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MAIA ARMSTRONG SLID A PAN of rolls into the oven. She asked, “Who’s the one documenting the buffet table for posterity?”
I peeked outside the kitchen to the dining room, where the table had been loaded down with chafing dishes and trays of salads and sandwiches. Sure, it was an appetizing spread, but this was, after all, a funeral reception. There’s a time and place for everything, and it would be nice if the guests remembered they were there to honor the deceased, not to update their snack status on social media.
“She was at the funeral home and cemetery too,” I said, watching a young woman snap pictures with her phone. “Taking selfies during the graveside service, can you believe it?”
Maia made a face. “Classy.”
The murmur of conversation drifted from the living room. About a dozen people had arrived so far. We were expecting forty. We were in Allison Zaleski’s home, a rambling two-hundred-year-old farmhouse in Crystal Harbor’s historic district.
“What do you need me to do?” I asked Maia. She was a popular local caterer there in Crystal Harbor, a town on the North Shore of Long Island. The two of us often collaborated on assignments that combined my area of expertise—dead folks—with her area of expertise: delicious vittles. Well, it’s only natural. Food has always played an important part in the grieving process. There are worse times to break bread with loved ones than when you’re all hurting from the loss of one of your own.
Maia was in her mid-thirties, with dark, catlike eyes and a cloud of Afro coils, tied back today with a pretty paisley headband. She was popular for a reason. Not only was her food the absolute best, but she was unfailingly professional in her dealings with clients. Our friendship had begun seven years earlier when she’d made the decision to move her budding catering business from a less affluent community to well-to-do Crystal Harbor.
“Well,” she said, “if you could find a place for all these boxes, that would be great.” She indicated the stacks of bakery boxes piled up all over the kitchen, brought by Allison’s friends and neighbors, most bearing the distinctive gold-and-white label of Patisserie Susanne. Yes, the same wonderful French bakery where Martin had bought the chocolate croissants that were supposed to be part of our skating lunch four days earlier when we found Allison’s body. Will you be surprised if I tell you neither of us ate a bite that day? Martin had ended up tossing our lunch into the trash.
“I’ll do that.” It was Kari, coming in from the living room. Karina Faso was my ex-husband Dom’s oldest child, by his second wife, Svetlana. Kari was only sixteen, but she was a go-getter, and Maia had started employing her part-time as an assistant on weekends. The girl was tall, like her father, and with the same dark brown eyes. She had long, golden brown hair, pulled back now in a neat braid.
“These belong in the butler’s pantry.” Kari hefted a stack of boxes and headed for the pantry, which had connecting doors to both the kitchen and dining room.
“You can put some of those in the freezer,” Maia told the girl.
“I’m way ahead of you.”
The aroma of coffee mingled with the yeasty perfume of baking rolls in the big country kitchen. Allison Zaleski had had quite a sense of style, no surprise when you consider that she’d been a gifted amateur photographer. Her artistic eye spilled over into her personal space. The irregular walls of the old kitchen were painted in broad vertical stripes of ivory and marigold yellow. The original beamed ceilings and rough plank flooring had never been replaced, nor had the enormous stone fireplace. The state-of-the-art appliances didn’t detract from the many homey touches, including a roughhewn, whitewashed display cabinet filled with charmingly rustic handmade pottery: plates, platters, bowls, and mugs with irregular edges, dimpled surfaces, and unusual earth-toned glazes.
I recognized the style of this pottery, although I’d never seen so much of it in one place. The young couple who created it had a studio on Main Street next to Janey’s Place, the health food restaurant that belonged to Dom. Yeah, named for me a couple of decades earlier when we’d been dating. I’d been introduced to the pottery couple, but I could never remember their names and was too embarrassed to ask again. To me they were Pottery Man and Pottery Lady. Allison must really have loved their work to buy so much of it. And I had to admit it looked great in her eclectic kitchen.
More pottery hung on the sides of the cabinet and sat on a sideboard beneath it. My gaze was drawn to a little ceramic mushroom, three or four inches tall. I picked it up and examined it. It was crafted in the same rustic style as the rest of the pottery, with a pale speckled glaze. There were several holes in the top and a cork plug in the bottom. A salt shaker, I realized. Or a pepper shaker, one or the other. Where was its mate? I turned it upside down and shook it. Empty. It felt good in my hand.
I was still examining the little shaker when Allison’s mother, Joleen Gleason, entered the kitchen, carrying yet another bakery box, handed to her by a guest. She looked around for a place to set it down. Every surface was taken up with food in various stages of preparation. It was organized mayhem. Well, maybe not that organized.
“I’ll take that, Mrs. Gleason.” It was Kari, entering from the butler’s pantry.
