Big Summer(60)

“She probably just got drunk and passed out and drowned in the hot tub. Or choked on her own vomit.”

I gave a horrified whimper. Darshi’s voice was dispassionate. “It happens,” she said.

“Yeah. Except what if that didn’t happen this time?” I dropped my voice to a whisper. “I deleted everything, but I don’t know if they can find texts.”

“I’ve got people who can tell the cops where I was last night,” Darshi said.

“Good for you! I don’t!” I hissed. “Not unless I can find this guy!”

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s think. In the unlikely event that this wasn’t just an accident, who would have wanted Drue dead?”

I shook my head, hearing the word “Everyone” as clearly as if one of us had spoken it.

“Here’s what you need to do.” Darshi’s voice was steady. “Chances are she died accidentally. If that isn’t what happened, you need to make a list. Write down anyone you can think of who’d want to hurt her. Her exes. Stuart’s exes. Are the police looking at Corina?”

“If they watch Lifetime, I’m sure they are.”

“I’d check. And, Daphne, you’ve got to find the guy you were with last night.”

“I know that,” I moaned. “Don’t you think I know that?”

“Where could he have gone?”

“I have no idea. Darshi, I don’t even know his real name.”

“What do you know?”

“I know that he’s a local. At least, he said he was a local. He could be anywhere.”

“What did he tell you his name was?”

“Nick Andros. I knew that sounded familiar.”

“The deaf-mute guy from The Stand,” said Darshi. “Hmm. Do you think there’s a clue there somewhere?”

My head was starting to throb, right between my eyebrows, and my stomach felt like I’d swallowed a ball of lead. “I have no idea.”

“What else did he tell you?”

“He said he knew Drue from sailing camp, and that he worked on a boat called the Lady Lu.”

“Let me do my Internet magic,” Darshi said. “Meanwhile, try to keep calm. Write down every single thing you remember about the guy. And when you’re done, start asking people questions.” When I started to splutter my objections, Darshi said, “If this was suspicious, the cops are probably looking at everyone who had any kind of beef with Drue. You need to get off their list, and the best way to do it is to start making one of your own.”





Chapter Twelve


I found a notebook in my gift basket, made of soft hand-tooled leather, with the wedding date embossed on the cover in the same font as the invitations, the programs, and the “Welcome to Cape Cod” letter in the basket. I’d helped Drue find an artist on Etsy to make them. The girl had been so excited to be part of Drue’s high-profile wedding that she’d knocked twenty percent off her price without either of us asking. I wrote DRUE’S ENEMIES on the front page. Then, instead of listing them, I turned the page and began to write everything I could remember about Nick.

Curly, medium-brown hair. Hazel eyes. A little taller than me—five nine? Five ten? Tan. Callused hands. Six-pack abs. No tattoos. At least, none that I’d noticed, and I thought I’d gotten glimpses of every inch of him. He did have a scar on his ankle and a birthmark high on his left hip. I wrote that down and blushed, remembering exactly what we’d been doing when I’d seen them. I wrote down teaches breathing/yoga/emotional regulation in Boston. I wrote University of Vermont and Provincetown Yacht Club. I wrote down Lady Lu. I struggled to remember the names of the cousins who’d fought about a wedding. Annie and Emma? Something like that. I realized that he’d never mentioned his parents. He’d talked about an aunt and uncle and a grandmother; he’d referred to a family home on the Cape… and he’d asked me questions, kept me talking, while saying very little about himself.

I wrote it all down. Then I googled the Provincetown Yacht Club, which had a primitive-looking website fronted by a beautiful picture of a sailboat on the water. The phone number was listed under Contacts. I pressed the button that would make the call.

The phone rang and rang. Just as I was about to give up, a gruff, deep female voice said, “Yuh?”

“Hi! Hello. Is this the Provincetown Yacht Club?”

“Yuh.”

“My name is Daphne Berg. I’m hoping you can help me.” This was a strategy I’d read about and used when dealing with customer service people on the phone. Starting off asking for help makes people feel like they are on the same team as you. “I am trying to figure out the name of one of your former campers.”

“Yuh?”

“I’m having a surprise party for my best friend, and she spent her summers in Truro, so I’m trying to round up her old gang. I know she was friends with this guy, but if she ever told me his name, I’ve forgotten it.”

“When would this have been?”

“About thirteen or fourteen years ago.”

“Huh.”

“Were you there?” I asked. “At the club?”

“I’m the founder.” I thought I could detect the thinnest thread of amusement in the women’s voice. “Dora Fitzsimmons. I’ve been here every year since we started.” Stah-ted. “If your friend went here, she’d know me. I guess I remember just about every one of my sailors.”