Death Will Extend Your Vacation (21 page)

Barbara was equally displeased to have to keep repeating the events of that nude group swim. On top of the embarrassment, the cops’ assumption that Jimmy might have killed Oscar for putting uninvited hands on her made her furious. It shook even Jimmy’s equanimity enough that he told the cops about the missing notebook. He was ready to throw Lewis to the wolves to take their attention off Barbara. They gave all of us hell for not telling them before. Neither Barbara nor I admitted that we’d looked for it. To judge by the cops’ persistent questions and the edge of annoyance I detected when the subject came up, they hadn’t found it either. Jimmy pointed out that the police now had access to Phil’s car and his apartment. Barbara said that must mean he’d destroyed it. Burned it or shredded it or taken the subway out to Canarsie and tossed it into a Dumpster. Maybe we’d never know.

The interviews all took place in an undramatic small room like the untenanted offices that various companies had stashed me in as a temp. The lobby was the intimidating part of the police station. It was a big, high, very dark empty space with two blank walls and two glass windows, no doubt bulletproof. The one to the right shielded the receptionist’s desk, at which nobody ever seemed to be sitting. Behind the one straight ahead as the visitor walked in, the ordinary workplace life of the cops went on. I’d been in a police station or two in New York City in my time, and they allowed much more drama. Sometimes I’d been entertained. Sometimes I’d been the entertainment.

Coming out into the glare of the parking lot my third or fourth time there, I ran into Cindy. I blinked. Cindy was the only one with absolutely no connection to Clea, Oscar, or Phil.

“What are you doing here?”

She laughed. “Lost umbrella.”

She meant it was none of my business. I could take a hint. That didn’t mean I chose to. Instead of pressing her, I was sneaky enough to wait till she went in. The heavy door swung closed behind her. I counted to fifty, then cracked it open. As I’d hoped, she was still negotiating entry through the microphone. The strip of light I let in fell behind her in a diagonal on the floor. She didn’t notice. Neither did Butler, who was scowling at her through the glass.

They didn’t encourage visitors to state their business discreetly. Maybe the gloomy barrenness of the lobby was intended to make it unlikely that more than one member of the public would want in at any given time. It was the exact opposite of a hospital emergency room waiting room, where the lights are never off and the uncomfortable chairs are never empty. I’d been both spectator and show in some of those.

“Dammit, Butler,” Cindy said as I laid my cheek against the jamb, “stop treating me this way!”

“You lied to us, Cinders.” Butler’s deep voice coming through the speaker system sounded like Darth Vader’s. “Face the consequences.”

What had she lied about? Most likely, someone had told the detectives about Cindy’s role in busting up the fight at Oscar’s. What was she supposed to do? Call 911? I thought she’d done the right thing. One black eye and one bloody nose weren’t worth breaking the anonymity of the whole meeting. But if Butler was her friend, I guess she saw it differently. What was with those two? I still couldn’t figure out if they’d been lovers or if one was the other’s sponsor. Maybe they’d fought in Iraq together. They both were tough enough. I wanted to hear Cindy’s answer. But Butler caught sight of me. Her voice boomed out.

“Hey!”

I scuttled backward, letting the door fall shut. I hoped that whatever their problem was, they were mad enough at each other that Butler wouldn’t tell Cindy she’d seen me snooping. When Cindy stormed out five minutes later, I was leaning idly up against her car. She spotted me a couple of rows away and checked her furious dash. She slipped between two cars about four down in the row and strolled toward me.

“Find your umbrella?”

Her mouth twitched as she scanned my innocent face. Trying not to laugh. So not too annoyed with me.

“Nope. They had a pile of them, but not mine. Where’s your car?”

“Barbara said she’d pick me up. But if you’ll give me a ride back to Dedhampton, she won’t need to.” A quick call to Barbara on my cell phone, and we were in business.

Traffic was on my side, slow and thick enough to give us a little time. I meant to get her in the mood to talk. “Get in” and “Seatbelt!” didn’t count. I buckled up but left the belt loose enough so I could twist onto one hip, get an arm across the seat back, and watch her profile as she drove. Her jaw was very square from this angle. Expressions came and went across her face as she engaged in some interior tussle. Frustration: the brows crawled toward the bridge of her nose, the lower lip came out in a pout. Scorn: the corners of her lips curled, the oversized incisors crept out. Those bouncy little pigtails were still cute as hell. I wanted to tweak them.

