Chapter Fifteen Harriet
Chapter Fifteen
Harriet
Nic and I hang up as I pull into the driveway of my mom’s house.
Through the windshield, I watch as the breeze picks up the loose ends of the police tape still wrapped around the gate, tangling them together in the air. Nic’s right—not that I’d ever admit that to him. I should probably go talk to Mrs. Carter, as much as the idea pains me.
I climb out of the car, pulling my sweater tight as the wind winds around my bones. This side of the island faces the Atlantic and runs a full ten degrees cooler than over by my dad’s.
I could grab a jacket from the house, but if I go inside, I might chicken out again.
I march to the gate, punch in the code, and duck under the tape, stepping onto the sand.
There are only three houses on this small stretch of private beach.
George was killed at edge of the water between our house and the middle one—owned by some billionaire NYC hedge fund manager who never even uses it.
The third house, farthest from my mom’s, is the one I mentioned to Nic.
It’s occupied by Mrs. Ruth Carter, an eighty-six-year-old widow who, it’s safe to say, is not my biggest fan.
August of last year, my mom and George went out of town, and I decided to take advantage of the empty house and come down to visit Maggie and Gogo.
The weather was beautiful, so Maggie and I decided to do some topless sunbathing—as one does on a private beach.
Well, if we’re being precise, I decided and dragged Maggie along for the ride.
Little did I know that Mrs. Ruth Carter is one of those little old ladies who love to snoop.
From her reaction to our boobs, you’d have thought we were out there murdering whales. She literally called the cops and tried to have us written up for indecent exposure. Maggie managed to argue our way out of it, but suffice it to say, I am not eager to interact with her again.
That said, given Mrs. Carter’s propensity for prying into other people’s business, she definitely could have seen something the night George died, and I would be an idiot not to talk to her.
It’s possible the cops didn’t even think to interview her—she’s old, and we all know what little value our society places on older women.
I trudge toward her house, hands shoved into the pockets of my shorts, chin tucked to my chest, keeping my gaze on the sand.
The sun is bright, but still it’s creepy being out here alone.
I hurry past the place where George was found, but at the top of the porch stairs, I force myself to turn back. I find it easily.
Which means Mrs. Carter could have seen something.
“What are you doing?”
I whirl around. Mrs. Carter stands in the open doorway glaring at me, a teacup clenched tight in her fist.
I take a breath, trying to relax. What did I expect? George’s ghost?
“What are you doing on my property?” she asks, annoyance pinching her lips white.
A gust of wind lashes us with its cool tendrils, and she flinches.
For a second, I almost feel bad for her—she looks so brittle and birdlike in that thin sweater.
But then she says, “Do I need to call the cops on you again, young lady?” and I remember that while she may be eighty-six, her tongue is as sharp as the knife that murdered George.
She doesn’t need my worry; in fact, she’d probably yell at me if she knew it had even crossed my mind.
“I’m here because I’m wondering about the cops, actually,” I say.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Did you see all those people out on the beach the other day? I’m curious if you—”
Another gust hits us, and Mrs. Carter sighs like she thinks the weather is somehow my fault. “It’s freezing out here. If you insist on badgering me with questions, you need to come inside.”
She turns on her heel and disappears into the house.
I hesitate, feeling like I’m about to enter the dragon’s lair. But if I want to talk, it’s clear I have no choice.
I walk through the door into a high-ceilinged room.
Every corner is filled with large, green houseplants, teetering stacks of hardcover books, and art.
Lots and lots of colorful art, mostly featuring boats.
Ocean landscapes with boats, abstract oils of boats, watercolors of boats.
I don’t know what I was expecting after my encounter with her last summer (cages filled with flying monkeys?), but it certainly wasn’t this.
“My late husband,” Mrs. Carter says, watching me take it all in, “was a boat enthusiast. I never liked them much myself. Too much water.”
I stop myself from asking why exactly she decided to live on the edge of the ocean if she’s not a fan of water.
She sets her cup down on the coffee table. “Now, what’s this about?”
I shift between my feet. The way she’s staring at me, unblinking, makes me feel about two feet tall.
“Well, you know,” I start.
“I don’t, actually.” She settles on a deep blue crushed-velvet couch. A curious choice for a beach house. I walk toward it, and she points to an armchair across the way. “There.”
“Right.” I scoot around the table and drop onto it. I clear my throat. “My stepfather George died. Did you hear that?”
“Yes, of course,” she snaps. “I’m old, not dead. You think I didn’t hear that mess the other day? And before it, the party. So loud, all of it. Some of us prefer our quiet.”
“Well. I was wondering if you saw anything that night. Something that could point to who killed George?”
“From what I heard, they already have someone in custody. The cops showed her photo when they came to my door.”
Ah, so they were here. “Sara Allbright?”
“That’s the one. Pretty girl, not sure how she got herself tangled up in this mess—”
I interrupt. “Plenty of murderers are good-looking. Take Ted Bundy.”
“Who?” She waves a hand. “Never heard of him. My point is, seemed like those officers had their minds made up. So why are you here, bothering me with your questions?”
I weigh how much to tell her. On the one hand, Kozel will be livid if it gets back to him that I’m asking questions about this case.
But on the other, do I give a shit? It’s not illegal to ask questions; in fact, the world would be a better place if more people did.
Plus, Mrs. Carter is nosy as hell; she might be more willing to open up to me if I loop her in on a secret.
I scoot forward and lower my voice, even though we’re obviously alone. “Please don’t repeat this, but…I think they have the wrong person.”
Her eyebrows jerk up, like a bunny catching a curious scent. “Do you now?”
I nod. “Yes. And I’m here because I’m writing an article about it. For Humans.”
Her brow scrunches. “For humans?”
“It’s a digital magazine. Fully online—”
She looks at me like I have three heads.