“Why, thank you.” After Kari disappeared back into the pantry, Joleen said, “Such a nice girl.” She had a strong Texas accent. Allison’s had been much milder, which made sense considering she’d moved to New York in her youth. Joleen was tall, as her daughter had been. Her iron-gray hair was cut in a practical bob that stopped just short of her shoulders. The strain of the past few days showed on her face, but I had yet to see her cry or fall apart. She and her husband, Douglas, maintained a dignified stoicism.
I was about to place a comforting hand on Joleen’s back but then thought better of it. My gut told me this reserved woman wouldn’t appreciate such an intimate gesture from someone she wasn’t close to. Not that we were strangers. I’d met Allison’s parents the previous June when Allison herself hired me to do the very same thing I was doing today: organize a post-funeral reception. Back then it had been for Allison’s late first husband, Mitchell Zaleski, who’d died tragically in a hiking accident.
And now here we were again, mourning another accidental death that had occurred during a supposedly healthful outdoor activity. There’s a lesson in there somewhere.
And yeah, the lesson just might be that the healthiest thing you can do is laze around in front of the TV with some pizza and a bottle of orange soda and leave the outdoor stuff to the risk takers. Which happened to be kind of my specialty. The pizza and soda thing, I mean, not the risk-taking thing.
Allison and Mitchell had been married for six years. He’d been close to sixty when he died, decades older than his young wife. At least it couldn’t be said he’d died young. Allison, on the other hand, had been only thirty-one, beautiful and statuesque. She’d had black hair, worn in a long, sleek curtain with blunt bangs. Her most striking feature, however, had been her violet eyes. I recalled thinking, when I first met her, that she looked like a young Elizabeth Taylor.
She hadn’t remained single very long following Mitchell’s death. Three months later she’d married Nick Birch, an unemployed actor several years her junior. From what I could tell, Nick was taking Allison’s death hard.
The Gleasons had remembered me from Mitchell’s funeral and asked me to help make arrangements. I’d been present at both the funeral home and graveside service that day, making sure all went according to plan while Maia got the refreshments ready for visitors.
Joleen was looking around the kitchen as if seeking something to do.
“Mrs. Gleason,” I said, “everything here is under control.”
“We’ve got this.” Maia was arranging cookies on a platter. “You don’t need to do anything.”
“I’m not used to not doing anything. What’s that you have there, Jane?” Joleen asked.
Only then did I realize I was unconsciously rolling the ceramic shaker between my hands. I showed it to her. “I’m thinking this must be part of a pair. You know, a salt-and-pepper set. I don’t see the other one.”
“That’s cute,” Maia said.
“You’re right,” Joleen said, “that’s the salt shaker. The pepper is darker and smaller. I haven’t seen it in a while. It probably got broken.”
“That’s too bad.” I set the shaker back on the sideboard.
“They made the set especially for her,” Joleen said, “you know, that nice young couple that do the pottery. Allison loved mushrooms. If you like it, why don’t you keep it,” she added. “It could still be used for salt or spices or whatever.”
“Oh, I couldn’t,” I said, reflexively.
“Don’t be silly,” she said. “You can ask Nick if you want, but I’m sure he won’t mind. What on earth is he going to do with half of a salt-and-pepper set? He’ll probably throw all of this away.” She swept her arm toward the pottery cabinet, her expression dour. “I’m sure it’s not his style.”
I’d fallen in love with the silly little thing, but still I hesitated. Maia made the decision for me, with a muttered, “Good grief, Jane, she wants you to have it.” She grabbed the salt shaker, wrapped it in a paper towel, and shoved it into my purse, which hung on one of the kitchen chairs.
I thanked Joleen, who said I was very welcome and headed back to the guests.
“I’d better get out there too,” I said. “Let me know if you need any help.”
“I have Kari,” Maia said. “No worries.”
I greeted people as I passed through the dining room. Most of them were friends and neighbors of mine there in Crystal Harbor. I said hello to Lacey and Porter Vargas. Porter owned a chain of sporting goods stores. The Crystal Harbor store is where Martin had rented our skates four days earlier. His wife, Lacey, owned a lingerie shop called UnderStatements. Porter was in his mid-fifties but looked younger, with an athletic build and dark hair just beginning to go gray. Lacey, on the other hand, looked her age, although she dressed well and took care with her appearance.
“Do they know what happened?” Lacey asked.
“The best they can figure,” I said, “is that Allison went for a walk in the preserve a couple of weeks ago and ended up on the frozen lake, but the ice was too thin. She fell in and couldn’t get out. The cause of death was drowning.”
“It didn’t get really cold until the end of December,” Lacey said. “I guess the ice just couldn’t support her weight.”
Porter frowned. “That doesn’t sound like something Allison would do, taking a risk like that.”
“She used to work for you, didn’t she?” I asked.
He nodded. “When she was younger, before she met Mitchell.”
“They met at the store,” Lacey said. “Mitchell came in for some camping supplies and they hit it off.”
