Golden Girl(70)

Now love is dead.

“The person who needs to admit something here, Leo Quinboro, is you.” Cruz pokes Leo, hard, in the chest. “You need to face your truth.”

With that, Cruz strides down the dock, and Leo, not sure what to do or to think, blinks at the hot blue sky and the darker blue of Nantucket Sound and the yachts lined up in their slips like really, really expensive toys. Then his walkie-talkie rasps—slip 92 needs ice.



Leo goes home early with a “stomachache” to find the chief of police, Ed Kapenash, knocking on the front door of Money Pit.

“Hello?” Leo says. He wishes he’d stayed at work. He wishes his sister had answered the door and dealt with the Chief, but it’s four o’clock. She’s at the Oystercatcher.

“Hey, there,” the Chief says, offering his hand. “You’re Ms. Howe’s son?”

“Leo,” he says. “Leo Quinboro.”

“Leo,” the Chief says. “The lion.”

“I’m named after Leo Tolstoy,” Leo says. “The writer? He’s Russian. He wrote War and Peace.”

The Chief nods. He doesn’t care; nobody ever does. “You got a few minutes to chat?”

“I guess,” Leo says. He pushes the door open for the Chief and they step into the kitchen. The kitchen has cathedral ceilings and a teal-blue Ilve Majestic stove with a matching hood that Vivi called “the Lambo” because it was the stove-equivalent of a Lamborghini. The kitchen was the first room in Money Pit that Vivi renovated, but no one has cleaned it since Vivi died, and it’s not looking like its best self. On the counter sits the blender, half filled with a purple smoothie that has attracted fruit flies, and there are bagel crumbs and seeds all over the butcher block. The last of the sympathy flowers are dying on the table; the petals are falling, the stamens staining the white surface.

“Can I get you anything?” Leo asks. “Ginger ale?” This is what he’s having. He cracks open a can and takes a sip. He really thinks he might puke. What is the chief of police doing here?

“I’m fine, thanks,” the Chief says. “I have some questions for you. Do you want to sit down?”

“Uh, okay?” Leo says. The table is grimy. He could lead the Chief out to the back by the pool but Vivi’s writing chaise will be there, and for this reason, Leo has been avoiding the pool. Nearly every day in summer, Vivi would lie out back, writing away in one of her notebooks. If Leo or Carson or Willa interrupted her—Mom, would you please make me a sandwich? Can I have money for gas? Is it okay if I invite some people over?—she would say, “I know it looks like I’m lying around in anticipation of granting your every wish and desire, but I’m working, so please step off.”

They sit at the table and Leo willfully ignores the shriveled lily petals and the coat of grease from who knows what order of takeout.

“We’re working on your mom’s case,” the Chief says. “I’ve gotten certain pieces of information that need clarifying. We heard about a photograph that a classmate might have sent you and Cruz DeSantis. Do you know what I’m referring to?”

Leo tenses up. The picture. The police know about the picture.

“You’ve seen the photo?” Leo asks.

“No, I haven’t seen it. Cruz won’t talk about it, and the person who sent the photo is off-island and can’t be reached.”

Peter can’t be reached? Leo thinks. Where is he? Rehab is the first thing that comes to mind; Peter Bridgeman is addicted to his Adderall and whatever other drugs he can get his hands on. But if he’d been sent away, Leo would have heard about it from the high-school rumor mill or from Willa. Then Leo remembers that Peter goes to that camp in Maine. How did Leo not think of this before now? He figured Peter didn’t send out the photo to a bunch of people because of what happened to Vivi or because he was so drug-addled he’d forgotten about it or because Cruz had managed to talk some sense into him.

Leo does some quick calculating. The police don’t have access to the picture. The picture could be of anything as far as they knew.

“It’s our belief that someone is trying to…” The Chief stops suddenly. “You and Cruz had a fight the night before your mother died, is that right? You gave him a black eye.”

“It was self-defense,” Leo says, then regrets this and tries to backpedal. “Honestly, I’m not real clear on what happened the night before my mom was killed. I don’t remember getting home.”

“Let me change the topic for a second,” the Chief says. “Have you seen your mother’s running shoes? Did you collect the shoes and clothes from the hospital?”

Leo gags. His mother’s shoes. His mother’s clothes.

“I’m sorry, son, I know this is difficult. But can you please just answer the question? Have you seen the clothes or shoes since your mother died?”

“No,” Leo whispers. “We got the phone back. That was it.”

“Okay.” The Chief places a light hand on Leo’s shoulder.

“I know Cruz ran a stop sign and was speeding before he got to my road.” Leo meets the Chief’s eye for the first time. “If he didn’t hit her, then who did?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” the Chief says. “Thank you for your help. I’ll be in touch.”