SIXTY-TWO

“NO way!” Matt cried an hour later. “We are not driving to Deerfield Farm in a rented Toyota Corolla.”

“Now you’re going to complain about my car?” Quinn griped.

The three of us were standing in the driveway: Matt, Quinn, and I. By now, Babka was long gone, and I was back in my blond wig and fake glasses. The afternoon had turned unseasonably warm, with birds chirping happily among the autumn leaves. Unfortunately, the chatter on the ground wasn’t quite so happy.

“You’ve already pointed out that my clothes were inappropriate,” Quinn told Matt. “You stopped me from shaving, and made me dress like a beach bum—”

“Out here, an off-the-rack suit is like a cross to a vampire,” Matt lectured. “The Hamptons elite instinctively recoil at the sight of one. But in my polo shirt and chinos, you almost look tony. The celebrity stubble is a must.”

My ex-husband was right. The detective looked quite dapper out of his wrinkled suit.

“Okay, it’s not perfect,” Matt conceded. “Your haircut’s still dorky and your big flat feet won’t fit into my deck shoes. Let’s hope Gwen Prescott thinks those clodhoppers are some sort of fashion statement.”

Quinn spun the car keys in his hand and pocketed them.

“If my car isn’t good enough, I take it we’re riding in your rattletrap getaway van?” Quinn paused. “Yeah, that will sure impress the smart set.”

Matt’s grin was as smug as his reply. “I’ll show you what will impress.”

He led us to the nearest of the twin garage doors and pressed a button. The door rolled up and the interior lights sprang on to reveal a sleek black-and-chrome ride, gleaming in luxury-car glory.

“I give you this year’s model of the Mercedes-Benz S-Class, fully loaded.”

Silence followed. Cars didn’t interest me much, but Quinn had the opposite reaction. He was speechless for a moment. Finally, he said a single word.

“Nice.”

“I have this until the lease runs out at the end of the year, and Breanne stops paying,” Matt explained with (I had to admit) admirable honesty. “It’s good to get some use out of her before I’m forced to give this baby up.”

Detective Quinn didn’t reply. He was too busy ogling the fawn brown leather interior and the space-age control panel. I could see Quinn was impressed. Matt could see it, too.

“You want to drive?”

Quinn blinked. “Sure.”

I breathed a sigh of relief as Matt tossed Quinn the keys. It appeared my ex-husband was about to bury the hatchet.

“Get behind the wheel and I’ll brief you,” Matt said. “Some people find the technology in the S-Class a bit challenging.”

“Please,” Quinn replied, close to rolling his eyes. “I drove a sector car for years—in Manhattan, with advanced-pursuit training. And I’ve driven high-performance vehicles on undercover assignments. I think I can handle this wagon just fine.”

Quinn adjusted the seat and started the car. A moment later he gently rolled it out of the garage.

“I can feel the power under that hood,” he said, nodding.

“It’s a convertible. Pop the roof.”

It took a moment, but Quinn worked it out. With the top down and the sun at our backs, Matt closed the garage door. I climbed into the backseat. To my unhappy surprise, Matt jumped in beside me.

Only then did the detective realize that Matt had tricked him into the role of chauffeur.

“Drive on, Quinn!” he commanded, ramming home the point. “Take a left at the end of the driveway, another left at the first crossroads, and push on until you see the sign to Deerfield Farm.”

I had seen that sign the night I arrived, but I never imagined I’d be visiting the place—or looking for clues in a murder investigation. I was a little nervous about this “undercover” act, but eager, too.

Because of the balmy temperature, I’d left Esther’s Poetry in Motion jacket hanging in the bedroom closet, though Matt probably would have objected to my wearing it, anyway. At least he approved of the lovely sweater, comfortable jeans, and low boots that I’d found in the bag Madame had packed for me—and Detective Quinn had delivered. Apparently, the future me was making enough extra dough to spend on clothes that were good enough to pass muster in these parts.

Minutes later, we turned onto the estate’s long, curved tree-lined driveway. The forty-acre horse farm had been professionally landscaped, with natural jumps interspersed with open pastureland, dense wooded areas, a large natural pond, and lots of cross-country trails.

Though I was able to glimpse the ultramodern stables, the paddocks, and riding trails through the colorful autumn trees, the feel of Deerfield Farm was very private and secluded—much as I imagined the Hamptons used to be in the days when Jackson Pollock painted masterpieces out here, before the arrival of old money, nouveau riche, tourists, and celebrities.

We parked in the small lot and followed the signs to the Main House. Aggressively modernized to provide all the twenty-first-century amenities, the nineteenth-century farmhouse appeared to be the centerpiece of the sprawling property.

A member of the staff informed us that Gwen Prescott had been riding most of the afternoon but was expected to return at any moment. I was glad for the delay since it gave me time to enjoy the magnificent view from the Main House’s expansive front porch.

When I saw two stable hands scrambling ten minutes later, I knew the rider galloping up to the house on an ebony stallion was Deerfield Farm’s owner. Seeing her approach, Detective Quinn moved toward the steps. Matt stopped him with his hand.

“Where are you going?”

“To question the Prescott woman on what she saw,” Quinn replied.

“And you’re going to flash your badge?”

“If I have to.”

Matt rolled his eyes. “That will get you nowhere. Let me do the talking.”