Allison’s first husband had owned a ski resort in upstate New York. The couple had had plenty in common, despite the age difference. They’d both been sporty, outdoorsy types, always hiking, kayaking, camping, and of course, skiing. They’d been devoted to fitness and had participated in several triathlons in their respective age categories.
I glanced into the living room and spied the young woman who’d been taking selfies at the cemetery, and snapshots of the buffet table. She stared at her phone, her thumbs a blur as she tapped the screen. I nodded in her direction and lowered my voice. “Do you know who that is?”
They looked. “Sure,” Lacey said. “That’s Skye Guthrie, Allison’s best friend.”
Skye had black hair worn in the same style as Allison’s, but that’s where the physical similarities ended. Skye was about five foot three, a good six inches shorter than Allison had been, her figure somewhat rounder. She had a pronounced midwinter tan, which I suspected owed more to chemicals than an island vacation. She wore a black dress, the kind normally associated with the term little black dress. A cocktail-party dress, short and low-cut. Not the kind of thing you expect to see someone wearing at her best friend’s funeral.
But who was I to judge? In my two decades as Death Diva, I’d seen far worse. This Skye Guthrie might not be the most sophisticated creature, but I’m sure she’d loved her deceased friend.
“Oh my God,” Skye crowed to everyone within earshot, “my picture of the casket already has forty-two likes.”
Come on, work with me, I wanted to tell her. I’m trying to give you the benefit of the doubt here.
The doorbell rang and I excused myself to answer it, passing through the cozy living room, where a fire blazed in the hearth. Here, as in the rest of the house, Allison’s photography was on display. There were plenty of nature pictures, attesting to her love of the outdoors. My favorite was an arresting image of creamy-white oyster mushrooms growing on a fallen tree in the woods. The overcast sky, the low photographic angle, the shallow depth of field, all lent the picture an otherworldly feel.
There were also photos of people, singly and in groups, taken all over the world. She’d had a fondness for photographing strangers, but she wasn’t sneaky about it. It was clear she got to know her subjects before turning her camera lens on them. The result was intriguing, often quirky images full of humanity. Her photographs of architectural detail were a revelation. It was as if Allison Zaleski had seen things that other people, including me, simply passed by without notice, and the results were often striking.
I entered the small vestibule and opened the front door. I recognized the couple who stood on the front porch, their breath smoking in the cold air. They’d been at the funeral home and cemetery. I ushered them inside and accepted yet another white bakery box. “Let me take your coats,” I said. “I’m Jane Delaney. I’m helping the family today.”
“Lou Yates.” The man stripped off his overcoat and helped his companion shed hers. “This is my wife, Brenda. She’s Allison’s... well, Mitchell was her dad.”
“Oh.” Somehow I managed to juggle both their coats and the bakery box. “So you’re Allison’s stepdaughter.” I regretted the words instantly. Brenda and her husband were in their mid to late thirties, several years older than Allison had been.
Brenda’s only response was a sour look, quickly squelched. She was of average height and build. She had shoulder length chestnut hair and wore a conservative dark green sweater dress. Lou wore a dark suit and tie. Both of them appeared ill at ease. Clearly they didn’t know anyone else there.
I signaled to Porter and Lacey to join us, and introduced them. Skye Guthrie glanced furtively at our little group, then quickly redirected her attention to her phone. Porter apparently thought Allison’s best friend should meet her stepdaughter. He pulled Skye into the conversation and made introductions. Both women seemed ill at ease as they shook hands and murmured polite greetings. This close to Skye, I noticed that the roots of her hair were conspicuously pale, medium brown rather than the shoe-polish black of the rest of her hair.
I deposited the bakery box in the kitchen, and the Yateses’ coats in the small bedroom we’d set aside for that purpose. In the hallway I bumped into Sophie Halperin, who was the mayor of Crystal Harbor as well as one of my closest friends. She lived in another historic nineteenth-century home not far from there. Sophie was a pugnacious, amply padded woman in her mid-fifties and one of the best people I knew.
“Have you seen Nick?” I asked her. Allison’s young husband wasn’t in the dining room or living room.
“Last I saw him, he was headed in there.” Sophie pointed to the closed door of Allison’s first-floor home office.
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll catch you later.” I listened outside the door for a moment and heard nothing. I quietly knocked and peeked inside. The curtains were drawn against the afternoon sunlight, the room dim. Nick Birch sat slumped in an upholstered easy chair, nursing a small glass of clear liquid that I suspected was not water. He was ridiculously good-looking, with longish dark-blond hair, whiskey-colored eyes, and the kind of bone structure romance authors write about.
“I don’t mean to intrude,” I said. “I didn’t see you out there and... well, I just wanted to check up on you, see if you need anything.”
“I guess I should be...” Nick tossed his hand in the direction of the doorway. “I just needed some time.”
