Death in the Family Page 7

  “I’m not setting foot in the same room as that bitch.”

  “I’m sorry, but you don’t have a choice.”

  Flynn’s fury was starting to mount again. It bared itself in the clench of his teeth and the bulge of the blood vessels at his hairline. “You saw his bed,” he said in a voice that was low and dangerous. “She slept in that bed with him. She was alone in the room with Jasper all night, and they fought, and the bed’s covered in his blood and he’s nowhere now, just gone.” He dug his nails into the pillow and twisted hard. “What’s wrong with you? Are you seriously so stupid that you don’t see it? She killed my brother. I don’t know how she did it, but she did. And if you don’t do something about it, I swear to God I will.”

  “That sounds like a threat.” I made a show of noting it on my pad. “Watch yourself, or the next conversation we have will be at the station.”

  “You don’t scare me,” he said with a sneer. “If you think you can manipulate me, you’re wrong.”

  “Tell you what,” I said, spotting my chance. “You do what you’re told, and I’ll try to find your brother. When this is all over you can file a complaint against me—here, take my card.”

  I reached into my pocket and tossed the card into his lap. Reflexively, he raised his right hand from the pillow to bat it away.

  It was a quick glimpse, but it was enough to confirm what I’d come to suspect. The knuckles on the hand Flynn was hiding all this time were an unmistakable shade of fresh-bruise blue.

  SEVEN

  Change of plans,” Tim said.

  He met me at the bottom of the stairs, where I watched Flynn join the others in the parlor to make sure he sat as far from Abella as possible. Ned and your family are down there, I’d told him. If you’re right about Abella, are you comfortable with that? Begrudgingly Flynn left his room, but I knew he’d bring his anger with him. He’d thrown a punch at something—or someone—already. I didn’t trust the man at all.

  “That was the headquarters.” Tim waved his phone at me. “You’re not going to believe what they said.”

  A dozen ideas sparked to life in my mind, each more preposterous than the next. Jasper’s a drug addict who owes an inner-city thug a fortune. The Sinclair family crossed the Mafia and it’s payback time. Abella Beaudry is Canada’s Lizzie Borden, a fugitive on the run. I was wrong on all counts. My confusion escalated as Tim recapped his call.

  “What do you mean, they’re not coming?”

  “They tried.” Tim looked apologetic, and a little embarrassed. To him I was still a cop from the big city, and he wanted to show me his rural operation was the real deal. “The troopers got as far as Heart Island,” he explained. “There was another vessel in the water, a Boston Whaler full of teens who thought boating in a nor’easter would be fun.”

  “Shit,” I said, recalling our own harrowing ride. “So they got sidetracked by a rescue. They’ll be here once they get those kids back to shore, right?”

  “The Whaler capsized in the channel. The timing was lucky—those kids would have drowned. But our guys didn’t see it until the last minute. They hit it.”

  “They hit it?”

  He shrugged. “Their boat’s a mess, and a couple of the injuries are bad. They had to bring in the Coast Guard to help. I put in a request for another boat, but with the flooding in town and the storm getting worse, every deputy’s overwhelmed. For the foreseeable future, we’re on our own.”

  Over Tim’s shoulder I could see the family collectively straining to hear us. I grabbed the man’s elbow and pulled him toward the stairs. “Okay,” I said, thinking, Breathe, Shay. Breathe. “Let’s recap the situation. We don’t have a body. The evidence is locked up safe and sound. We’re fine on our own for now.” I tried to sound believable and ignore the fact that what I felt tugging at my collar was fear.

  “Agreed,” said Tim. “We’re fine. Lots more interviews to do still, and all the time in the world to do them. How’d it go with Flynn?”

  “He likes the girlfriend for this, but I’m not convinced yet. I think the family dynamics around here are off.”

  “You mean these filthy-rich blue bloods from Manhattan aren’t the Cleavers? You don’t say. In the meantime, I’ve gathered some useful information.”