As we hung a left into East Hampton village, the one with the swans and the old graveyard, she broke the silence.

“Why would somebody kill Phil?”

Ha! She was amateur sleuthing too.

For Clea’s notebook. But Cindy didn’t know about that. If I hadn’t told her, Jimmy and Barbara certainly hadn’t. Nor would Lewis have brought it up. He hadn’t even mentioned it again to me.

“Uh, because he was a tightass? Nah, not worth a hit and run.”

She looked sideways at me, keeping both hands steady on the wheel. A giant digital readout to the side of the road told us we were going fourteen miles per hour.

“Cut the crap,” she said. “I know you’ve thought about this. I want to hear what you think.”

I ticked them off on my fingers.

“One, he knew something about Clea’s and/or Oscar’s death.” There. I’d said it without mentioning the notebook.

“Killed because he was a threat?”

“Maybe even blackmailing someone.”

“Blackmail’s kind of old-fashioned, don’t you think? What used to be juicy secrets are just fodder for bloggers these days.”

“Murder is still a secret any killer would go a long way to keep,” I said. “Maybe somebody was blackmailing him.”

“Why?” she asked. “He killed Clea and somebody knew?”

Come to think of it, I knew two secrets about Phil. Oh, what the hell.

“Phil was a compulsive gambler.”

“In recovery?”

“No, but please don’t ask me how I know. I found out the night of Oscar’s party.” I played the anonymity card because if she knew he’d left traces on Jimmy’s computer, she’d say it was evidence and want us to tell the police. Then they’d take away Jimmy’s computer. I couldn’t do that to him.

“Did Phil go to the party?” she asked. “I didn’t see him, but then, I wasn’t looking.”

Our gazes locked briefly and skittered away from each other.

“No,” I said. “He was home alone the night of Oscar’s party.”

“That means we don’t know where he was,” she said. “He could have killed Oscar as well as Clea.”

“What about this?” I said. “Oscar couldn’t have been killed till after everyone had left the party. He could have waited for us to get back and go to bed. Then he could have driven to Oscar’s. Say he parked somewhere inconspicuous. He finds Oscar on the deck and pushes him down the stairs. Then he races to make it back to our house before anyone realizes he’s gone.”

“Somebody could have seen him. That red car is conspicuous.”

“Maybe he got lucky,” I said. “He was a gambler. He’d take the chance.”

“You got that right. If a gambler feels lucky, to him it’s a fact.” She skirted a line of cars going left of the windmill at the far end of the village and speeded up. “My dad was a gambler.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Right response. Gamblers are even better rationalizers than alcoholics. If they’re winning, they feel lucky, so they go on playing. If they’re losing, they have to chase the luck until it turns, so they go on playing.”

“Did you love him?”

“Unfortunately, yes. My mother was the penny-pincher, so she’s the one I rebelled against. My dad had charm to spare.”

So she’d be extra wary of a charming guy like me.

“I adored him,” Cindy said. “When he won, it was like Christmas. When he lost, she yelled and nagged and cried, but he would cuddle me and paint pretty pictures about how great life would be when the Big Win came along.” She leaned over, stretched an arm across me, and fished a cassette tape out of the glove compartment. “When I stopped believing him, that’s when I started drinking.”

She popped the tape in, and a guy started singing about how the lady was a lot like Reno.

“You like country music?”

“I collect gambling songs. But that’s as close as I get.”

We passed through Amagansett. My cell phone rang.

“It’ll be Barbara,” I said. “Jimmy hardly ever calls me, and nobody else has the number.”

I flipped the phone open.

“Yes, dear.”

“Where are you?” Barbara quacked in my ear.

“On the way back. Why?”

“Jeannette just called the house, hysterical because Wiznewski put her through the wringer, and she needs a ride home.”

I made roll ’em motions with a forefinger for Cindy’s benefit.

“She got a lift there, and I was going to pick her up when I came for you. I forgot to tell you, but if you and Cindy can swing around and get her, that would be great. The poor thing needs some moral support as much as a ride.”

“Breathe in,” I said. “Breathe out. We’re almost at Napeague, but let me ask Cindy.” I explained the situation.