“No problem.” I started to withdraw.
He stopped me. “No, don’t go, Jane. Sit with me a few minutes.” He gestured toward the chair opposite his.
I closed the door and sat. Nick had shed his suit jacket and tie. His white dress shirt looked like it had been sewn onto his toned torso. I assumed Allison’s money had paid for the bespoke clothing—that is, the money she’d inherited when her first husband died. As far as I knew, Nick’s acting career had yet to take off. There’d been a soda commercial some time ago. Several people had mentioned that commercial to me. Clearly it was the highlight of his career thus far.
He sipped his vodka. “How are her folks doing?”
It seemed an odd question for the young widower to be asking of the hired help. Then again, he’d been the Gleasons’ son-in-law for a scant four months. He and Allison had married in September. He probably didn’t know her parents well.
“They appear to be holding up,” I said, “but it’s hard to tell.”
He nodded at that. “Cold fishes.”
“I wouldn’t say that. They’re reserved is all. I guess they’re trying to get through this as best they can.”
Nick waved away the excuse. “Joleen and Doug have always been that way, at least toward me. I know they think I married Allison for her money.”
In my admittedly bizarre line of work, I’d become accustomed to virtual strangers in the throes of grief revealing personal information they would never have mentioned under ordinary circumstances. I was accustomed to it, but it still made me uncomfortable. The best strategy, I’d learned, was to quietly allow the individual to unburden him or herself without comment. Naturally, I would never share anything I learned. I was like a priest that way, or a doctor. It was part of the Death Diva code of honor.
There is too a Death Diva code of honor. I should know, I made it up. You can do that when you’re the only Death Diva.
“Well, all her assets are mine now. Two-thirds anyway. The other third goes to...” His vague gesture told me that either he forgot or it hadn’t been important enough to learn in the first place. “Anyway, it’s got to be making her folks crazy.”
I know it would make me crazy if the freeloading pretty boy my widowed daughter had married on the rebound three months after her first husband’s death managed to inherit two-thirds of her multimillion-dollar estate.
Nick swirled the vodka in his glass, to the accompaniment of clinking ice cubes. It occurred to me he was awaiting a response, some sort of validation. He needed reassurance that he was somehow entitled to his sudden windfall.
The closest I could offer was, “Mr. and Mrs. Gleason are still reeling from their daughter’s death. I doubt they’re thinking about who’s inheriting what.”
He drained his glass and sat staring into middle distance. I was about to take my leave when he said, “She was supposed to be in Australia.”
“Excuse me?”
“Allison booked this adventure trip,” Nick said. “Three weeks horseback riding somewhere in Australia where there are mountains or desert or something. She was always doing stuff like that. That’s where I thought she was. And all the time she was in that damn lake.”
“When was she supposed to go to Australia?” I asked.
“The day after Christmas.”
I did the math. Twelve days. Allison’s body had been discovered nearly two weeks after she was scheduled to fly halfway across the world. I said, “Didn’t you worry when you didn’t hear from her?”
He shook his head. “She didn’t keep in touch much when she was away on these adventure trips. The idea was to throw herself into whatever she was doing and take a break from the real world.”
“So this is why you didn’t report her missing,” I said.
Nick brought his glass to his lips and stared at the bare ice cubes for a moment, as if wondering where the vodka had gone. He set the glass on the side table.
My brain was whirring. I knew I shouldn’t pursue it, but I couldn’t let it go. “So when she left to go for a walk in the woods, you thought, what, that she was going to the airport?”
After a moment he said, “I wasn’t up yet. I kind of slept in that day.”
“Oh.” What kind of man “sleeps in” when his wife is about to take a long trip like that?
“Christmas didn’t go so great,” he said. “Well, Christmas Day was okay. We went to Allison’s folks’, had a nice dinner and everything. But after, when we were back home, we fought.”
I really didn’t want to hear this. Nick was clearly a bit tipsy, and I strongly suspected he was going to regret opening up to me like this. I cast about for a graceful way to end the conversation and slink out of there.
“She found out I lost my job. I never even wanted it, it was all her idea. I mean, she’s got all this money, this huge place.” Nick made a broad gesture meant to encompass the sprawling farmhouse. “And I’m supposed to stock merchandise in some stupid sporting goods store? For what, to prove I’m not some bum living off my woman? To her, my acting career was BS. It was worth nothing. Just ’cause it’s been a little slow lately.”
A little slow? If Nick had appeared in anything other than that long-ago soda commercial, I never heard about it.
“So you worked for Porter Vargas?” I asked. That was the only sporting goods store in town.
He nodded miserably. “Porter’s an old pal of Allison’s. She asked him to take me on. He did it as a favor to her, but I could tell the guy had no use for me.”
“Why did he let you go?” I asked.
