Chapter 52
Felice met Traci at the employee entrance to the kitchen with the takeout order.
“Mrs. E…” Felice started. “I know Mr. Burroughs is pretty mad at me. And I just wondered if you’d put in a good word for me, because I really need this job. I love my work.”
“Leave Charlie to me,” Traci said. “The only opinion that matters is our guests’, and they love your food. And so do I.”
Felice’s face nearly cracked open with her grin. “Oh, wow. Thanks!”
“We need a new seafood supplier,” Traci said. “That grouper for today’s special was frozen and not locally caught. And while you’re at it, maybe we look into growing more of our own produce here at the Saint. We grow the annuals and perennials we use in landscaping, so why not put the hothouses to work with vegetables too?”
“That would be amazing. And I’ve already met with a local fisherman. He’s a shrimper and his brother is a commercial fisherman. I can buy their stuff right off the dock.”
“That sounds good, but you’ll want to make sure they can provide the quantity we need,” Traci reminded her. “In the meantime, what have you fixed me for dinner tonight?”
“You’ve got an appetizer of seared scallops with a pomegranate and Meyer lemon coulis, and I guarantee the scallops are fresh. The salad is local tomatoes, peaches, basil, and burrata over arugula with a balsamic drizzle. Dessert is mini chocolate mousse cheesecake.”
“And the entrée?”
“A couple of little filets, for grilling, and two sauces…”
“That sounds sinful,” Traci said, taking the takeout package from the chef.
“Or Saintly,” Felice said. “Let me know how you like the scallops.”
“I will,” Traci promised.
After she’d showered, Traci changed into a block-printed blue- and-white caftan that was probably supposed to be a bathing suit cover-up, but which she liked for its lightweight ease.
She twisted her hair into a messy French knot and was just about to apply lipstick when the doorbell rang, setting Lola into a frenzy of shrill barks, and her pulse racing.
“Lola, hush,” she called, padding barefoot to the door.
Whelan stood in the doorway with a bottle of wine tucked under each arm and a handful of daisies.
“Come in,” she said, feeling her cheeks suddenly redden and heat. Was this the first time she’d entertained a man, alone, since Hoke? With a start, she realized it was.
Lola was still barking and now lunging at Whelan’s ankles.
He leaned down to pet the dachshund, but Lola bared her teeth and growled a warning.
“I’m sorry. She’s not usually like this,” Traci said, reaching for the flowers. “For me?”
“For you, from you. I swiped them from the perennial beds near the tennis courts. They were starting to get a little crowded, so I pruned ’em. So to speak.”
“Let’s go into the kitchen and I’ll get them in some water,” Traci said. He followed her through the house, taking in the gleaming dark-stained hardwood floors, the creamy plaster walls, and arched, vaguely Moorish-inspired doorways.
The furniture tended toward dark, heavy antiques, stiff satin- covered sofas, and elaborately swagged and fringed brocade window treatments.
“The kitchen is right through here,” Traci said as they passed through the dining room. Whelan paused to gaze at an enormous gold-framed portrait of a blond woman with one of those stiff ’70s hairdos. She was dressed in a fancy hot-pink cocktail dress and seated in a fan-back rattan chair. Standing on either side of her were two little boys, dressed in fussy-looking smocked shirts, short pants, and high knee socks.
“Family?”
“My late mother-in-law, Helen. And that’s Hoke, on the left, and Ric on the right.”
Traci pretended not to notice Whelan’s scowl when she mentioned her brother-in-law’s name.
“The painting was hanging here when we moved into this house. Hoke wanted to take it down, but I didn’t want to hurt his mother’s feelings, and I guess I’ve just gotten used to seeing it there.”
She gestured around at the living and dining room, which opened up through a series of arched doorways. “Helen hired a very famous Palm Beach designer to decorate this house.”
“You don’t mind living with another woman’s taste?”
Traci shrugged. “I didn’t grow up in a family with a lot of money or inherited things.”
The kitchen was dated-looking and small, compared with the grand scale of the other rooms he’d seen. White cabinets, white appliances, yellow Formica countertops, and a small center island with a pair of yellow-vinyl-cushioned barstools.
She noticed Whelan’s look of surprise. “My mother-in-law wasn’t much of a cook. She used to say her favorite thing to make for dinner was reservations at the Verandah. We always intended to rip this out and enlarge it into the dining room to make it one larger, more casual space. Instead we bought a lot to build on. But…”
Whelan sniffed expectantly. “I take it you do cook?”
“When I have time, which I haven’t lately. Tonight’s dinner was catered by Felice, at the restaurant.” She recited the menu as the chef had dictated it to her.
“Want me to open the wine?” He noticed a couple of wineglasses and a corkscrew on the counter. “What’ll you have?”
“We could start with the white, or I’ve got a full bar over there.” She pointed at a vintage rattan bar cart stocked with a dozen liquor bottles, mixers, a crystal ice bucket, and a bowl full of sliced lemons and limes.
“It’s so hot out, how about a gin and tonic?” Whelan asked.