  “Really?” I said, perking up.

  “Oh yeah. I’ve mapped the location of the incision from Bebe’s facelift. I can tell you how recently each of the men shaved, whether they file or clip their fingernails, and who didn’t eat enough for breakfast. When Ned’s stomach growls it sounds like he swallowed a howler monkey.”

  Tim’s humor helped to calm me down. We were both chuckling when I noticed Philip Norton walking toward us.

  “It’s almost noon,” Norton said. “Everyone’s getting hungry. Would it be okay if I excused myself to make the lunch? It’s chicken soup with fennel and farro, and homemade buns. Jade’s favorite.”

  Audibly, embarrassingly, my own stomach rumbled. I had hours of interviews ahead of me, and I was already as ravenous as Ned. We’d all need to eat eventually, wouldn’t we? The kitchen was right down the hall from the parlor, and Norton worked alone. The only opportunity he’d have for collusion was with the deli meat.

  “That’s fine,” I said decisively. “I’m stepping out to make a call.” I was still wearing my jacket, and the fire in the parlor had brought up the temperature in the house. Between the heat and my hunger, my head swam. “Wellington will be here to . . .”

  “Keep an eye on things,” Tim said.

  “Right,” said Norton. “In case it’s the butler in the kitchen with the knife.” His entire head went fuchsia. “My God, I’m sorry. I can’t believe I said that.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Tim. “Nerves. Happens to everyone when cops are around.”

  Norton nodded. “Thanks for your help with this. It’s a hell of a thing. We’re all glad you’re here.”

  We’ll see how long that lasts, I thought as I watched Norton walk to the kitchen and made my way down the hall. In my ten years working as a detective I’d only been popular with one suspect, and that case nearly got me killed.

  I wasn’t in the habit of calling Carson from work. I didn’t want to remind him what I was doing, and he didn’t want to be reminded. At the same time, it was clear Tim and I were going to be occupied on the island for hours. The least I could do was let him know where I was.

  I pushed open the front door, savored the cold air on my skin, and dialed. Carson, when he answered, sounded distracted. I could hear him typing on his laptop while an industrial cappuccino machine hissed and spit in the background. He was at the coffee shop again, and not likely to be chipper. My timing couldn’t have been worse.

  When he first brought up the idea of leaving the city, I was as worried about him as about myself. What did Jefferson County have to offer a man like Dr. Carson Gates? What would he do in a little village upstate after the stellar career he’d built in the city? The money he’d been making in Queens was good, the work important. It satisfied him, and that satisfied me—after all, his work was what brought us together. We owed a lot to his job. Yet he didn’t hesitate to leave it for me.

  Over time I warmed to the idea of him opening his own practice in Alexandria Bay. I imagined I would visit him when he was between patients and we’d share a tuna fish sandwich at his spotless glass desk. Three months into our new life, though, there was still no desk, no office. He was ironing out the details, constantly visiting potential locations. He was arranging meetings with local physicians to lay the groundwork for referrals. He liked that part of the process. But I could tell he was getting impatient, especially on the days he didn’t have somewhere to go. That’s when he’d head to the coffee shop around the corner from our short-term rental to send e-mails. The place was dingy and crowded, the coffee burned, but it was better than our apartment, which was well below Carson�
�s standards. Whenever I suggested finding someplace better, he reminded me setting up a new business while planning a wedding takes major cash. To do it all right, we had to save a little now. We’d be glad we did later, he explained, once we were settled into a big, contemporary house on Swan Bay.

  “Busy, hon?” I asked, turning my shoulder to the wind. Way down by the boathouse below me, whitecapped waves smacked the island’s stone wall. Tim was right. The weather was getting worse.

  “Always,” said Carson. “But I’m glad you called. What is it we agreed on for dinner? I’ll take a trip to the market.”

  “Fish.”

  “Right. Fish.” I could sense him deliberating over sauces—remoulade, dill and lemon, or mustard cream? Cooking was Carson’s passion. “We should eat on the early side, yeah?”

