Girls Like Us(16)

“Has anyone talked to him yet?”

“He’s not there. He’s almost never there.”

“Where is he?”

Lee shrugs. “He’s got houses in Manhattan and Palm Beach. And an island down in the BVI.”

“An island?”

“Yeah. A private island. Named after himself, someone said. Little Saint James. How do you like that?”

“Find him. A girl was found dead a hundred yards from his property line. We’ll need a complete list of everyone who works in his household. If anyone was there, they might have seen or heard something.”

“I’m on it.”

“I’m going to go talk to Grace Bishop.”

“You want company?”

“Let me talk to her alone first. Get a botanist. Track down James Meachem. Get a list of his household staff and start contacting them. I’ll meet you back here. I gotta head home in an hour or so.”

I stride past the barricades, scanning for Ann-Marie Marshall. I spot her up ahead, stepping into her Jeep. I hurry toward her, but I’m too late. She closes the door and drives off down Meadow Lane, her tires kicking up sand in my direction.





5.



I take some time prowling around the perimeter of James Meachem’s house. The hedges surrounding the property are thick and high. The gate is made of industrial metal. Through the slats, I see a rolling lawn. In the distance, a house made of glass and steel sits high on the dunes. While the views from inside are, I’m sure, spectacular, there’s a coldness to the place that unsettles me.

A mechanical buzz causes me to look up. A security camera, affixed to the gatepost, focuses on me. I take a step to the left. The camera moves. I give it a little wave. It vibrates, mimicking my movement. I’m tempted to give it the finger, but I restrain myself. Instead, I back down the driveway, aware that the camera is following me, capturing my image on someone’s computer. When I reach the street and turn toward the Bishop property next door, the camera falls still. I wonder who, if anyone, is watching.

The Bishop house, too, is guarded by a gate. Most houses on Meadow Lane are. I walk over to the keypad and press a button to call the house.

“Nell Flynn to see Grace Bishop,” I say into the speaker, after I hear someone pick up on the other end. “I’m with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

The gate swings open. I see that the property is as grand as Meachem’s but less antiseptic. The lawn is well landscaped. Hydrangea bushes and Rose of Sharon line the edges of the drive. There’s a vegetable garden and an orchard. From between the trees, a woman emerges, removing gardening gloves from her hands. She wears a wide-brimmed hat, a rumpled linen shirt, and jeans. Her face is pink from exertion.

“Hello, there,” she calls out. Her voice has a soft southern lilt to it. “I’m Grace.”

We walk toward each other, meeting halfway between the orchard and the drive. Grace Bishop is a beautiful woman. Tall, slim, and elegant. When she extends her hand, I notice that she’s wearing a simple gold band on her finger, and her nails are short and unvarnished. Not what I was expecting. I let my guard down just a little.

“I hope I’m not intruding, Mrs. Bishop.”

“Call me Grace, please. You’re not. I’ve just been working in the gardens to keep myself distracted. It’s been such a horrible day.”

“I know, I’m sorry. Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?”

“Not at all. Why don’t you come sit? I could use a break, anyway.” Delicate beads of sweat gather at her hairline. She blots them away with the back of her wrist and then gestures for me to follow her.

The house is a gambrel-style home with white wooden shutters and porches that wrap all the way around it. Morning glories climb up the banisters. I can hear the distant murmur of the ocean in the background. It’s the kind of house that you see in movies and magazines. It has the grandness of an old home, but one that has been watched over with a meticulous eye. Grace bends over a white wicker couch on the front porch, upholstered in a cheerful sunshine-yellow stripe, and begins to straighten the pillows. Overhead, a coordinating awning flaps in the breeze.

“Can I get you something to drink? Lemonade? Iced tea? Or maybe a sweet tea? I make a fierce sweet tea. You can take the girl out of the South, but you can’t take the South out of the girl.” She gives me a sad smile. I can see how nervous she is. She flutters around the porch like a hummingbird as she talks, fluffing upholstery and pulling brown leaves off the plants. I see this a lot with crime witnesses. Finding a dead body is jarring, like a car accident or a mugging. It affects people physically. Some people fall apart and need to rest. Others, like Grace, fly off the adrenaline, unable to calm their shattered nerves.

“I’m fine. Thank you, though.” I pull out the bag containing her bracelet. “Detective Davis found this on the beach. He asked me to return it to you.”

“Oh!” she says. She stops moving. I hold it out for her. She retrieves it gingerly, as though she’s not quite sure she’s allowed to touch it.

“May I?”

“Yes, of course.”

She slips the bracelet out of the glassine evidence bag and takes a seat. “Would you mind helping me with the clasp? I’m a little shaky today. Haven’t been able to eat all morning.”