The Perfect Couple(54)

“How’s Chloe?” the Chief asks. “Is her stomach feeling any better?”

“Not sure,” Andrea says. “She’s locked herself in her room.”

“No locked doors,” Ed says. This has been a rule since back when his own kids, Kacy and Eric, were growing up.

“You come home and tell her that,” Andrea says. “Because I’ve tried and she won’t budge. She’s upset about the girl. The Murdered Maid of Honor, everyone is calling her now.”

“Everyone?” Ed asks. “Is it that bad already? People talking? People giving this story a name? We aren’t even sure she was murdered. Not sure at all.”

“It’s a small island, Ed,” Andrea says. She pauses, and he realizes she has just lobbed his favorite line right back at him. “Would it be awful if while you were out solving this murder, I went to the beach?”

He’s investigating a murder, not solving anything. “Go to the beach,” he says. “But please be careful.”

“You’re sweet,” Andrea says. “Love you.”

He hangs up just as a call comes in from Cape Cod Hospital.

“This is Ed Kapenash,” he says.

“Chief, it’s Linda.” Linda Ferretti, the medical examiner. “Prelims indicate our girl died by drowning around three a.m. The blood work shows someone slipped her a mickey, or maybe she self-medicated. A barbiturate seems to be the culprit. The cut on her foot was the source of all that blood but it was just a surface wound. She has one fingerprint-size bruise on her wrist; my best guess is someone yanked her or pulled on her arm. There are no other signs that she was strangled or smothered and then dumped. She either took pills or was given something. She went out for a swim, passed out, drowned. Could have happened in a bathtub.”

“Okay,” the Chief says. “What was her blood alcohol content?”

“Low,” Linda says. “Point zero-two-five.”

“Really?” the Chief says. “You’re sure?”

“Surprised me too, at first,” she says. “The contents of her stomach were minimal. Either she didn’t eat much last night or, what I think is more likely, she vomited up what she did eat.”

“What makes you think that?” the Chief asks.

“She was pregnant.”

“You’re kidding,” the Chief says.

“Wish I was,” Linda says. “Very early stages. My guess is she was six or seven weeks along? She might not even have realized it.”

“Wow,” the Chief says.

“The plot thickens,” Linda says.


The Chief hangs up and his phone rings again. This time it’s the Nantucket hospital.

“This is Ed Kapenash,” he says.

“Chief, it’s Margaret from the ER.”

“Hey, Margaret,” the Chief says. “What’s up?”

“We have the bride from that wedding,” Margaret says. “Kind of strange? She says she wants to talk to the police here at the hospital rather than at the house. Her fiancé came to check on her. They had words, then he stormed out.”

“Keep her there, Margaret,” the Chief says. “I’ll send the Greek the instant he’s free.”

“The Greek?” Margaret says. “My nurses will be thrilled.”

The Chief smiles for the first time that day. “Thanks, Margaret,” he says, then he turns into the station.


They are holding Shooter Uxley in the first interview room. When the Chief enters, Shooter is fast asleep with his head on the table. The Chief watches him for a second and listens to him snoring. Whatever anxiety he might be feeling is clearly overridden by exhaustion.

Didn’t sleep much last night, buddy? the Chief wonders.

Mr. Uxley has taken off his blazer and untucked his shirt. The Chief looks at his paperwork: Michael Oscar Uxley. New York driver’s license, Manhattan address, West Thirty-Ninth Street. Also from New York City, like the deceased. He wonders if Uxley was the father of Ms. Monaco’s baby.

The Chief nudges his arm. “Hey there, wake up. Mr. Uxley, sir?”

Shooter groans and raises his head. He seems disoriented for a second, then he straightens up.

The Chief says, “In case you’ve forgotten, I’m Chief Kapenash, Nantucket Police. You put on some nice moves out there.”

Shooter blinks. “I want a lawyer,” he says.





Thursday, June 22–Friday, June 23, 2017





CELESTE


She doesn’t meet Shooter until she and Benji have been together for nine months. Shooter is Benji’s best friend—so why does it take so long? Well, Shooter is busy. He owns and operates a company called A-List, which provides American retreats for foreign businessmen. What this means essentially is that Shooter has made a career—lucrative, Benji says—out of partying. He takes executives from Asian and emerging Eastern European countries and shows these gentlemen (for his clientele is 100 percent male) an old-fashioned American good time. Much of the “work” is centered in Manhattan. The executives are fond of the long-established steak houses—Smith and Wollensky, Gallagher’s, Peter Luger’s; they like the Intrepid and Times Square; they like the clubs, especially the gentlemen’s clubs on Twelfth Avenue. Shooter also spends a lot of time in Las Vegas. He is, Benji says with a straight face, a Vegas regular. He divides his time between the Aria Sky Suites and the Mandarin Oriental. Shooter himself plays only craps; in prep school at St. George’s, he ran a late-night dice game, and that was the source of his nickname.