Nick rolled his eyes. “I’m chronically late, he says. I take too long for lunch. I make too many mistakes. But the main thing, and the reason a stupid job like that could never work out for me? I need time off for auditions. I mean, that’s my career, you know? Acting. Not inventorying his damn hockey sticks and crap. He could never get that through his thick skull. Neither could Allison.”
“How did Allison find out you lost your job at Vargas?” I asked
“She called Porter. Checking up on me like I’m some kind of untrustworthy little kid,” he said. “And he tells her he canned me five weeks ago.”
Five weeks? The man doesn’t tell his wife he’s been out of work for five weeks? Not that he’s untrustworthy or anything.
“So we had it out,” Nick said. “Then she closed herself up in here for a while, editing pictures or whatever, and went to bed. I was still too wound up to sleep, so I stayed up for hours playing video games and getting loaded.”
“And you slept in the next morning,” I said.
“Yeah, till like noon, maybe a little after. She had to be at the airport by then, and I’d planned to drive her, but she didn’t wake me up. She must’ve still been angry.”
“So you assumed she got to the airport under her own steam?” I asked.
“Her car was gone,” he said. “I figured she left it at one of those long-term parking places near the airport. She sometimes did that.”
“But she never made it that far.”
He shook his head. “After her body, you know... after she was found, the cops located her car at the nature preserve. Her luggage was in the trunk.”
Obviously Allison had been on her way to the airport and decided to stop at the preserve and take a walk. “I was just talking with Porter a few minutes ago,” I said. “He seems to think Allison wouldn’t have taken that kind of risk. I mean, going out on the frozen lake like that without checking it for safety. What do you think? Does that sound like something she’d do?”
He shrugged. “Who knows? We didn’t do stuff like that together.”
“You never went hiking with her?” I asked.
“Hiking, mountain climbing, all that outdoorsy crap...” Nick lifted his glass, sucked an ice cube into his mouth, and crunched it. “It’s just not my thing, you know?”
So. Unlike husband number one, Nick didn’t share Allison’s love of fresh air and vigorous outdoor exercise. I had to wonder what had attracted Allison to Nick. I mean, sure, he was easy on the eyes. More than easy—Nick was so handsome, it was almost painful to look at him. Could that be the whole story? I hadn’t known Allison Zaleski well, but she didn’t seem like the type of woman to commit her life to someone as... well, as shallow as Nick Birch.
Which wasn’t really a fair assessment on my part. I knew him even less well than I’d known Allison. I was going on first impressions. Still, I like to think I’m a good judge of character. In my line of work I often have to make prompt assessments of people, particularly when the client requests some unusual or even borderline illegal service.
Perhaps her marriage to Nick could be explained simply by the fact that she was on the rebound following sudden widowhood. My curious nature sought answers, but my practical nature simply wanted this assignment to go smoothly.
I decided I’d heard enough of Nick’s personal woes. I stood and lifted his empty glass. “Can I bring you another one of these?” It would be a watered-down refill if he took me up on the offer.
He pushed his fingers through his honey-colored hair. “No. Thanks. I’ll get back in there in a minute.” He waved me away.
More people had arrived while I’d been sequestered with the young widower. Friends and relatives of Allison’s now mingled in small groups throughout the first floor. Kari was in the living room, collecting dirty dishes. I took the tray from her and held it while she piled it with plates, glasses, and flatware.
A large palm caressed my back. I knew who it was even before I looked over my shoulder. My ex-husband, Dom Faso, gave me a warm smile and a kiss on the cheek. He was a couple of inches over six feet, with dark, wavy hair and bottomless espresso eyes—not classically handsome, but bristling with sex appeal. At least I’d always thought so.
“Here, Janey, let me help you with that.” He tried to take the laden tray from me, but I held on to it.
“Thanks, I’ve got it.” I’m not a guest here, I wanted to tell him, but he knew that. Dom’s just a nice guy and wants to help where he can.
At this point you’re probably thinking we’re pretty friendly for a divorced couple. It’s not just me, Dom gets along great with all his ex-wives. Oh, didn’t I mention? I’m just the first of three ex–Mrs. Fasos. We divorced seventeen years ago after eight months of marriage. No, come to think of it, it will be eighteen years next month. How time flies when you’re miserable watching the former husband, whom you regretted leaving even before the divorce was final, cycling through two more wives and fathering three kids who should have been yours. The fact that Dom was fully aware of my misery only added to it.
Bitter? Moi? Whatever gave you that idea?
Martin claimed I never got over Dom, which might explain why the padre refrained from putting the moves on me. Or it might just be that he wasn’t interested. Of course, he was awfully flirtatious for someone who wasn’t interested. But I digress.
Just because Dom and I were the best of friends and we talked all the time and shared confidences and he still visited my parents and we’d almost kissed a few months earlier, that did not mean I was still hung up on him, despite what Martin said. What did he know?
