Big Summer(61)

“Okay. That’s great.”

“Who’d you say your friend was?”

“I didn’t. But her name is Drue Cavanaugh, and—”

Click. The line went dead in my ear.

I looked down at the phone and called back, only this time it just rang and rang. Fuck. The woman probably thought I was a reporter or something. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I moved on and discovered that the Lady Lu actually existed, and had not just a phone number but a website. Fishing tours by the half day or full! Bass and bluefish! You catch a “keeper,” or your money back! And—thank you, God—a click-through gallery full of beaming men, women, and children displaying their catch. But, after ten minutes of scrolling through pictures, I’d hit the end of the gallery and all I’d gotten was a headache. No Nick. When I called the number, I got an answering machine. “If we’re not picking up, it’s because we’re busy reeling in those big ’uns, but if you leave your name and number, along with the dates and times you’re interested in, we’ll get back to you as soon as we’re on land,” said a voice that was not Nick’s. Typing “yoga” and “breathing” and “Boston elementary schools” and “Nick” into Google got me a yoga instructor named Nick with a degree from BU. He was cute, but he was not my guy.

What now?

I put the notebook down and decided to go next door, to Sea Breeze, and eavesdrop on the other guests. Maybe I’d overhear something that might jog my memory, or help me find my vanished paramour, or give me some names to add to my list.

Five minutes later, I stood at the entrance of the house next door, taking a moment to gather myself. When I knocked, I found the door unlocked. I walked inside, into a living room that felt like a meat locker. The air-conditioning had been cranked up high, making the room glacially chilly. It made sense. By now, the house should have been filled by a dozen people getting dressed, jostling for space at the mirrors, touching up their dresses with steamers, and blow-drying their hair. Now, the living room was half-empty, with some guests slumped on the white linen couches, others sitting at the dining room table, toying with plates of miniature muffins and fruit, looking woebegone, or grief-stricken, or hungover, or just bored. To make things worse, I realized belatedly that the outfit I’d chosen—Leef’s crisp white blouse, the Jill, and a high-waisted black skirt, the Tasha—made me look like a member of the waitstaff.

But maybe I could make that work, I thought, as I spotted the woman in the chignon who’d grabbed Drue the night before and had piled Lily Cavanaugh into the SUV that morning. Given her resemblance to Lily Lathrop Cavanaugh, I guessed that she was Drue’s grandmother. Spying an empty tray, I put a plate on it and carried the tray toward the corner where Grandma Lathrop was having an intense, whispered conversation with a woman who looked so much like her that she had to be her sister—maybe even the great-aunt whose dead dog had ended up in a beer cooler. The two of them had identical silvery hair, the same fine-boned frames and heart-shaped faces, but Grandma Lathrop was taking genteel sips from a porcelain cup of coffee, while Great-Aunt Lathrop had both hands wrapped around a tall Bloody Mary, like she was worried the glass would fly away if she loosened her grip.

“Will you go?” I heard Aunt ask as I came over with my tray.

Grandma shook her head. “There’s no point. You know that Lily is given to hysterics. They’ll sedate her and send her right back.”

“And I suppose Robert’s with her,” Aunt said, her voice rising slightly as she spoke, turning the statement into a question.

That guess earned an audible snort from Grandma. “I imagine he at least headed in that direction. He’s off to see one of his friends by now, I assume.”

“It’s a disgrace,” murmured Aunt.

Grandma waved an imperious, veiny hand. A heavy gold signet ring hung loose on one knobby finger; a large, square-cut emerald sat on the finger beside it. “That man has been a disgrace for years. And I, for one, am glad we can finally stop pretending.”

I edged away from them, bending over a coffee table and pretending to be busy gathering cups and crumpled napkins.

“Thank God we made Drue get her will notarized,” Grandma said. “Thank God she has a will at all. At least now that…” Her lips curled. “…television star won’t get all of it.”

Aunt murmured something that I couldn’t hear.

“Oh, yes,” Grandma blared. “Our lawyer insisted. Drue had all of these ridiculous bequests. She wanted to leave Robert half of it”—a noisy sniff let me know what Grandma thought of that, and of him—“and a million dollars to some charity for schoolchildren in Boston.”

“That was kind of her,” Aunt ventured. Grandma sniffed.

“Half a million dollars to some high school chum. And to each one of Robert’s by-blows.”

At this, Aunt looked shocked. “Did Drue know?” she asked.

Grandma shook her head. Her expression was grim. “I don’t know how she found out. I wouldn’t put it past that fool to have told her himself. Miss?” She raised her voice. I straightened up and froze when I felt her gaze on me.

“More coffee?” I squeaked.

“And less eavesdropping,” she said tartly, handing me her empty, lipstick-stained cup.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. My heart was thundering in my chest, and I felt light-headed. Money to some high school chum. Could that have been me? Under normal circumstances, an unexpected windfall might have been a good thing, but if it turned out that Drue hadn’t died of natural causes, it meant that I had a theoretical windfall, and an all-too-real motive.