A Bookmarked Death Page 14

  I pulled open the carton flaps. Inside were more signed art catalogs from the Hamptons. I had been saving them up to savor the way you would an unopened box of chocolates. I carefully removed several and brought them back to my worktable. The first one I looked at was a Robert Motherwell catalog from a 1980s exhibition, inscribed by the artist to a friend. Yes! I let myself look at the others; the earliest was a Thomas Hart Benton. I researched and described them, feeling the old pleasure, though I was still jittery from yesterday in court.

  I also knew that I had to go back to Southampton. I had been warned away, but Carew’s threat had all the force of a sock on a windless day.

  Still not time to go out there yet. At noon I closed up the barn and went back to the house to make a grilled cheese sandwich. Then I went downtown to Port Lewis Books.

  BECAUSE IT WAS early in the week, I thought Marty might be there, phoning collectors and gloating over his newest acquisitions. But as I parked in the residents’ lot, I remembered that he was at a book auction in Manhattan. A book auction I could have attended if my life hadn’t been so chaotic—­and I’d had Marty’s money.

  When I opened the bookshop door, the overhead bell sounded and Susie looked up from behind the counter. Her face was still flushed with new hormones, but her eyes were sad. So Paul had not come around yet. “Delhi. Hi!”

  I crossed over to her quickly. “How are you?” I kept my voice too low for the customer in the room with us to hear, a man in his seventies whom I recognized by his fashionable white mustache. He was a retired physics professor from the university who loved World War II books. Our eyes met and I gave him a wave.

  “I’m okay,” Susie whispered gamely. “Paul doesn’t want me to have an abortion, after all.”

  “Well, good! That’s something to be happy about, isn’t it?” My feelings about abortion were complicated, but I was sure that for Susie it would lead to years of regret.

  She fiddled with the sales pad. “He wants me to have the baby. But—­” She couldn’t go on.

  “But what?”

  “I can’t tell anyone. I promised.”

  “You can tell me. I’ve already heard it all.”

  “Have you? You think so?” She didn’t sound scornful, not exactly, but there was an edge of challenge there. “Well, listen to this. Paul says you can get a lot of money for a healthy white newborn. Enough to get our business going.”

  “What?” So much for not being shocked. “What is he thinking? You can’t list babies on eBay!”

  “I know that. Do you think I don’t know that? But he knows these ­people, a ­couple who’s been trying to adopt a baby forever, and have gotten frustrated. They both work, they could afford . . . to pay a lot. He says we could have our own baby in a few years.”

  “Susie, that’s crazy.” No, he’s crazy. I thought of Paul Pevney, tall and skinny with his mop of curly hair and granny glasses. He looked like someone who belonged on a college campus and I had been surprised when he had taken the job at Home Depot, though I knew they had needed money quickly. The way he loaded up books at sales had made him seem obsessed, but this went far beyond that. “He does know it’s against the law. To buy babies.”

  “Delhi, it isn’t like that.” She sounded as if she were trying to convince herself. “This is something private. He says it would be like—­you know—­me being a surrogate mother. I’d be making someone else happy.” Her eyes, behind pale blue-­framed glasses, had begun to blur with tears.

  “Never mind making someone else happy! You have to make you happy. Your baby belongs with you. This isn’t about letting someone go in front of you in the checkout line.”

  “But what am I going to do? If I don’t have him . . . Listen, Delhi, I was this big dope in high school, I was fat, I knew that no one would ever want to marry me. But Paul did. He loves me the way I am!”

  Even pregnant?

  “He says ­people do this all the time. At least”—­she stared down her stomach, which was starting to gently mound—­“this way the baby would still be alive.” She gave a laugh with little humor in it. “It’s kind of sweet, the way he’s encouraging me to take vitamins and eat right. To do everything to make sure the baby’s healthy.”

  That seemed more monstrous than anything else she had said. “When is the baby due?”

  “Around Christmas.” And then her face melted like a wax mask. The idea that she would have to give up her baby during the holidays reached her as nothing else could. She opened her mouth and began to keen like a child who has seen her pet run over.

  The retired professor leaped up from the wing chair. “What’s wrong—­can I help?”

  “No, it’s fine,” I told him, motioning him back into his chair with my hand. I had moved around the counter and was holding Susie now. “She’s just upset.”

  He lifted his eyebrows at me, but returned to his seat.

  I stayed on at the shop talking to Susie, insisting on bringing her tea from the Whaler’s Arms next door. I moved her back into the small office, where for the first few minutes, all she could do was press her hands against her stomach and sob.

  “No one’s going to make you give your baby away,” I kept repeating. “I’ll be here. And you can always go home.”

  “But Paul—­”

  “It’s his baby too. He’ll come around.”

  I hoped that was true.

  BACK IN MY van, I was still shaken as I checked my iPhone. Nothing from Hannah yet. A stab of unease. She was no doubt busy with graduation preparations, but she had always been a communicator, forwarding every adorable cat or dog photo that popped up on her screen. She was the one who had introduced me to Grumpy Cat and other animal videos. I told myself that it had only been since yesterday that I had not heard from her. Right now she was probably at the animal hospital where she had interned. She would be working there for the summer, and could continue to live in her off-­campus housing.

