Death Will Extend Your Vacation (23 page)

“Who is that?” Barbara shaded her eyes with her hand and squinted. “Oh. It’s faithful Dobbin. Love conquers all.”

“Shep? I didn’t know they were an item,” I said. “How did you?”

“I’ve seen him look at her. I don’t know if it’s a fling or a thing.”

“Want to go up and say hello?”

The stairs down which Oscar had fallen to his death looked innocent. A couple of pots of cheerful red geraniums framed the topmost step. An assortment of flip-flops and beach toys were arranged around the bottom.

“Let’s wait and watch them. I wonder if anything actually happened until Oscar died. Look, he’s going in.”

“So’s the sun.”

Barbara turned and surveyed the beach to left and right.

“You’re right. Where did it go?”

I pointed out to sea.

“Look, a fog is rolling in.” The horizon had vanished, and a thick mat of pearly gray blotted out the sun. Five minutes before, the air had sparkled. Now it felt soft and damp.

“So much for sunbathing,” Barbara said.

“Let’s go say hello to Corky,” I suggested.

“She’s putting on a T-shirt,” Barbara remarked. “No more bare-breasted maiden.”

“Good. I’ll be marginally less embarrassed when you pry into her love life.”

“So let’s go,” Barbara said. “It’s cold and gray. It might even rain. Race you there.” She trotted toward the steps, waving and calling, “Yoo-hoo!”

Corky came forward to the deck rail and waved back.

I picked up my towel and followed.

As we approached, Corky rearranged her pareo so it covered her breasts and knotted it at one shoulder. She did have a thong on underneath.

“How do you like our microclimate?”

“What happened to the sunshine?” Barbara asked.

“It’s probably smiling down on your place as we speak.”

“Likes to go slumming, huh?”

“Even south of the highway, money can’t buy everything,” Corky said. “The nearer the ocean, the worse the weather. Stay a while. Have a seat. Would you like some lemonade?”

“No, thanks,” I said.

“Yes, please,” Barbara said.

As Corky turned to go in and play hostess, a bolt of lightning ripped the rapidly blackening sky out over the ocean. Thunder rumbled as if someone up there was rolling giant boulders around. A couple of fat raindrops hit my face.

“On second thought,” Corky said, “why don’t you come in? Looks like it’s about to pour.”

On the heels of her words, the rain came down. I followed Corky into the house. Barbara lingered on the deck to raise her face and arms to the sky and open her mouth wide.

“Barbara!”

“It’s okay, I’m still wet anyway.”

I held the door until she gave up trying to catch raindrops on her tongue or commune with the thunder gods and scurried in. By that time, the rain was coming down in sheets and rattling the windows. Corky knelt in front of the fireplace, laying kindling for a fire. Barbara crouched down next to her and eyed the sticks with the air of an expert.

“Oh, you make a tepee first— so do I. And then a log cabin around it?”

“Sometimes. This time, I’m going to use driftwood. It doesn’t arrange that neatly, but the salts give the flames some amazing colors, blue and green and sometimes violet. You’ll see.”

“Were you a Girl Scout? I was.”

“Yeah. I guess I’d better make this a one-match fire, huh?”

They grinned at each other. Barbara didn’t have to make eye contact for me to know she’d just crossed Corky off her suspect list. When I got her alone, I’d remind her how many times she’d told me and Jimmy that Girl Scouts were exceptionally self-reliant. So were murderers.

“Is there any chance that you could lend us some clothes?” Barbara asked.

“Of course! It’s like a lost and found here, with so many people coming and going, and Oscar’s things are all still in his closet.”

Barbara took the box of matches from her hand.

“Go ahead, I’ll finish the fire.”

“You don’t mind?” Corky asked.

“You made her day,” I assured her.

“Give me those towels,” Corky said, “I’ll run them through the washing machine. And I’ll find you some underwear. You can throw your suits in too. Stay for dinner. That rain isn’t going to stop any time soon.”

Half an hour later, we sat curled up nursing hot lemonade and admiring the multicolored flames. Corky set out crackers, nuts, and cheese. Barbara positioned herself close to the Camembert and chipped away at it. Shep joined us as soon as the fire started to take hold, before Barbara got a chance to interrogate Corky about her sex life. We managed to avoid talking about the murders, too. Corky had been coming out here since she was a kid. They’d had a house in Springs before Oscar built this one in Dedhampton. She had a fund of stories about the East End and the locals, including the Bonackers over in East Hampton and the few remaining Montauk Indians. I had a good time. The reprobate in me thought the lemonade would have been better for a shot of whiskey. But you can’t have everything.