What’s that? You want me to tell you about the almost kiss? It didn’t happen, that’s all you need to know. I didn’t let it happen because of the woman now joining Dom and placing a proprietary hand on his elbow. That particular hand, her left one, sported a blindingly sparkly diamond that irked me every time I saw it.
Just so we’re clear, I fell in love with Dom when he was a poor kid trying to scrape up enough moolah to buy a food truck—the first incarnation of what would morph into the stunningly successful Janey’s Place health-food restaurant chain. No, that’s not true. I fell in love with Dom in eighth grade when I first set eyes on him during Mr. Bender’s third-period Spanish class.
When we got married, Dom was too poor to buy me a gold band, much less a diamond. And yes, the cheap silver ring he put on my finger all those years ago is still in my jewelry box, black with tarnish.
Bonnie Hernandez and I greeted each other politely. She looked sleek and sophisticated in a formfitting navy silk dress and a string of ferociously expensive South Sea pearls—a gift from Dom, natch. Her dark hair was cut in a short, fashionable style.
I looked like what I was, the hired help, wearing my usual work uniform of gray skirt suit, white blouse, and faux pearls. Faux sounds so much swankier than fake, don’t you think? Plus I was carrying a tray loaded with dirty dishes, the go-to fashion accessory for the well-put-together Death Diva. My strawberry-blond hair was trying to spring free of the French twist I’d coerced it into, and doing an admirable job of it.
I gave Bonnie a smile that oozed sincerity. Or something. “How’s the new job going, Chief?”
“Just fine, thanks.”
She’d recently been promoted from detective to chief of police, following a scandal involving another detective, his buddy the then-chief, and a drunk dispatcher who happened to be the chief’s mistress.
From outside, Crystal Harbor might appear to be a starched, well-mannered New York bedroom community, but we have our share of scandals, and that one was a biggie. It shook up the entire police department, leaving my ex’s future missus in charge of the whole shebang.
Besides being elegant and well put together, Bonnie was young, in her early thirties, whereas I’d be facing the big four-oh in March. Of course, my age didn’t seem to bother a certain hot Parisian I’d met a couple of months earlier. The thing about hot Parisians, though, is that they tend to live in Paris. Talk about geographically undesirable.
Bonnie tucked herself a little closer to her fiancé. “I was so sorry to hear about Allison.” Her speech carried a hint of her native Dominican Republic.
“Did you know her?” I asked. My tray full of dirty dishes was growing heavier by the second. Why hadn’t I let Dom be a gentleman and take it from me? At that moment I was at a loss.
“She had that gallery show last month in the city. That’s where we met.” Bonnie’s gaze lit on the framed pictures on the walls. “Her work was exquisite. I tried to commission her to photograph Frederick, but apparently portraits of pets were beneath her. Oh, she didn’t put it like that, but...” She shrugged. “I didn’t take offense.”
Frederick was Bonnie’s blue-ribbon-winning standard poodle and the reason—okay, one of many reasons if I’m being honest—for Sexy Beast’s inferiority complex.
“Well, I have to, um...” I indicated the tray.
“Yes, of course,” she said. “Don’t let us keep you.”
“Help yourself to the buffet,” I said, and hurried to the kitchen, where I helped Kari empty and refill the dishwasher. Maia, meanwhile, made trips through the butler’s pantry to the dining room, replacing empty platters with full ones.
A young couple entered, carrying several foil-wrapped plates and a plastic deli container filled with some dark liquid. It was the pottery couple, who’d crafted all the ceramic pieces on display in this very room. I’d seen them at the funeral home and cemetery also. I greeted them and set the offerings on a counter. Whatever they’d brought, it was still warm. And it smelled heavenly.
“It’s empanadas,” Pottery Lady said, “with a beef filling and a dipping sauce. I hope that’s okay. I didn’t know the Gleasons hired a caterer.” Her eyes were red-rimmed and it was clear she’d been crying. She had long blonde dreadlocks tied back with a scarf, and wore gray corduroy overalls over an ivory sweater that appeared to be handmade. A tiny gold stud adorned her nose just above one nostril.
Maia answered her. “It’s more than okay. We’re drowning in bakery boxes. It was so thoughtful of you to bring something homemade.”
“It was Allison’s favorite.” Pottery Lady’s voice was thick. “I used to make these for her when she came over.”
Her husband—at least I assumed they were married—put his arm around her shoulder. Pottery Man was quite tall, with reddish-brown hair and a bushy beard. His hairline was trying to make a run for it, despite his youth. Both of them appeared to be in their mid to late twenties.
Maia lifted the foil on one of the plates, revealing crispy fried turnovers. “Oh, they look wonderful. I’ll put them out now while they’re still warm.” She stacked the plates and carried them into the dining room.
I decided on total honesty. What? It’s been known to happen.
