Carter double-checked that the number on the modern-style farmhouse matched the one May Hanover had given him. He squinted against the late-afternoon sun as he stepped from the car, remembering the last time he’d been on this block, more than two years earlier.
His mother’s best friend, Sharon, had lived two doors down. She inherited the house from her parents in the ’90s, along with a small grocery store they owned in Springs with an adjacent deli. Sharon had promised her mother she’d never let go of the modest house because of its unencumbered view of Gardiners Bay.
For years, as ice cream shops and bakeries were steadily replaced by designer boutiques and galleries, Sharon had resisted the temptation to cash in on the potential for windfall profits. She sold good, simple food that real people needed at an affordable price.
Four years ago, Carter would have sworn that the town where he was born and bred could not become any less affordable for the average person. Even on a good law enforcement salary, he had adopted the increasingly common practice among locals of renting out his own home for July and August while he moved to the studio apartment above his garage.
But the shutdown had blown this place up in a way he had never imagined. Families desperate to escape the confinement of their city apartments—now full-time virtual Zoom offices combined with home schooling—fled to the exurbs, creating bidding wars for available houses, sight unseen, all cash, above asking price. Carter had twice turned away realtors knocking door-to-door in search of someone willing to name a price to relocate.
And Sharon decided she had a price. The combination store-deli was now a gourmet health-conscious “nutrition boutique” selling bullshit like kombucha, oxymoronic no-dairy cheese, and thirty-dollar quarts of bone broth. Sharon lived in Florida. And the porch swing where she and Carter’s mother would sit side by side to sneak an occasional cigarette after dinner had been replaced by an industrial-looking stone bench that probably cost what Carter made in a week.
He knew for a fact that Sharon had gotten two-point-seven million for her house, even though it was a small fixer-upper by a newcomer’s standards. If he had to guess, these women were paying at least ten grand a week for their vacation rental—all for the honor of having to explain exactly what they knew about David Smith.
When May Hanover opened the door, he recognized her from the headshot on both her LinkedIn and Fordham Law School faculty profiles. Her face had been fuller in the photograph and her hair longer. She looked thinner now and had cut her hair above her shoulders.
She greeted him with a surprisingly firm handshake. “Detective, I’m May Hanover. We spoke on the phone. And I believe you already got some information from me through my former colleague at the DA’s Office, Danny Brennan.”
“Seemed like good people, a straight shooter.”
“The best,” she said, opening the door wider to let him in.
She led the way into the kitchen, where two other women stood near stools positioned around the center island.
“Detective Decker,” May said, “these are my friends, Lauren Berry and Kelsey Ellis.”
In photographs he had seen online, Kelsey Ellis had been a stunner, with shiny blond waves and a full face of makeup. She was still undoubtedly attractive, but had a more reserved, natural look, her ashy hair bundled in a loose bun. Lauren Berry, on the other hand, had come across online as intense and professional, almost aloof. But in person, she gave off a radiant energy, confident in a long, bright orange dress and hoop earrings the size of coffee coasters.
It was another reminder that an online persona could be a total fiction.
Kelsey greeted him with a smile that immediately struck him as forced. Smiling at a detective who has come to ask you questions was an unnatural response under any circumstance. He wondered if she was the type of beautiful woman who always assumed she could curry favor with a man.
“Can I get you anything?” May offered. “A bottle of water or a soda?”
“No, I’m good, thanks. Hey, when May originally gave that investigator in the city your names and numbers, I noticed your phone numbers are all from different states. How do y’all know each other, if you don’t mind me asking.”
It was a test to see if they’d try to hide their common connection to David Smith.
May Hanover jumped in first. “Kelsey and I were campers at a camp where Lauren was the director. We stayed in touch over the years.”
Carter widened his eyes as if in surprise. “Whoa. That’s a long time to stay in touch with people you only saw in the summer.”
“We went every year, and then Kelsey and I went to college in the same city. Then we became counselors for a summer after graduation.”