The rain was no longer torrential but still falling steadily when we heard a knock on the door.

“Who could that be?” Shep asked. “Nobody uses that door, and usually everybody just walks in, anyhow.”

“I’ll go see,” Corky said. She disappeared toward the front of the house. A minute later, we heard her greeting someone warmly.

“Oh, are those for me? That is so sweet of you! Of course we can use them. Come in, come in. Never mind about the water. If you want, you can drop your slicker right on the floor here. No, really, it’s fine, we love footprints. Come in and have some lemonade. You must be freezing. We’re just sitting around the fire.”

The clumping of heavy boots and the patter of Corky’s bare feet heralded her return. Right behind her, still wearing his yellow slicker hat, was Mr. Dowling.

“Look what Mr. Dowling brought us!” She held up a large, heavy plastic bag, beaded with droplets of water and oozing slightly. “Bluefish! I was going to nuke some steaks for dinner, but this is much better.”

“They’re fresh,” Dowling said gruffly. “Went out this morning, got more than I needed. I cleaned ’em too. Those are good fillets in there. Corinne here never did like the cleaning part.”

“Sounds like you’ve known each other a long time,” Barbara said.

“Ben taught me how to fish,” Corky said. “A long time ago.”

“Started you on snappers,” he agreed, “and you worked your way up to thirty-six-inch blues. You used to love coming out in the boat. It’s been a while, missy.”

“Too long, I know. And lately, with everything happening— I’ll come out with you, Ben, I promise.” She turned to us.

“Did you know he takes parties out fishing? You should do it before the end of the summer. His rates are better than anyone else’s, and he knows everything there is to know about fishing and the waters around here.”

“You don’t mind clumsy beginners who squeak when they have to bait the hook and might knock their fishing pole into the water?” Barbara asked.

“Not at all,” he said. “Everybody starts somewhere.” He had an unexpectedly charming smile.

“It sounds great,” she said. “Do you have a card or something?”

“Corinne can give you my number, or you can stop by the stand.” He chuckled. “We don’t go in for cards much around here. If I’m not there, leave a message with my wife, and I’ll get back to you.”

“You must be so busy on your farm right now,” Barbara said. “And all the other work you do— I’m sure we aren’t your only customers.”

“Ben’s the best,” Corky said. “And he’s definitely in demand. They worship a good handyman around here.”

“There’s always time for fishin’,” Dowling said.

He wouldn’t sit down or stay for some lemonade. Corky saw him to the door. Her voice floated back to us.

“I can’t thank you enough for the fish. We didn’t see much of you last summer, and I missed you.”

Corky’s effusive thanks and Dowling’s self-deprecating replies faded as she stepped outside to wave him off. We heard his truck cough and start.

“You should do it,” she said as she came back into the room. “You’ll have a great time. He’ll tell you wonderful stories about the area. And the fishing itself is fun.”

“Gutting and filleting are not the fun part,” I said. “I think I can remember that.”

“This has been a great evening,” Barbara said two hours later. “I’m stuffed.”

“It was all delicious,” I told Corky. “I like bluefish better than I expected to.”

“It’s brain food,” Barbara said. “Oh, my tummy! It’s a good thing I’m wearing Oscar’s clothes. Oops. Is it okay to talk about Oscar?”

“It’s fine,” Corky said. “I think about him all the time.” Shep, who was sitting next to her on a squashy love seat, took her hand and clasped her fingers in his. “I’m almost ready to deal with his ashes.”

“You had him cremated?” Barbara asked.

I looked around, as if the ashes might be sitting on top of the mantel or on an end table.

“It’s what he wanted,” Corky said. “The urn is in his room. I didn’t want to leave it there, but I couldn’t think what to do with it until this evening.”

“What will you do?” Barbara asked.

“I asked Ben to take me out past Montauk to scatter them, and he said he would.”

“It sounds perfect,” Barbara said.

“Is it legal?” I asked.

“I don’t know and I don’t care,” Corky said. “We’ll go out toward Block Island, but we’ll stay away from the fishing fleet. Ben doesn’t mind.”