“I know we’ve been introduced,” I told the couple, “but I can never remember your names and I’m always too embarrassed to ask.” They’d called me by name when we said hello, so the memory lapse only went one way.
The man smiled and tipped his thumb toward his chest. “Beau Battle.” He indicated his wife. “Poppy Battle.”
I tried to think of some mnemonic trick to avoid being humiliated by having to ask again. Poppy Battle... I envisioned a red flower waving a scimitar and rushing toward the enemy line. Hmm, that one might need a little work.
I said, “I get the feeling you and Allison were close.”
Poppy nodded. She appeared to be controlling her grief with an effort. “She was a good friend, one of our best friends here in Crystal Harbor.”
“Then you must know Skye Guthrie,” I said.
“Yeah, I know Skye.” Poppy left it at that. I got the feeling she wasn’t a fan of Allison’s best friend.
Beau said, “We should go find Joleen and Doug.” His wife nodded and they went in search of Allison’s parents. I figured they must indeed have been close to Allison to be on a first-name basis with her folks.
I was kept busy for the next hour getting visitors settled, helping Maia with the food and beverages, and making sure Allison’s closest family members were comfortable and had everything they needed. I saw Joleen and Doug sitting near the fireplace in a quiet huddle with Poppy and Beau, ignoring the animated conversation around them. The women held hands, their eyes glistening. It was clear they were talking about Allison, reminiscing.
Watching them, I felt my own eyes tear up. I glanced around for Skye and spied her in a corner, giggling with another young woman as she displayed something on her phone. I’d yet to see the person who was supposed to be Allison’s best friend exchange one word with the grieving parents.
Sten Jakobsen had arrived a short while ago. He was a local attorney, over seventy but still practicing general law. Sten was very tall, about six four, his blond hair and trim beard gone mostly white. He was suitably dressed, as always, in a dark pinstriped suit and somber tie, wearing his ever-present wire-rimmed glasses.
I spotted him now standing alone near the dining room windows, holding a small plate with some cut fruit on it. As I watched, Nick approached him and started a conversation, gesticulating with yet another glass of vodka on the rocks. The room was too crowded and the noise level too high for me to make out their words. Nick spoke animatedly to the older man, while Sten glanced around uncomfortably as if concerned about being overheard.
I busied myself tidying the food set out on the dining table, gradually making my way closer to Nick and Sten, straining my ears for snippets of conversation.
Okay, yeah, I was curious. So sue me.
Skye Guthrie appeared just as curious, staring fixedly at the two men as she nibbled a sandwich: smoked turkey and brie on a croissant.
“... Just a hint,” Nick was saying. He was smiling, mock-punching Sten’s shoulder. “I’m not looking for a final number right now. Can’t you just ballpark it?”
Sten kept his volume low as he leaned toward the younger man, but his signature slow, precise delivery and deep basso profundo voice helped me make out his words. “This is not the appropriate time or place to discuss it.”
“Ah, come on, man, I’m dying to know—”
“Come to my office Monday morning at ten as we arranged,” Sten said.
“I have a right to know.” Nick was starting to get loud. Heads were turning toward them. People started whispering. “And you have no right to keep this information from me. You’re her lawyer. You drafted the will. I know you know how much she left me.”
Sten was a dignified person. The last thing he’d want is to cause a scene during a client’s funeral reception. It was clear Nick wasn’t going to wait until Monday morning to find out how rich he was. Sten set his plate on a side table. “Where can we speak privately?” he asked.
Nick looked gleeful. “That’s what I’m talking about! Come on.” He finished off his vodka and shoved the glass at Kari as she set out a fresh platter of grilled veggies.
Sten looked grim as he trailed the young widower through the house and down the hallway to Allison’s office. The reason I know this is because, you guessed it, I kind of followed them.
Oh, like you wouldn’t have done the same thing. You want to hear about this or not?
Nick closed the office door after them. Meanwhile I meandered closer, doing important Death Diva work like straightening pictures and inspecting the carpet runner for wrinkles. I heard nothing from behind the door for close to a minute, even with my ear very close to it. Okay, with my ear pressed to it.
Nick’s booming voice made me jump. I heard “No way!” and “That’s not possible!” and a lot of very bad words, shouted at high volume.
Skye shoved me out of the way and yanked the door open. I’d been so intent on eavesdropping, I hadn’t noticed her lurking behind me. “What did he say, Nick?” she demanded, at full volume. “How much are you getting? Tell me!”
“Jane?”
I turned to see a worried-looking Joleen coming down the hallway toward me. Her husband trailed after her, along with Poppy and Beau. Meanwhile the door to the office stood open and Nick was still hollering and cursing.
“She put me in her will,” he yelled. “Right after we got married. She left most of it to me.”
I caught Beau’s eye. “It’s nothing. I’ll take care of it. Why don’t you just get everyone...” I flapped my hand.
