SIXTY-ONE

MY head was still spinning, but the questions wouldn’t stop. So I took my first sleuthing step, realizing many of the answers were probably right here next to me.

“Babka, you’ve been Annette Brewster’s friend for years. What can you tell us about all of this?”

She tapped her chin. “I don’t know. Some of it sounds fishy.”

“Fishy? What part?”

“The part where you ‘remember’ Annette telling you she’s selling the Parkview Palace. It was built by her family in 1885 and passed down through generations. Are you sure you didn’t dream the whole thing up, Clare?”

Great! I thought. You lose your memory and people think you’re crazy. Then you get some of it back and people still think you’re crazy!

“That’s what Annette told me,” I insisted. “There are things I don’t recall, sure. But I do remember that.”

Pausing to think, Babka repeated Annette’s words. “Under a cloud? If Annette really used those words, she was probably referring to the lawsuits—”

Detective Quinn perked up. “Lawsuits? What kind of lawsuits?”

Babka looked uncomfortable all of a sudden and theatrically threw up her hands. “Any kind of lawsuits! If you’re in business, you get lawsuits. They come like flies to a lekach. Slip and fall. Damaged property. Failure of service. Failure of product. You name it.”

“But you can’t remember anything specific?” I pressed. “Come on, help us out here.”

Babka went silent. Finally, she admitted, “Okay, maybe one. The one about the cameras. Annette was pretty upset about that suit—”

“Cameras?” Matt said. “You mean the security cameras at the Parkview? Is a pending lawsuit the reason they’re off?”

“The threat of a suit,” Babka said with a nod. “Annette was in the middle of settling it to keep it all from going public. She discovered her husband was using the security cameras to spy on guests. She worried someone on the hotel staff, maybe even the security staff, was helping him.”

“Why would Harlan Brewster spy on his own guests?” I asked.

Babka shrugged. “She said it was some income scheme of his. That’s all I know.”

“Income scheme, huh?” Quinn rubbed his jaw.

“What do you suspect?” I asked.

“A lot of famous people frequent that hotel. Harlan could have used the camera images for some form of extortion. When people like that misbehave, it’s usually worth something to news outlets. If Annette’s husband had no scruples—which is what it sounds like—he could have made a small fortune on his own version of ‘Catch and Kill’ stories.”

“What’s a Catch and Kill story?” I asked.

“A tabloid-type publication asks for money to keep a story from seeing the light of day—things like football stars abusing wives or girlfriends or politicians hiring escorts from a service that deals in underage sex trafficking.”

“Good Lord,” I said, and turned to Matt. “We need to find out more about Harlan’s car crash. Is there a paper out here? Something that covers local news?”

“The Hamptons Ledger. Come on, there’s a computer in the study.”

A few moments later we were all packed into the sunny, half-empty room. The bookshelves were as barren as the spindly modern desk, which didn’t hold much more than a personal computer.

Matt navigated to the news website. Unfortunately, the Hamptons Ledger published only a single article about the so-called accident that took the life of Annette’s husband. The location and time of the crash were listed, along with an interesting sidenote.

“There was a witness to the accident,” Matt read. “But no name is given.”

“They do say the witness was uncooperative,” Quinn said, reading the text over Matt’s shoulder.

“What do you think that means?” I asked.

Detective Quinn’s blue eyes shifted to me. “Most likely, it means this person didn’t wish to speak with the police.”

“Then we’ve got to find this witness.” I turned to Matt. “Are there any other places that report the local news? Maybe they’ll have the witness’s name.”

“Well,” Matt said, “for real Hamptons news, sprinkled with innuendo, gossip, and borderline libel, you don’t read the Ledger. We’re going to Facebook.”

“That’s an odd name for a news site,” I said.

Matt shook his head. “It’s a social media platform, Clare.”

“A what?” I looked at Detective Quinn and back at Matt.

“Facebook is a site where people create a public page all about their lives,” Matt explained. “They write up a profile of themselves, and post pictures of friends and family, news about jobs, vacations, kids—”

“You said it was public, for anybody to see?” I asked, perplexed.

“You can lock down your profile, so only friends and family see it, but plenty of people go public with their pages for more friends and likes—”

“Likes?”

Matt nodded. “You post something trenchant or witty, and your friends hit an emoji to show their reaction.”

