rivulets of sweat running down her cleavage.

“Afternoon,” Wiznewski corrected. He squinted at the sun rather than checking his watch before he said it. Showoff. “I’d like a word with you, Mr. Kohler, if you can spare the time.”

Moment of truth. He’d figured out the tenuous connection between Clea and me. I couldn’t imagine how. But why else would he want to talk to me? I wanted to puke. Feeling scared while sober sucked. I hoped it didn’t show. I needed to look innocent to Wiznewski and brave to Cindy.

“Sure.” My throat felt choked, but I sounded normal enough. “Uh, where?”

Wiznewski turned his head and squinted at the house. Maybe he needed glasses. I took a mini-break from the situation to wonder if I’d ever seen a cop with glasses.

“Anybody home?” he asked.

“They’re all at the beach,” Cindy said.

She’d forgotten Jimmy. That happened when he disappeared into cyberspace.

“Just one,” I said. “He’s probably got earphones on.”

“Why don’t we sit in my car,” Wiznewski said comfortably, “just to make sure we’re private.”

I bet he’d meant us to talk in the car all along. His turf. And maybe transportation to the slammer if he didn’t like my answers. I swear I hadn’t even jumped a turnstile since I’d gotten sober.

“Wait for me?” I asked Cindy, hoping I sounded calm and not abject.

“I’ll be on the deck.”

“Thank you.” I wouldn’t be surprised if she disappeared. Cindy might seem well balanced to me, but she was still an addict of some kind, like everyone else in the house. She’d make sure she didn’t leave herself too vulnerable in any situation.

“We found a contradiction in your statement, Mr. Kohler,” Wiznewski said. He’d settled into the right front seat, leaning toward me with a meaty arm flung over the back of it so I felt surrounded. The only good thing about this was he had the air conditioning on.

I said nothing because I didn’t know what to say.

“Talk to me, Mr. Kohler.”

“What was the question? Sir,” I added, so he wouldn’t think I was being flippant.

“You told us you’d never met Ms. Hansen before the evening you arrived in Dedhampton. Would you care to amend that statement?”

I couldn’t think.

“Ms. Hansen?” I said stupidly. “I’d never met any of them.”

“The dead woman. Are you stating you didn’t know her?”

“Clea’s name was Hansen.” Stupid, stupid, stupid. I cleared my dry throat and tried again. “Clea’s name was Hansen? I didn’t know that. I didn’t know her.”

Wiznewski started tapping a finger against the vinyl back of the seat. It would drive me crazy if he kept it up. I wanted to take his hand and still it, the way Barbara does with Jimmy’s leg whenever he starts jiggling it. I didn’t think touching Wiznewski would go over big. More likely to get me arrested.

“That’s very interesting, Mr. Kohler, because she knew you.”

I wished he wouldn’t call me Mr. Kohler.

“We have evidence, Mr. Kohler.”

“You think I had some kind of a relationship with her? I swear I didn’t.”

“I didn’t say you did. However, we have evidence that you had a brief encounter, shall we say a romantic encounter, with Ms. Hansen at some time in the past.”