The Perfect Couple(9)

He’d knocked. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she said. “I’m fine.”

Fine, the Chief thought. Meaning she’d spent her postshift hours on the beach drinking Bud Light and doing shots of Fireball.

He had kissed Andrea good-bye in the kitchen and said, “I think Chloe was drinking last night.”

Andrea sighed. “I’ll talk to her.”

Talking to Chloe wasn’t going to help, the Chief thought. She needed a new job—shelving books at the children’s library or counting plover eggs out on Smith’s Point. Something that would keep her out of trouble, not lead her right to it.


The Chief and Nick walk past the left side of the main house onto the lawn, where an enormous tent has been erected. They find the guys from forensics inside the tent, one bagging, one photographing. Nick heads down to the beach to check out the body; the Chief sees that the girl has been left just shy of the waterline but she’ll need to be moved to the hospital morgue as soon as possible on this hot a day. Inside the tent, there is one round table surrounded by four white banquet chairs. In the middle of the table is a nearly empty bottle of Mount Gay Black Barrel rum and four shot glasses, two of them on their sides. There’s half a quahog shell that served as an ashtray for someone’s cigar. A Romeo y Julieta. Cuban.

One of the forensics guys, Randy, is bagging a pair of silver sandals.

“Where did you find those?” the Chief asks.

“Under that chair,” Randy says, pointing. “Connor has a picture of them. Size eight Mystique sandals. I’m no shoe salesman, but I’m guessing they belonged to the deceased. We’ll confirm.”

Nick returns. “The girl has a nasty gash on her foot,” he says. “And I noticed there’s a trail of blood in the sand.”

“Any blood on the sandals?” the Chief asks Randy.

“No, sir,” Randy says.

“Took off her shoes, cut her foot on a shell, maybe,” Nick says.

“Well, she didn’t die of a cut on her foot,” the Chief says. “Unless she swam out too far and couldn’t get back in because of the foot?”

“That doesn’t sound right,” Nick says. “There’s also a two-person kayak overturned on the beach, one oar a few yards away lying in the sand. No blood on the kayak.”

The Chief takes a breath. The day is still; there’s no breeze off the water. It’s going to be hot and buggy. They need to get the body out of here, pronto. They need to start their questioning, try to figure out what happened. He remembers what Dickson said about the best man being missing. Hopefully that situation has resolved itself. “Let’s go up to the house,” he says.

“Should we divide and conquer?” the Greek asks.

“I’ll take the men, you take the women,” the Chief says. Nick works wonders with the women.

Nick nods. “Deal.”

As they’re approaching the steps of the front porch, Bob from Old Salt Taxi pulls up in the driveway and a kid in his twenties climbs out. He’s wearing Nantucket Reds shorts, a blue oxford, a navy blazer, and loafers; he has a large duffel in one hand and a garment bag in the other. His hair is mussed and he needs a shave.

“Who is this guy?” Nick asks under his breath.

“Late to the party,” the Chief says. He waves to Bob as Bob reverses out of the driveway.

The kid gives the Chief and Nick an uneasy smile. “What’s going on?” he asks.

Nick says, “You part of the wedding?”

“Best man,” the kid says. “Shooter Uxley. Did something happen?”

Nick looks to the Chief. The Chief nods ever so slightly and tries not to let the relief show on his face. One mystery is solved.

“The maid of honor is dead,” Nick says.

The bags hit the ground, and the kid—Shooter Uxley; what a name—goes pale. “What?” he says. “Wait… what?”





Initial questioning, Roger Pelton, Saturday, July 7, 7:00 a.m.


The Chief meets Roger Pelton in the driveway. The two men shake hands, and the Chief grips Roger’s arm in a show of friendship and support. Roger has been married to Rita since the Bronze Age, and they have five kids, all grown. Roger has been running his wedding business for over ten years; before that, he was a successful general contractor. Roger Pelton is as solid a human being as God has ever put on this earth. He was in Vietnam too, the Chief remembers, where he received a Purple Heart and a Bronze Star. He’s an unlikely candidate to be Nantucket’s most in-demand wedding planner, but he has a gift for it that has resulted in a booming business.

Right now, Roger looks shaken. His face is pale and sweaty; his shoulders are drooping.

“I’m sorry about this, Roger,” the Chief says. “It must have come as a terrible shock.”

“I thought I’d seen it all,” Roger says. “I’ve had brides turn around halfway down the aisle; I’ve had grooms not show up; I’ve caught couples having sex in church bathrooms. I’ve had mothers of brides slapping mothers of grooms. I’ve had fathers who refused to pay my bills and fathers who tipped me five grand. I’ve had hurricanes, thunderstorms, heat waves, fog, and, once, hail. I’ve had brides vomit and faint; I even had a groomsman eat a mussel and go into anaphylactic shock. But I’ve never had anyone die. I met the maid of honor only briefly so I can’t give you any information other than that she was Celeste’s best friend.”