“Emo-what? Is that Japanese?”

Matt waved his hand. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Do I have a Facebook page?”

“You never took the time to create one, though you asked Dante to make a pro page for the Village Blend.”

“How much do you have to pay for this service?”

“It’s free. Facebook makes its money with display ads, and also by selling users’ personal info to marketers.”

“They sell your personal information? And that’s legal?!” I cried, horrified, and then I remembered I had woken up in a world where your mobile phone can tell government authorities where you are and what you’re doing at all times.

Matt shrugged. “There are opt-out buttons and site warnings galore, but these days, life online is basically a trade-off. People give up their cherished illusion of privacy for cherished illusions of convenience and popularity.”

While I mulled that over, Matt tapped the computer.

“This is the Facebook home for Hamptons Babylon, the official web page for a content farm of advertorials that also reposts news items and gossip columns about anything having to do with the Hamptons community. And let me tell you, this page’s postings were required reading when I was married to Breanne.”

“You turned up in a gossip column?” I asked, surprised.

“Sometimes. But only because of Breanne being mentioned.” Matt visibly paled. “Man, I dreaded those days. The snark was always nasty, and she’d either throw a tantrum or pout all week, or both— Here! I found something.”

He pointed to a news item that someone named Roberto had posted about Harlan Brewster’s accident. Roberto’s comment about the story read:

I heard it was Galloping Gwen who had her eyes on the road when Harlan met that tree. True?

“Is Roberto talking about the uncooperative witness?” I asked.

“There are more comments under that posting.” Matt pointed. The first comment came from a woman named Valerie:

Yes and not surprised, given their festering feud.

Valerie’s comment gathered a number of little blue “thumbs-up” icons. Then at least six people asked “What feud?” and begged for more info. A woman named Justine made things clearer:

The Prescott/Brewster Feud was the Hamptons’s own Hatfield and McCoys. Now it’s over, with only two casualties—and no shootings, as far as I know!

“The Prescott they’re talking about is Gwendolyn Prescott,” Matt explained.

“I’ve seen her at parties,” Babka said. “Mrs. Prescott is an amazon.”

“She’s certainly athletic,” Matt said, “and well known among the horsey set. Galloping Gwen is what the locals call her because of how we always see her whenever we drive by her place—on the back of one of her horses. She owns Deerfield Horse Farm and Stables.”

“So you actually know this person?” I assumed.

“Only because of Breanne. She—”

“Took riding lessons at Deerfield,” I finished for him. “You mentioned that last night. But what’s this ‘feud’ with the Brewsters?”

Matt shrugged. “No idea.”

“Me, either,” Babka added. “Nothing specific, anyway. But I can tell you that Harlan was a piece of work. The man had an ego the size of Montana. He cheated regularly on Annette, and he made plenty of enemies. Why exactly Gwen Prescott had a grudge, I couldn’t tell you.”

“I’m going to Deerfield Farm to find out,” Quinn said and turned to Babka. “Why don’t you come with me and ask her yourself.”

Babka shuddered. “What do I look like, Ben-Hur? Horses are for Cossacks. And the stink of their plop wrecks my palate for a week. Count me out, Detective, but you have fun.”

Quinn turned to leave. I blocked his way.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“First, I’m getting into my suit and tie. Then—like I said—I’m heading over to Deerfield—”

“Not without me, you’re not!” I said. “Didn’t you read the article? That woman wouldn’t talk to the police. And if you flash your badge, she’s not going to talk to you.”

Quinn arched an eyebrow. “So you want to talk to her?”

“Sure. Matt says he knows her.” I turned to my ex. “You can make the introductions.”

Matt put up his hands. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Come on, please? You claim you want to help me. Prove it.”

After a little more arguing (and cajoling), Matt finally sighed, agreeing to come with us for the interview on one condition. “As long as he doesn’t dress like a J.C. Penney mall store mannequin.”

Quinn opened his mouth to object, but Matt was ready—

“You’ve gone undercover, right? Dressed yourself well, or maybe like a gangbanger?”

Quinn nodded. “Sure, both.”

“Then you already get it, because high society in the Hamptons has a lot in common with criminal gangs. You have to look like you belong, or they will never accept you. And if you’re not accepted, then to them, you might as well be dead.”