SIXTY-EIGHT

FLORA Tanner brushed away a tear.

“What more can I tell you?” she asked, her voice breaking.

This woman obviously hated Harlan Brewster, and likely celebrated his death, as her sister hinted. But it was also obvious that Flora Tanner was physically incapable of harming the man—unless she hadn’t been impaired at the time of Harlan’s death, this past June.

I cleared my throat. “Ma’am, if you don’t mind my asking, is your illness serious? Have you had the condition long?”

“I had a stroke, Detective Clark, in the spring of this year. It was my second stroke because I stopped taking my medications. I spent the entire summer in a rehab facility. The doctors say I should be fine, if I stay on my medication. And my brother is seeing to that.”

I glanced at Quinn, who nodded his encouragement at my questioning. Was he thinking the same thing I was? If Mrs. Tanner had been in rehab the entire summer, she wasn’t in a position to cause Harlan’s accident, but she could have engineered it with someone else’s help. Her brother? Another relative or friend? A direct question like that would certainly get us thrown out of the house. Fortunately, I thought of a less volatile line of pursuit, and jumped in.

“Again, if you don’t mind,” I asked gently. “I’d like to go over what happened to your daughter after the incident. Your sister mentioned a specialist and an upstate mental health facility?”

“Yes. The facility belonged to Dr. Dominic Lorca.”

Lorca? The name sent a chill through me. I noticed Quinn visibly tense.

“I didn’t trust that celebrity doctor,” Flora continued. “But I didn’t have a choice.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“No, I guess you wouldn’t.”

“Please explain it to us, then.”

“Well, Detectives, the people who maintain summer homes out here tend to be very rich. But many of us who’ve lived in this region all our lives are not. I didn’t have medical insurance for myself or my daughter. And I couldn’t afford treatment for her, not unless I sold this home and the land it’s been on since my great-grandfather bought it. I wasn’t going to do that, so I considered begging a loan from my sister or taking a mortgage from the bank. I was weighing my financial options when Lorca came to me, offering to treat Dana without a fee. I jumped at the chance.”

She sighed again. “But you get what you pay for, as they say. I’m certain that quack did more harm than good.”

Quinn leaned forward. “You say Dr. Lorca came to you?”

“The doctor knocked on my door a few weeks after the assault. I thought my prayers had been answered. Three months later, I buried my Dana beside her father in Southampton Cemetery.”

“Did you ever see or speak with Harlan Brewster after the incident with your daughter?”

Her laugh was bitter. “We didn’t travel in the same social circles, Detective Quinn.”

“But Gwen Prescott told us your daughter met Mr. Brewster at a beach party,” I countered.

“That beach party was hosted by Harlan Brewster. I’m told a lot of pretty young girls got invited to his parties. Pretty girls get invited to a lot of parties out here. That’s how my sister, Gwen, married so well.”

Flora Tanner hung her head, as if she were suddenly too exhausted to support it.

“I had my first stroke last fall, a few months after I lost Dana, so I don’t socialize much these days—though I’m told the lights are still blazing at Harlan’s house.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Harlan’s house is open,” she insisted.

“How do you know?” Quinn asked.

“My friend Mary works for a service that delivers my groceries. For the past three weeks, she’s been delivering groceries to the Brewster house.”

“But Harlan’s dead and Annette Brewster’s missing,” I said. “Who would be staying there?”

“I only know what I heard” was Flora Tanner’s mumbled reply.

After that, she seemed more fatigued than ever. So tired that she could hardly keep her eyes open.

Quinn and I exchanged glances.

“Thank you for your help, Mrs. Tanner.” Quinn rose. “If there’s any change in the status of your daughter’s case, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

She bade us goodbye, and we showed ourselves to the door.

“Dana Tanner’s case sounds a lot like what happened to me,” I said as we stepped off the porch, “including the timely arrival of Dr. Dominic Lorca.”

Quinn nodded. “Lorca muscled in on the Tanner case the same way he did on yours. He could simply be an opportunist, looking for another research subject or bestseller topic. Or . . .”

“Or? What do you suspect?”

“I don’t know. But my gut tells me there’s something more here than coincidence.”

“Me too, but how can we possibly investigate Lorca?”

“Very carefully. Believe me, I know from experience. The celebrity doctor has powerful friends.”

I was about to open the door to Quinn’s rental car when a dirty green pickup truck rumbled through the gates and pulled up beside the Toyota—so close I was forced to press myself against the car to avoid getting smacked.

Ernest Landscaping was painted on the truck’s door, along with a phone number. The vehicle’s bay was packed with tools, a pile of tin signs with the Ernest logo, and a pair of lawn mowers.

“What are you doing here?” The voice was male and very annoyed.

I heard a door slam and a big man in grass-stained overalls came around the truck. His long, dark hair was wrapped in a bandanna like a Barbary pirate’s. His angry eyes were focused on me, but Detective Quinn quickly intercepted him before he got in my face.

“Are you Ernest?”

“Who’s asking?”

The detective flashed the badge and introduced himself. The bandanna man’s attitude adjusted appropriately.

“Yeah,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “I’m Ernest . . . Ernest Belling. Flora’s brother.”

Quinn nodded amicably. “Yes, Flora told us how you’re taking care of her. You’re doing a good thing, Ernest.”

The man’s face softened. “All she’s got left is me.”

“Well, you sure are doing your best, while maintaining your career at the same time. I suspect you do a lot of work for the summer crowd. Are you still busy in the fall?”

“Planting and pruning is nearly year-round, Detective Quinn—”

“But not many of the summer people are out here now, right?”

“Not many, no.”

“Flora mentioned the Brewster house is open,” I said, jumping in. “She said someone is staying there.”

Ernest grunted. “Flora says a lot of stuff about Harlan Brewster. Sometimes she curses him out as if he were standing in front of her. Sometimes she thinks he’s still alive. I don’t want her thinking about that man anymore. It upsets her too much. Anyway, Flora is in no position to know. She hasn’t been out of that house in weeks, except for trips to the doctor. I wouldn’t put much stock in her crazy talk.”

I was about to counter that Flora had heard about the Brewster house through a local gossip, but a glance from Quinn silenced me.

“I don’t think you came here to ask me about my business,” Ernest said, his anger flaring again.

“No, we didn’t,” Quinn said. “We came to inform your sister that new evidence has emerged, and the NYPD might reopen her daughter’s investigation.”

“Oh.” Calmer now, he nodded. “That’s good, I guess.”

The groundskeeper’s gaze traveled to the front door, then back to Detective Quinn.

“I’ve got to check on Flora. It’s time for her medicine.”

“We won’t hold you back then, Ernest,” Quinn replied. “Thanks for your help.”