“Can I come?” Shep asked, playing with her hand.

“No, this is something I have to do by myself.”

“With Dowling,” Barbara said. “If he’s known you since you were a kid, he must have known Oscar a long time too.”

“They were friends,” Corky said. “Ben is only a few years older than Oscar was.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed. Mr. Dowling looks so weather-beaten.”

“That’s the way farmers and baymen look,” Corky said.

“Is Mrs. Dowling younger than she looks too?” Barbara asked.

“Younger than Oscar,” Corky said. “I’ve seen her at town functions, and you’d be surprised at how good she looks when she dresses up a little. She’s from one of the old families, too, the Dedhams. Everybody knows them. She’s got a brother on the town board.”

“There’s a family named Dedham?” Barbara asked.

“They were the original settlers.”

“Jimmy would love to hear this,” Barbara said. “He’s a history buff.”

“Understatement,” I said.

“Oscar was very interested in the town’s history,” Corky said. “He would have loved telling Jimmy all about it.”

“Maybe that’s why Oscar and Dowling got along,” I said. “They were on different sides, farmer and developer, but Oscar loved history.”

“And Mr. Dowling was history,” Barbara said.

“A lot of farms out here have been in the same family for two hundred years or more,” Corky said. “You know, land out here can cost upwards of a million an acre, and a cornfield can be fifty acres or more.”

“Awesome when you do the math,” I said. “I wouldn’t be mad at a friend who offered me that kind of money, even if I didn’t want to sell. It’s a wonder any of the local farmers stick it out.” This spectacular oceanfront property Corky had just inherited was worth a bundle.

“Oscar would bring it up from time to time. Ben always told him to forget it, he’d never sell, but I thought in the last year or so he started to waver.”

“Did any other big developers make him an offer?” Barbara asked. “Like Morton Day, the one who’s doing the new golf course?”

“He tried,” Corky said. “Dowling turned him down flat. If Ben had sold to anyone, it would have been to Oscar.”

“How was your day?” Barbara asked, draping herself over Jimmy as he sat at the computer.

“Don’t strangle the man,” I said.

“My day was fine,” Jimmy said. “What on earth are you wearing?”

“Oscar’s clothes. Where is everybody?”

“They all went to the movies.”

“Did you find anything interesting online?”

“Yep. I read Clea’s whole series of articles in the
Deeds
about how the developers are milking the area and what different groups are doing to stop it or at least slow it down. It ran all last summer. The paper promised more revelations to come. I guess she meant to write more about it this year.”

“Don’t they publish the paper in the winter?”

“Yes, but not much happens. The Hamptons turn into a pumpkin by November or so. I also found out—”

“Hold that thought,” Barbara said. She dashed out of the room, and we heard her rummaging in the kitchen.

“Barbara, what are you doing?”

“Just looking,” she called back. “Jimmy, did you eat?”

“We had a huge dinner,” I told him.

Barbara reappeared in the doorway.

“There’s plenty in there. Leftover baby back ribs, gallons of ice cream.”

“I’m fine,” Jimmy said. “And the gang said they’d bring me back pizza and popcorn. Don’t you want to hear what I found out?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Phil filed for bankruptcy a year ago,” Jimmy said. “Chapter Eleven, anyway, which allowed him to reorganize his business as long as his creditors and the court approved his plan to pay off his debts.”

“What was the business?” I asked.

“He called it communications consulting, which could mean anything,” Jimmy said. “I was more interested in the financing than in what he actually did.”

“I bet he didn’t tell the court his debt repayment plan consisted of going to Atlantic City and playing blackjack until everything was copacetic,” I remarked.

“No, but somehow he got himself back together. There was an influx of money from somewhere.”

“You mean the money didn’t necessarily come from where he said it did,” Barbara said.

“Exactly,” Jimmy said. He shut down the computer and shoved back his chair. “I have to do some more digging, but not tonight, peach. I almost dozed off waiting for you. Let’s go to bed.”

“Me, too.” I yawned wide enough to hear the click the hinge of my jaw makes when I ask too much of it. “Today I got baked and then dipped in brine and then soaked, with a big meal on top of it. I’m very, very sleepy.” The second “very” came out on an even bigger yawn. “Night night, guys. See you in the morning.”