  “Oh,” I began. “I—”

  Carson groaned. “Please tell me you’re not going to your parents’ place again.”

  “No, no,” I said quickly. “But I’m not sure when I’ll be home. I’m . . . kind of on a case.”

  The patter of his keyboard fell away. All I heard now was the cackle of a female patron and the steady thump of coffee-shop indie pop.

  I’ve never had a problem keeping casework at the office when the workday is done. I hear doctors are the same way, especially the ones who treat sick kids or disassemble dead bodies. Bring that shit home and it’ll invade your world like a cancer, spreading unchecked until it consumes everyone you love. The darker your workday, the tighter its grip on your heart. For that reason, I didn’t want to tell Carson too much.

  “It’s a missing person situation on one of the islands,” I said. “It’s weird, but nothing major yet. May take a while, though.”

  “A disappearance.” His awe ballooned into disbelief. “Please tell me you’re joking, Shay.”

  “Hon, I’m fine.”

  “What island?”

  “Tern.”

  I was curious to see whether he’d heard of the owners like Tim had. If Carson knew Tern Island, he didn’t let on. Instead, he said, “You’re not fine. Fine is not what you are. You’re not ready for this, not even close.” I could picture him at his coffee-shop table with a finger pressed against his temple, massaging the skin in slow circles like he did when he was stressed. Carson took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. “Shay. When you went behind my back and applied for this job, I humored you.”

  “Humored me? You were furious.” I’d never seen Carson so mad as when I told him I was going back to work. He’d likened my decision to a kamikaze mission. We fought that night for the first time ever, didn’t talk at all the next day.

  “I wasn’t furious, I was worried. It was a huge decision, Shay. You should have run it by me first.”

  “I knew what you’d say.”

  “Doesn’t that tell you something, babe? If it’s dangerous—not just to you, but to everyone around you—why do it?”

  “Because,” I said, not liking how much I sounded like a pissy kid, “this is my career. It’s what I do.” It was the same argument I’d been making for months, and Carson was no closer to understanding. I needed to get back to what I loved. I needed to know if I could.

  If Carson had his way, I’d still be a shut-in. And that was what I needed, at first—to be sheltered while I worked through my mental state and emotions. What it all meant. He’d handled everything from the shopping to our finances while I recovered. But more than a year had passed. I’d undergone countless hours of counseling and worked through the trauma step-by-step. Carson couldn’t seriously believe I’d be willing to hide forever. What was he doing for all those months if not helping me move on?

  “Look,” I said, because I couldn’t stand his silence or the immense disappointment it conveyed. “I’m taking some statements over here, that’s all. This missing guy will probably turn up. Tim’s sure of it.”

  “Tim,” Carson repeated. “You’re there with Tim.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Of course I am.”

  There was a long pause before Carson muttered something I couldn’t quite hear. “Listen to me, all right? This is serious. Be careful. Be aware of what you’re experiencing, Shay. If you notice any kind of stress reaction, any familiar signs of—”

  “I’ll call you,” I said, unwilling to hear the laundry list of symptoms yet again. “I will.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Stay safe.”

  I knew he wanted to help—he was the only one who could, who truly understood. But sometimes when Carson talked about my condition, the seeds of fear and doubt already planted in my mind took me back to the dark place I started in—and once there I had a hell of a time leaving without him. As I pocketed my phone I felt the memories rush forward, a psychological assault that forced my chin to my chest and turned my legs to goo.

  I was on the floor of the cellar where the smell of fried meat lingered, hugging my knees to my chest. I watched it happen. Waited for my training to kick in. Knew it never would. There was blood on my hands and a dead man on the floor, his name a sizzling brand on my heart next to the others. Jay Lopez. Becca. Lanie. Jess.