“Never mind. In short, I want to figure out who else could have done it. I don’t think the cops are doing their job.
I think they decided Sara would be an easy person to blame.
It was her knife, she’s from the south side of the island, and she can’t afford a good lawyer.
From what I understand, it’s their typical MO. ”
She sniffs and picks up her teacup. “Don’t have to tell me twice.
The cops here are idiots. Especially that Mick Sharkey.
How he became police chief is beyond me.
His minions asked me several perfunctory questions, but I could tell they thought I was just a batty old woman with bad eyesight.
” A sour expression crosses her face. “They acted like I was already dead. I might be old, but I’m not useless. ”
“I don’t think you are. And I’d love to include your thoughts in my article, which will appear in a national publication, if you’re on board.”
“I’m listening.”
I slip my phone out my pocket. “Would you be okay with me recording this?”
She eyes it. “All right. I suppose.”
“Great. Thank you.” I open the voice memos app, hit Record, and set the phone between us on the coffee table. “To start—you said Sharkey’s an idiot. Why’s that?”
She snorts. “Have you met Mick Sharkey? Man wouldn’t be able to find his way through an open door.
The only reason he got that position is because DiPetrio knew he’d do whatever she told him to.
Wouldn’t be surprised if she rigged his police exam so he’d score high enough to be considered.
And now he’s filled the department with a bunch of yes-men.
You should have heard their questions. Absolutely ridiculous. ”
“What did they ask?”
“If I saw anything out on the beach. Particularly, if I saw that girl.”
“Had you?”
“Yes.” She pauses as she takes a sip of tea.
My stomach plunges into my shoes. She saw Sara? Am I going to have to tell Frankie that I was wrong? Tell Nic that his sister is guilty? Am I going to—
Then she adds: “She was out on the beach earlier that afternoon.”
Once I’ve recovered, I continue, “What about later?”
“Nope. But I couldn’t see much of anything later. It was too dark. Too rainy.”
“Oh,” I say. I just wasted twenty minutes of my life coming over here. I reach out to turn off the recording. “Okay. Well, thank you for your time.”
I pick up my phone and stand, but she stops me with a sharp shake of her head. “I have to say, I’m disappointed. When you showed up on my porch, I thought maybe you’d be smarter than those moronic cops.”
“So you did see something?”
“No!” She sets down her cup with a clatter.
“You’re asking the wrong questions, just like they did.
They kept asking Did you see anything? Are you sure you didn’t see anything?
Like they thought I didn’t understand the question.
But it was dark and rainy. I’m eighty-six years old. Of course I didn’t see anything.”
I slowly sink back down to the chair. “I’m sorry. I’m confused.”
“I didn’t see anything, but…” She gestures toward her ear, and it clicks.
“You heard something,” I say. Why the hell couldn’t she just say that? She’s acting like this is some sort of logic puzzle I’m failing.
“There you go. Now you’re thinking with your whole brain.”
Right. My brain is the issue. I turn back on the recording.
“Did you tell the cops?”
She pulls her chin to her chest. “I certainly did not! They only asked me that one question. Left right after. Heard them talking as they walked away about how they knew coming to my house would be a waste of time because I’m ‘so old.’ Idiots,” she adds darkly.
“They should have been more respectful,” I say. Never hurts to butter up a source—a lesson the cops could stand to learn.
The edges of her mouth pull up—not a smile exactly, but something that less resembles an upside-down U.
“That’s right, young lady. They should have!
Maybe then I would have told them that as I was moving my potted hoya out to the porch that night—her soil had dried out, so it was the perfect time for her to drink—I heard a man’s voice, clear as day, from the direction of your house. ”
I freeze. This could be it. I might have saved Sara. Nic will be so happy. Kozel will be so mad. My article will be huge. Drive so much traffic to the website that Frankie will shit herself. She’ll have to hire me back full-time. I’ll get my old life back.
It’ll be proof that I am good at this after all. Not just a tabloid writer—a real journalist. Talented. Smart. All the things that I stopped believing when Frankie fired me that day.
I push the phone forward, heart thumping in anticipation. “What did you hear?”
Mrs. Carter’s brow furrows. “Loud voices. Sounded like an argument. I walked to the railing to see if I could figure out what was going on. We have to keep vigilant, you know. Never know who’s out and about.”
“Uh-huh. And the voices? What did you hear?”
“I didn’t catch most of it,” Ruth says, squinting at me. “But I did hear one thing. A man’s voice. George. I’d know it anywhere. So nasally and clipped. He said, plain as day, This is getting pathetic. Let it go.”
That’s far more cryptic than I’d hoped. I frown. “Did you hear anything else?”
“Nope. That’s it. I stood there for a bit longer, but the rain started coming down in sheets, and I had to get inside. My hip acts up in bad weather.”
I sit back, trying to quell my rising disappointment, my vision of the future vanishing as quickly as it came. “You didn’t hear who he was talking to?”
Her glare returns. “I already said. I did not.”
Right, okay. It’s not as clear as I’d hoped, but maybe it can still be useful. “What time was this?”
“Just had my evening tea, so 7:35. I have my tea at 7:25, and I always drink it in ten minutes.”
7:35 p.m. Shortly before Nic found the body. Which means whoever she heard him talking to was likely the killer.
This is getting pathetic. Let it go.
I turn the phrase over in my mind, picking at its strands. The wording suggests it wasn’t the first time they’d argued, which confirms my theory—George knew them.
I consider whether I should call Kozel and tell him what I learned. The thing is I can easily see him blowing it off. Saying George was talking to Sara. Telling her to let go of the argument they had in the kitchen.
No. There’s no need to tell him. I’m going to keep this little piece of information to myself.
Myself and Nic.
Our first real clue.