He seemed to get the message. So did Poppy. The couple steered Allison’s parents back toward the living room. “Jane has this under control,” he told them.
Oh yeah, I thought, I have this so under control. I slipped inside the office and shut the door behind me. “Guys, I need you to hold it d—”
“I saw the damn will,” Nick snarled, getting right in Sten’s face. The lawyer didn’t blink. “She showed it to me. I get two-thirds. I don’t know what you’re trying to pull, old man, but you won’t get away with—”
“Allison recently changed her will.” Sten’s voice was steady, the pace of his speech as leisurely as always. I’m sure he’d handled far tougher customers in his nearly five decades of legal practice. “I am assuming you have not seen the revised version.”
Nick gaped at him, his face blotchy with rage. Had I really considered this guy painfully handsome? “She cut me out? I don’t believe it. Allison wouldn’t do that. She loved me.”
“He’s the husband!” Skye screamed, her own face practically crimson. “He has rights!”
“Normally that would be the case,” Sten drawled. “In New York a spouse has what’s called a ‘right of election’ to one third of the estate.”
Nick turned to me. “Can this guy talk any faster?”
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“So he gets a third,” Skye said. “That’s still a lot, right? I mean, Mitchell left her about twelve million bucks, right?” I could see her doing the math in her head.
If you’re wondering why Skye cared so much about Nick’s inheritance, what her stake was in all this, then all I can say is, you’re pretty slow on the uptake. I figured it out right away, just listening to the two of them harangue Sten. I mean, think about it. What would prompt a wife to cut her husband out of her will? What’s the first thing that pops into your head? Oh, come on, the darn thing’s waving sparklers and screaming into a megaphone.
Now you’re getting it. And with her best friend, no less.
“A third’s better than nothing,” Nick said. “I can live with a third.”
“I said normally a spouse is entitled to that amount,” Sten said. “A spouse can choose to forfeit the right to inherit.”
“Well, I don’t choose to forfeit anything,” Nick said with a smirk. “Why would I do that?”
“You already did it,” Sten said, “when you signed your antenuptial agreement before the wedding.”
Nick frowned in confusion. “My ante-what? What are you talking about?”
Sten switched to the less lawyerly term. “Your prenuptial agreement.”
Skye wheeled on Nick. “You signed a prenup?”
“No, wait a minute.” Nick raised his hands as if to forestall the inevitable. “That was just a formality, you know? Like, if we got divorced I couldn’t take all her money.”
“That prenup,” Sten said, “included a waiver of your right of election. Allison was under no legal obligation to leave you any of her assets.”
“You idiot!” Skye shoved Nick’s chest, hard. “You slipped up. She found out about us.”
“No! I never said a word. There’s no way she could have known.”
“Wake up, Nick!” Skye got right in his face. “She was going to divorce you.”
“No way! Allison loved me.” Uncertainty turned the statement into a whine. He turned to his late wife’s lawyer. “Is it true? Did Allison want a divorce?”
Sten said, “Anything I discuss with my clients is confid—”
“Tell me!” Nick cried. “I have a right to know.”
Sten remained silent, his expression stoical.
It was answer enough. Nick’s eyes bulged. A vein throbbed in his temple. I tensed, ready to throw myself at him if he went after the older man. “I was tricked into signing that prenup,” he said, spittle flying. “I want to see that thing right now.”
“You have your own copy,” Sten said. “If you’ll recall, you did not see the need to engage a separate attorney to protect your rights. However, I insisted you do so, specifically to forestall a future challenge to its legality. Does any of this sound familiar, Nick? We are talking about events that occurred only four months ago.”
“Then my lawyer was incompetent,” Nick blustered. “I’m going to get this thing overturned.”
Skye stabbed a finger at Sten’s chest while he stood tall and sober. “And then we’re going to sue your sorry ass. You’re going to lose your license to practice law. When you pull slimy crap like this, there are consequences!”
Nick pulled her to him, wrapped his arm protectively around her shoulders. “Don’t get so worked up, bunny,” he told her. “Think about the baby.”
This just kept getting better and better.
Oh, please. With everything these two were throwing at Sten, I wasn’t allowed to get my snark on? Not even a little? Boy, are you strict.
“Your attorney was perfectly competent,” Sten told Nick. “The document was fully explained to you, and you expressed comprehension of its contents. Naturally, you are free to pursue a challenge, but it would be expensive and you would lose.”
Skye threw off Nick’s arm as if his touch revolted her. “So who did she leave it all to?” she demanded.
“The beneficiaries have yet to be notified,” Sten said. “Until they are, I have no intention of divulging—”
She interrupted him with a savage curse and flung open the door, startling a gaggle of eavesdroppers, who leapt back as one.
“Bunny,” Nick pleaded, “stay here with me. I need y—”
“Go to hell!” She shoved past the gawkers and sprinted down the hallway.