“No problem,” Cindy said. “I wonder why Wiznewski put pressure on her.”

“I guess we’ll find out.” To Barbara, I said, “We’ve got it. See you later.”

I flipped the phone closed.

“Did you get Jeannette’s cell number?” Cindy asked.

“I don’t think they’ve locked her up yet. Barbara would have said.”

“Clown,” she said.

“Barbara will call her back. We both forgot to mention it, but she will.”

Cindy flicked on her turn signal and made a quick, tight U across the highway. We rolled back through Amagansett and East Hampton, not exactly speeding but not wasting any time either.

We found Jeannette in the parking lot. The sun rode high in the sky, and there wasn’t any shade in the lot. Jeannette’s creamy pink face was moist with sweat, like a peach that’s been run under a faucet. She mopped at it with the edge of her sleeve.

“Oh, thanks so much for coming for me!”

“No problem,” Cindy assured her. She clicked open the door locks.

Jeannette climbed awkwardly into the back seat. She really was a big girl.

“Let’s get you home,” Cindy said.

I twisted around in my seat so Jeannette could see my face.

“What happened?”

“They suspect me. I don’t have an alibi. Well, I do, sort of, but it’s almost worse than not having one. I’m so scared.”

“Where’s your car?”

“It’s in the shop. That’s part of why they’re so suspicious.”

“How come?” I asked. “When did you bring it in?”

Jeannette put both hands up to her damp cheeks and stroked downwards with her palms, wiping or maybe just comforting herself.

“That sergeant asked the same questions.”

“Sorry!”

“No, that’s okay.”

“Tell us,” Cindy said.

“The morning Phil got run over, I had already been out when the cops arrived. I got up early because my inspection sticker was about to expire. I couldn’t wait till I got back to the city. I wish it didn’t come due in the summer, but that’s when I bought the car. It’s a real hassle getting your car inspected out here. You have to bring it in really early and leave it all day. All the gas stations and repair shops are so busy in the season.”

“So your car wasn’t at the house. They’d want to go over it. Their next step would have been to send someone to the shop.”

“I didn’t tell them about the car until now.” Jeannette wrung her hands, as if she were shaking down a thermometer. Two thermometers.

“That was bad,” Cindy said. “Wiznewski must have been furious.”

“He was,” Jeannette said.

“But why is your car still in the shop?”

“They found a problem. The mechanic explained it to me, but I can’t keep car stuff in my head. I’m hopeless with it. He had to order a part, and we’re still waiting for it. They have a car wash in the back. There aren’t too many of those on the East End. So as long as the car was sitting there, I had them give it the full treatment.”

“Waxing, buffering, detailing?”

“I just said yes to everything.”

“And you didn’t admit this to Wiznewski until today?” Cindy shook her head. “No wonder you’re in trouble. They’ll go right over there, you know. Even if the car’s been cleaned, they can find traces of blood. Move it, asshole!” This last was addressed to an old fart in a pickup truck who eased up to a changing traffic light with exquisite timing, so that he made it through and we didn’t.

“Only if she killed Phil,” I pointed out. “No murder, no blood.”

“I hit a deer!” Jeannette wailed.

“Oh, shit! When?”

“The day before. It ran across the road so fast!”

“You could have been killed yourself.”

“I know,” Jeannette said. “So I slammed on the brakes. I’d just seen an article in the
Deeds
about how there are more deer every year and everything is so built up that they don’t have enough habitat.”

“I read it,” Cindy said. “That’s why you see them on the roads and even in the streets sometimes. Did you kill it?”

“No,” Jeannette said. “I hit it, and I think I hurt it, but it ran away into the woods.”

“That’s good,” I said.

“No, it’s not,” Cindy said. “If the deer had been lying dead on the side of the road, somebody would have seen it, and it would confirm her story.”

“Oh.”

“That’s what the sergeant said,” Jeannette agreed. “And I didn’t report it, because there was nothing to report except a few dents.”

“You left the scene,” Cindy said. “But it sounds like you only brushed it. If you’d hit it hard enough to kill it, it would have been like any collision— a bloody mess. Did you get the dents fixed?”

“No, the shop I went to doesn’t do bodywork. Besides, bodywork is so expensive. I wasn’t sure whether or not to bother. I was thinking it over.”