Big Summer(65)

“First of all,” I began, “did you know that Drue did a thirteenth year at the Croft School in California before she went to Harvard?”

I was gratified when Darshi’s eyes widened. “Whoa,” she said.

“I know, right! I mean, did you have any idea that she had problems getting into college?”

Darshi shook her head again. She rolled up the cuffs of her jacket, then rolled them down again. In addition to coconuts and sandalwood, I could catch a whiff of an unfamiliar perfume, and wondered if Carmen had been at the conference, too, and if Darshi had sent her home to come help me. “I figured her parents just gave the school money,” she said.

“I know! Me too!” My voice sounded a little screechy. I made myself take a breath. “And also, I heard Drue’s grandmother discussing her will. Drue’s will, not the grandmother’s. And it turns out Drue left a high school chum some money.”

Darshi stared. “You?”

“I don’t know.” The idea that I could somehow end up with a giant chunk of cash at the end of this left me feeling shivery, hot and then cold, like I was coming down with the flu.

“What about your mystery man?” Darshi asked.

I told Darshi that no one had answered the Lady Lu’s phone, that the woman who’d answered had hung up on me as soon as I’d said Drue’s name, and that Google was giving me hot yoga instructors, not the guy I’d met the night before. “I wrote down every single thing I could remember about him,” I said, showing her my notebook. Darshi’s eyebrows lifted incrementally.

“Amazing at sex? Seriously?” She shut the book, looking dubious. “Well, good for you, I guess.”

“Yeah. If it turns out Drue was murdered and I end up in jail, at least I’ll have some nice memories.” I sighed, then looked at her. “If you want to say ‘I told you so,’ now would be the time.”

Darshi shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said. Her voice was quiet, and her tone was hard to read. “I am. I didn’t like Drue very much, but I’m sorry for her. For her family. And I’m sorry for you.”

I nodded, with tears stinging my eyes. “Thank you for coming.”

Darshi nodded and reached for the notebook again. “Your gentleman caller mentioned his aunt and uncle and cousins, but not parents or siblings. Scar on ankle. No tattoos.” She shook her head, with a combination of bemusement and exasperation on her face. “Very thorough. Okay, get your purse.”

“What?”

“We’re going for a ride.”

I looked around, as if someone had overheard her. “I’m not supposed to leave!”

“I didn’t see a guard at your door.”

I grabbed my purse and kept my head down as I skittered out the door, down the stairs, and across the crunchy shell driveway to the car Darshi had rented. It wasn’t until she’d pulled onto Route 6 that I was able to relax slightly, convinced that no one was following us, and that I wasn’t about to get arrested for leaving the scene of the crime.

“Where are we going?”

“The sailing school. Maybe if we ask whoever you spoke to in person, she’ll be more inclined to help.”



* * *




The Provincetown Yacht Club was just as Nick had described it—a hole-in-the-wall on the west end of Commercial Street, which was Provincetown’s main drag. The club was small, occupying what looked like a modest clapboard house, next door to a fancy-looking deli called Relish. An old debossed wood plaque above the doorway read YACHT RACING CLUB; a hand-lettered square of construction paper underneath said “Raffle Tix and T-Shirts for Sale. Please Knock!” Darshi stood behind me as I knocked on the front door. When no one answered, we followed the sounds of voices around back. The house was much longer than it was wide, with its back side open to the water, and two big garage doors rolled up to expose two deep bays. I saw high, shadowy ceilings, a concrete floor, and rows of wooden racks that held the bodies of sailboats and kayaks. Above and between the boats, dozens of colorful life jackets hung drying over clotheslines that stretched from one end of the room to the other. The sails were furled in stacks along the walls.

There was a metal showerhead screwed into the corner of the house. Just past it, a flight of outdoor stairs led to the second floor. Beyond the house, a short, sandy slope led down to a small crescent of beach and a dock. The water glittered in the sunlight, and a dozen sailboats zigged and zagged back and forth between the shore and a sandbar. The kids on the boats laughed and shouted as they made their turns, calling “Boom coming over” or “Coming about!”

“H’lo?”

I looked up. An older woman was standing on the second-floor landing, leaning over the railing, looking at us. I thought that I recognized the gruff female voice from my phone call that morning. She had pale white skin and thick gray hair falling out of a bun and framing her face in wisps. A pair of reading glasses hung from a seed-pearl chain and rested on her capacious bosom.

“Raffle ticket?” she called down.

“Hi!” I called, shading my eyes. “We’re, um, visiting the Cape. Can we talk to you for a minute?”

She shrugged, turned, and went back inside. Darshi and I looked at each other, then mounted the wooden steps. On the second story we found a small office with low ceilings, exposed wooden beams, and walls of the same unpainted wood as the first-floor storage area. The air smelled like the inside of the cabins at the summer camp in Maine: must from the off-season, wet wood and mold, bug spray and sunscreen, sunshine and sweaty kids. The essence of summertime.