“It was a whole thing,” Kelsey added. “All still besties to this day.”
He wondered how it came to pass that three besties all happened to have individual scandals attached to their names, but he couldn’t ask without making it clear that he was far more interested in them than he wanted to appear.
He was about to explain that their names had come up in the course of his investigation, but the woman named Lauren surprised him by speaking up.
“It’s funny that you asked how we know each other. When you called May, we were actually talking about the weirdest thing I just learned. That man who’s missing? We were apparently one degree of separation from him back when he was in college—and it was through the camp.”
Carter nodded slowly, his expression neutral. “Is that so?”
“That’s what I’m told, at least. So the camp May mentioned is called Wildwood. It’s an arts camp. I was its music director when May and Kelsey were students and later counselors.”
“And David Smith went there as well?” Carter asked. He wouldn’t normally interrupt an interviewee who was being so forthcoming, but it was a way to mislead them into thinking he knew less than he really did.
She shook her head. “No, his mother was close friends with one of the owners of Wildwood, so she was a very generous donor and supporter.”
“But that’s the mother, not the son. Did any of you ever meet David Smith—either back then or on this trip?”
“Certainly not on this trip,” Lauren said. “Well, unless he was the guy May thought she may have seen in Sag Harbor.” She looked to May with a quizzical expression. “Does he know about that yet?”
“I think so,” May said. “I told the guy in the city.”
“We’ll get to that again later,” Carter said. “But back at the camp?”
“Yes, that’s what we were all just talking about. I learned today that the David Smith who’s been reported missing here was the college boyfriend of one of the regular campers.”
“And how did you learn of that connection?”
“One of the camp’s owners told me. His name’s Thomas Welliver. His wife is the one who’s friends with David’s mother. Thomas and I have stayed in touch even after I left the camp.”
She had surprised him again by being so open about her current connection to the married oilman. He’d read about the affair and the brouhaha that had followed at the Houston Symphony.
May crossed her arms and shook her head. “It’s eerie,” she said. “I couldn’t drop this nagging sense after he was reported missing that he might have been that guy I saw bickering with his girlfriend on the street, but then it turns out he’s someone we all sort of knew fifteen years ago. I never would have made the connection until Lauren told us.”
“That’s another detail I’ll add to the big picture we’re fleshing out. Is there anything else related to the camp you think I should know?” he asked. He gazed directly at Kelsey, who had been letting her friends do most of the talking, but she remained silent.
“I have no idea whether you need to know it or not,” May said, “but the girl he was dating? She drowned the summer after her college graduation—when she, Kelsey, and I were all counselors at the camp. Her name was Marnie Mann.”
He pulled a notebook from his back pocket and jotted down the name even though he already had it.
“Now, I know you’re eager to enjoy your vacation,” he said, his tone empathetic, “but your names have come up in our investigation. I’m sure it’s something we can clear up with just a few questions, all on a voluntary basis, of course.”
They all immediately agreed. Absolutely—May. No problem—Lauren. Anything you need—Kelsey. First the smile, then the cutesy “bestie” comment, now anything he needed? Was this woman trying to work him? Was she…flirting? Or was he the one reading something into the situation, given what he’d learned about her husband’s murder?
“And if it’s okay with you, I’d like to talk to each of you individually. It’s fairly routine. May, you were a prosecutor. You’re welcome to explain all that if you want.”
“Thank you, but I don’t think it’s necessary. I’m sure we’re all fine with that. I’ll go first? Kelsey and Lauren, do you want to wait in your bedrooms until we’re done—just to assure Detective Decker we’re not sharing information?”
Her sarcasm was apparent, but the friends shrugged and began heading up the stairs. May led the way to the back deck and closed the sliding door behind them. The view of Gardiners Bay from this angle reminded him of barbecue parties at Sharon’s old house. As he watched the sunlight flicker against the water, he thought about the twenty-two-year-old concert pianist who had drowned in that lake in Maine. He had no idea what Marnie Mann’s death had to do with David Smith, but he was certain these three women did.