SIXTY-FOUR

MRS. Prescott’s admission was a great help. Now I could easily and naturally ask her questions about the “festering feud” people were gossiping about on that Facebook page.

I cleared my throat. “I’ve heard rumors about Harlan Brewster, but you sound like you’re speaking from experience.”

Mrs. Prescott sneered. “Look up Dana Tanner on that damn Hamptons Babylon page.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Dana was my niece. She and Harlan met at a summer party. She was curious about the Parkview Palace and its history, so he invited her to lunch at his hotel. Dana took the train to Manhattan a week later—and vanished.”

I felt the tiny hairs pricking on my arms.

“She was missing for two days before a neighborhood watch group found her wandering in Prospect Park. She was without her purse and phone, and in some sort of shock. At first, Dana couldn’t remember the events surrounding her disappearance and she didn’t know how she got to Brooklyn. But within hours, she began to have disturbing flashes of memory. My niece swore something had happened to her—some sort of assault, she said, though she couldn’t recall any details. Needless to say, my sister was frantic to find out the truth. Flora had lost her husband earlier in the year, and now something terrible had happened to her daughter.”

“Did Flora tell the police?”

“Yes, but the evidence was inconclusive. Apparently, there were bruises on her body, but Dana had showered and changed clothes after the incident, though she had no memory of doing so.”

“Did she lose any more of her memory,” I asked, still tingling with goose bumps, “besides the events surrounding the assault?”

Mrs. Prescott looked at me strangely.

“Why, yes,” she replied. “Dana couldn’t remember anyone she met in college, or even her time in college. My sister found expert psychological help, but eventually Dana was institutionalized upstate.”

Mrs. Prescott’s eyes narrowed. “After several weeks, Dana left the care facility without her doctor’s approval. Another patient said she was missing her mother, who had fallen ill, and was going to catch a train home. But instead of catching the train, Dana jumped in front of it.”

Mrs. Prescott bit her lower lip. “The poor girl was only twenty.”

“Was there an investigation?” I asked. “What did Harlan Brewster say?”

“Brewster claimed that Dana never showed up for their lunch date. He had time-stamped surveillance tapes to prove it, showing him having lunch alone, which was odd, and I’ve always been skeptical of that evidence. But because there was no real proof an assault happened, no physical evidence that could be recovered on her clothes or body, and the victim had a spotty memory, the police investigation was sidelined. It led nowhere.”

“Except to a feud,” I said. “Or perhaps a vendetta?”

“My sister was delighted to hear of Harlan’s demise, naturally, but if you are insinuating that she had anything to do with Brewster’s death—”

“Of course not, Mrs. Prescott. It was an accident. I didn’t mean to imply—”

My apology was interrupted by Detective Quinn, who spoke for the first time.

“The accident happened along the highway that runs parallel to your farm, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Can you give me directions?”

Mrs. Prescott pointed to the newly saddled tawny colt. “Take Sprite, follow the West Trail for a quarter mile or so, and you’ll see the highway when you get to the top of the rise. The damage to the oak is still quite visible—”

“Oh, no, Mrs. Prescott,” Quinn quickly replied. “I won’t trouble you by borrowing a horse. I can check the accident scene from the road.”

“But why bother?” she said. “Your mount is ready—unless you prefer Western over English? Mr. Allegro did say you were an expert rider. Is that not correct?”

“Hop on, Quinn,” Matt goaded, practically snickering. “Check out the trail. Tell us what you see, if that horse doesn’t throw you first.”

Detective Quinn was on the spot, and I felt sorry for him. But when our eyes met, he surprised me with a wink.

“Okay, Mr. Allegro,” he said, “if you insist.”

While the stable hand stood by, Quinn took hold of the reins with his left hand, placed the same hand on the saddle, slipped his foot in the iron stirrup, and expertly swung his long leg over the horse. Settling in gently—and quite comfortably, I thought—he deftly turned the colt. The detective rode in a small circle for a moment, in total control of his mount.

Then, with a gallant wave, Quinn galloped off, following the West Trail at a brisk pace until he vanished among the trees.

“You were right,” Mrs. Prescott said to my gaping ex-husband. “I thought you were taunting the man, but Mr. Quinn is clearly an accomplished rider.”