  Should I try her at the animal hospital? As soon as I made two other calls, I would. I asked Siri for the information and she connected me.

  Next I phoned my sister, Patience, hoping she was still at their beach home in Southampton. Once the weather was nice, she didn’t always return to Manhattan during the week with Ben and the girls. She owned her own high-­powered accounting firm that dealt only in corporate accounts and could work from wherever she pleased.

  “Hi, Delhi.” Her voice was neutral; her interest in hearing from her twin was tempered by caution about what had inspired me to call. I never called anyone just to chat.

  “Hey, Pat. I’m glad you’re out here. Are you by yourself?”

  “Of course. School’s not over yet for the girls, but I have a garden tour committee tomorrow so I stayed.”

  “Perfect! Do you want to have dinner with me tonight at the John Dory?”

  “The John Dory Inn in town? Can you afford it?”

  “No.”

  She sighed.

  “It would be early. Around six?”

  “Why so early? And why does it have to be there? I know some better places.”

  “It has to be there.”

  “Am I allowed to ask why?”

  “You don’t read Newsday?”

  “You know I don’t.”

  “Well, find today’s paper online. And then meet me.”

  “Wait, Delhi! What part do I read? You know you can’t just show up at the John Dory without a reservation.”

  A mother and daughter passed me on the sidewalk eating ice cream, so close to my window I could tell that the flavor was mint chocolate chip. Call Hannah.

  “Just go to the Web site, you’ll see right away. And we do have a reservation. That’s why we’re eating early.”

  I asked Siri for animal hospitals in Ithaca since I didn’t know the name of the one where Hannah worked. Siri produced eight, no
ne of which stirred a memory response. Hannah could just as easily be based one or two towns over, in a town whose name I didn’t even know.

  No, I’d try her at home tonight. I was sure she was fine, but I couldn’t forget Elisa’s warning.

  I’m okay. Be careful.

  Chapter Twenty-­Five

  THE JOHN DORY Inn resembled a New England governor’s mansion, white clapboard with black shutters and a large screened-­in side porch. There was even a square widow’s walk on top and pansies in the white window boxes. The restaurant was set back from the road, with parking discreetly off to one side. As I walked up the wide steps, I knew my instincts had been right. You couldn’t just appear at dinnertime and start asking questions. You especially couldn’t ask questions about a ­couple who had dined there a week earlier and been incinerated afterward, even though it was probably all the staff had talked about for days.

  Patience was already in the small waiting room, poised on a delicate chair and looking down at her smartphone. If I had been a stranger, I would have been impressed by her exquisite profile and peach-­toned skin, her blond French braid and black Armani jacket. I would have identified her as someone in television production or a gallery owner.

  I had only a moment to admire her before she turned on me, appalled.

  “Delhi? What is going on?” She was so agitated she did not even offer me the usual hug.

  “Hey, Pat. Let’s get our table and I’ll tell you.”

  The dining room reminded me of Williamsburg, with deep blue tablecloths, white napkins, and gold-­framed portraits on the walls. There were only a smattering of diners so far, but the woman I’d spoken to had assured me they were fully booked later on. The hostess brought us to a table for two under the portrait of a gentleman looking over the room with a self-­satisfied air.

  She handed us menus. I didn’t ask her for the Early Bird Special.

  Patience ignored the menu she was holding. “What’s going on?”

  “You read the story?”

  “Of course I read the story! I couldn’t believe it when I saw your photo. Why are they accusing Colin? The paper made it sound as if he did it!”

  “Of course he didn’t do it.” It made me furious that ­people would read Louis Benat’s story and think it was true. Would the university think it was true? Some of Colin’s colleagues must have read it. “The judge said they had no case. He said—­”

  “Good evening, ladies. Would you prefer sparkling water or still?”

  Patience glanced up at him, annoyed. “Tap.”

  The cheerful server didn’t blink. “I’ll get that for you right away. Your waiter will be here to answer any questions you might have.”

  Any questions? The square root of 145? Who set the fire in Southampton?

  I tamped down my hysteria. “The police have no real evidence.” I described Ethan’s letter and the boots with the mud from Southampton that the police found under the back porch. I detailed my interview with Agent Olson and Detective Carew, her disregard of my discovery of Kathleen. “They’ve decided it has to be Colin and they’re too lazy to consider anything else. The judge thought it was a joke. I think someone stole the boots, pressed them into the mud out there, then put them back. Would we be dumb enough to leave them there to be found?”

  Pat played with her newly poured glass of tap water. “But if the Crosleys are dead, who’s left to do that? Elisa’s the only one left in the family.”

  “No, she has a brother. Who didn’t get along with them.” But it planted the wild thought that maybe Elisa had finally believed what I’d been telling her and become so furious with the Crosleys for changing her life that she had ended theirs. I wasn’t sure why she would try to put the blame on Colin though. To divert suspicion from herself? She had been to our house and seen the boots lined up outside. I played out the scene. Elisa had set the fire, returned to Ithaca and then Boston, but decided it wasn’t safe. So she had taken what she needed from her room, cashed the check that Ethan had sent her, and was now God-­knows-­where.