  The wind lifted the ends of my hair, and I turned to face the Sinclair’s house once more. The pain those names inflicted was as fresh as ever, but I forced myself to repeat them. Jay. Becca. Lanie. Jess. I chanted them like a mantra under my breath until they blended seamlessly into one long, lilting gasp. Only then did I add another.

  Bram. Bram. Bram.

  EIGHT

  I would have settled for a grilled cheese and a glass of water. Philip Norton was cooking a feast. It was nowhere near ready when I got back inside, but I was glad for the extra time. As Tim entertained the guests-slash-witnesses with stories of how the islands got their names—this one after the British Overseas Territory where Napoleon Bonaparte was exiled, that one for General James Wolfe when the area was under British rule—I spotted my chance to substantiate some of Flynn’s hand-to-God account.

  “Abella,” I said from the parlor doorway. “Can we talk?”

  The woman jumped to her feet. Holding it together in a house full of strangers couldn’t be easy. With the exception of Camilla, the Sinclairs looked at Abby like she was a pariah. All eyes, Tim’s included, were on her bloodstained hip as she left the room.

  Even with unwashed hair and a face puffy from crying, Abella Beaudry was a stunner, all lashes and lips. Whether Jasper saw her as a fling or his future wife, he had good taste.

  “How are you doing?” I asked as we sat down in the library. The room was directly across from the parlor. When I’d slid the pocket doors shut behind me they’d made a sound like a dry-lipped kiss.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I just . . . I can’t believe he’s gone.”

  Abella had a slight French accent, but her English was flawless. She could easily slip from one culture to the next, Abby to Bella and back again, but I wasn’t as convinced as Flynn that her multiple nicknames were a sign of duplicity.

  “Do you have any idea where Jasper could be?” I took out my notepad and inclined my head. Abella looked at me with confusion. “Let me rephrase that,” I said. “Has Jasper ever disappeared before? Does he like to go off and spend time by himself?”

  “No. He didn’t just leave.”

  “But he was in bed with you last night. And then, this morning, he wasn’t.”

  “I know that sounds crazy,” she said. “But it’s what happened, and that’s all I know.”

  My gaze traveled back to her bloodstained hip. “Did you hear anyone come into your room?”

  I could see her picturing it, someone leaning over her sleeping body. Abella shook her head.

  “And you were in the room all night. You didn’t leave? Not even to use the bathroom?”

  “No,” she said. “I slept straight throu
gh.” Abella must have picked up on my doubt, because she added, “I had a bit too much to drink last night. I was nervous.”

  “Meeting the family.”

  “Yeah.”

  “That must have been stressful.”

  She lowered her head and worked her fingers through her tangled hair. It was looking a little greasy, her body’s reaction to the ordeal. “You have no idea,” she said.

  “Are you and Jasper serious?”

  “We haven’t been dating that long. But yeah, I would call it serious.”

  “Jasper’s brother, Flynn? He told me Jasper plans to propose.”

  Her brown eyes went wide. “What? He said that?”

  “He also said you were recently fired from your job. Is that true?”

  Her mind was still on the proposal, so she didn’t answer right away. After a few seconds she blinked and remembered where she was. “I wasn’t fired. They were downsizing, and I was happy to leave. They had me working like fifty hours a week for next to no pay. Some days Jas and I wouldn’t see each other at all, even if I stayed over at his place. I’d get home from an event at two a.m. and leave again at six that morning. It sucked.”

  “If you married Jasper, an American citizen, you wouldn’t have needed that job.” I nodded at the stately room. “You might not need a job at all.” Welcome to the lap of luxury. Get comfortable. It was the same suggestion I’d made to Flynn about Ned. The odds that the Sinclairs’ gargantuan wealth didn’t play a part in the family’s relationships seemed slim. Just like Flynn, though, Abella dismissed it at once.

  “I’m not looking for a free ride. And it’s not like in the movies. It can take a year or more to get a spousal visa. I want to work.” Her chest rose and fell under her pajama top. “I love him,” she said weakly. “I’m not using him.”