  That could also have been why she had let Hannah know she was all right, but had not told her where she was.

  But that theory was ridiculous, as leaky as my parents’ old rowboat. Elisa had been at Cornell visiting Hannah when the fire happened. It would have taken her over five hours to drive from Ithaca to Southampton. And unless Hannah had been part of it, which I was sure couldn’t be true, there was no way that Elisa could have disappeared for ten hours without Hannah noticing.

  “May I tell you this evening’s specials?” The waiter had introduced himself as Max and was smiling expectantly. I was glad this jaunty young man was waiting on us and not the dour, gray-­haired waiter who looked like he belonged in a British country home.

  “Go right ahead,” Patience told him pleasantly.

  In the end my sister and I both opted for the seafood salad, which, our waiter assured us, was made from shrimp, crabmeat, and scallops that had been swimming in the bay that very morning! It reminded me of a dinner in France we had been treated to by a colleague of Colin’s. The waiter had gone into raptures over each course in heavily accented English. My favorite had been about a chèvre cheese: “The product of lambs—­how you say—­gamboling in the Languedoc region. They are treated to a grass found nowhere else on the continent.”

  “Would you care to see the wine list?”

  “No, I’ll have a glass of Chardonnay.”

  Patience and I said it at the same moment, our voices so similar that Max blinked and then grinned. “Sisters?”

  “Twins,” I assured him. Should I make my move now in this moment of conversation? I decided to do it closer to the tip.

  “But why are we eating here?” Patience asked when he left. “Is it to help Colin, or did you just want to see me?”

  “Both. The Crosleys ate here the night of the fire and spent over five hundred dollars. I want to know why.”

  She nodded. “Pricey for two ­people.”

  “Whatever I ask, just agree.”

  AFTER WE HAD told our waiter regretfully that we were not having dessert, he brought the check. I smiled at him. “I understand you had some excitement here last weekend.”

  “Excitement? You mean about the ­people who died in the fire?” He kept his voice low.

  “We knew them,” I whispered back. “Do you remember who they were eating with?”

  He nodded. “They were my table. No one.”

  “No one?” I was stunned. “Someone told me their check was very large.”

  He glanced around the room as if checking for spies. “They paid for a ­couple at another table. Now that you mention it, I wondered why they weren’t sitting together.” He laughed. “I thought maybe the man was going to propose and the Crosleys were treating them to dinner, but didn’t want to impose. They sent over several glasses of champagne.”

  “Did the other ­people look like family members?”

  He thought that over. “Maybe. The woman did. The man was shorter and had black hair. A burly type.”

  “You remember them very well,” Patience complimented him.

  “Hard not to. They must have been drinking before they came. They didn’t overdo it here, but they could barely get out the door.” He nodded at the leather folder. “I’ll take that whenever you’re ready.”

  Patience already had her American Express card in her hand and was slipping it inside. “What do you think?” she asked me when Max had left.

  “I think the Crosleys were setting them up for the fire. By the way: How much does a Patek Philippe cost these days?”

  “You’re in the market now? Depends on the model. And the age. Some of the antique watches are priceless.”

  “No, just an average. Does Ben have one?”

  “Of course not!” My esteem for Ben rose, and plummeted only slightly when
she said, “He’s such a klutz, he’d kill it in no time. I’d guess they start at around twelve thousand. But you can pay much, much more.”

  I nodded. A minor point, yet it threatened to upend my theory. If you were substituting another body for your own, why would you destroy an expensive watch when you could be identified by a wedding ring instead? On the other hand, if Ethan and Sheila had been so badly burned that they could not be identified, how had the watch survived so easily that Frank Marselli could identify the brand? That made it sound as if someone had slipped the watch on the man’s wrist afterward. Perhaps the Crosleys considered it a small price to pay.

  Outside the restaurant, Patience and I hugged for a long time.

  “I’ve never been this scared,” I confessed.

  “No, no, you’ll get through this. You’re strong.”

  I couldn’t say anything, just held on to her.

  “We’ll get the best lawyer in the country. If it even comes to that.”

  “Thanks.” I was glad to have her on my side.

  ON THE WAY home I went back and forth about whether I should call Frank and give him this new information. I wasn’t going to call Ruth Carew ever again.

  Frank Marselli told me that you like to play detective.

  Though I tried to get past Carew’s comment, it smarted as fiercely as a towel snapped against sunburnt shoulders. Even if it were only her own interpretation, I could hear the words in Frank’s quick, dismissive voice. I hadn’t been playing at anything, I reminded him silently. I’ve brought fresh perspective to your investigations, and kept you from making terrible errors more than once. Doesn’t that count for anything?

  This time, unfortunately, Frank’s usual skepticism at my out-­of-­the-­box perceptions was heightened because I was so personally involved. Still, I didn’t think I was that far off.

  I left Sunrise Highway at the Manorville exit, and pulled onto the side of the road, across from a farmhouse whose fields lay in darkness beyond.