“Fine, I’ll let you bartend while I get these appetizers plated up.”
They sat at the kitchen island and sipped their drinks and devoured the scallops, filling the first few awkward minutes with idle chitchat about childhood pets, music, and anything that came to mind until the liquor had time to tamp down some of Traci’s anxiety.
It took major effort not to stare at the man sitting across from her. He was probably a few years older than her, and his reddish-blond hair, which touched the collar of his pale blue polo shirt, was streaked with more than a little silver. His skin was weather-beaten and his hands bore the scrapes and calluses of someone who used them to make a living. His build was stocky, but muscular, and he wore faded jeans and Topsiders, with no socks.
He wore no jewelry except for a watch. And there was no telltale tan line on the ring finger of his left hand.
Not that Traci was interested. The man was an employee. That would be weird.
She busied herself ferrying the salad plates and wineglasses into the dining room.
“Here. Let me help.” Whelan took the wineglasses and grabbed the bottles and the corkscrew.
She’d set their places at the end of the dark walnut table. Whelan set a glass at each place. He pointed at the salad. “Peaches and tomatoes, I get, but is that cottage cheese? I haven’t had that since my grandma’s house.”
Traci laughed. “It’s burrata, and it’s very on trend. Sort of a soft, whipped mozzarella.”
He tasted and nodded vigorously. “Damn, this is good.”
“Are you a grilling kind of guy?” she asked, getting up to clear their plates.
“Always. It’s the thing I miss most in my rat-hole of an apartment. No place to grill.”
“You’re in luck tonight,” Traci told him. “We’ve got filet mignon and they’re seasoned and ready to go, I just need someone to man my grill pan. I confess, I’m totally intimidated by it. Once that fat starts sizzling I panic and either take the steaks off too early or too late.”
True to his promise, Whelan turned out to be a grilling ninja. Lola stationed herself under Traci’s chair and whined and begged until Traci relented by tossing her the one tiny morsel she had left on her otherwise clean plate.
“Let’s take dessert out to the screened porch,” Traci said, pointing to the pair of French doors in the living room.
Traci sat on one of a pair of rattan pretzel chairs and Whelan seated himself opposite her with a glass of red wine and the chocolate dessert, which Traci pronounced herself too full to try.
The evening had cooled considerably, but a ceiling fan whirred overhead and the pinprick of fireflies flashed in the low-hanging branches of a gigantic live oak tree that shaded most of the backyard.
“This is nice,” Whelan said. The backyard was smallish, but landscaped with colorful beds of ferns, caladiums, blue-and-pink blossoming hydrangeas, and the thickest, greenest grass he’d ever seen. “You take care of this yourself?”
“God, no. Junior, who is officially retired from the hotel now, does everything, including planting all the annuals and perennials. It’s his baby, and he takes huge pride in his work.”
“I’ve noticed that with quite a few of the folks who work at the Saint,” Whelan said.
“Treat people right, and they’ll do right by you, my dad always said.”
“Are your parents still living?”
Her smile faded. “My mom is. They moved to Arizona twelve years ago after Dad retired, and Dad passed away a couple years later.”
“And your mom stayed in Arizona?”
Traci picked up her wineglass and swirled the dark liquid before taking a drink. She knew what he was getting at. “They were living in one of those ‘active adult communities.’ Mom has her ladies she plays bridge with, her book club, and her church friends.”
Whelan nodded, but she could see he still didn’t quite understand.
“I love my mom, and I know she loves me, but we were never very close. She doesn’t understand my life, what I do. After Hoke died, she couldn’t believe I wouldn’t just move away from here. From the memories.”
“You never considered doing that?”
“Not really. We were finishing up the remodel of the hotel. I couldn’t just walk away from the thing that had been his passion, and mine.”
“Good marriage?” Whelan quirked one eyebrow.
Traci lifted her chin. “I think so. We were happy. We had so many plans…” Her voice drifted away. She was ready to close down this discussion.
“How about you?” she said. “Any family?”
Whelan stood abruptly. “Another glass of wine? It’s Friday night, you know.”
“Yeah, it is. No curfew for me, right?”
When he came back he set her glass carefully on the glass-topped table, but she noticed he hadn’t refilled his own glass.
“I told you I had something to talk to you about, and I’ve been avoiding the topic all night,” he said.
“Why is that?”
“Truth? I was enjoying the evening. A nice dinner, nice wine, especially nice company. I didn’t want the nice part to end when I brought up the unpleasant stuff.”
Now it was her turn to blush. “I’ve had a nice night too. As you might have guessed from Lola’s reaction to you, I haven’t had a lot of male company in recent years.”
He laughed. “What about Junior?”
“Oh, Lola adores Junior, because he always arrives with a pocketful of doggie treats.”
“I’ll have to remember that for the next time.”
Would there be a next time? Traci was surprised to realize she hoped there would be.
He took a deep breath. “Okay. You asked about family. I have some cousins on my dad’s side, but we’re not close. They’re scattered all over the country, and I’ve led sort of a nomadic life myself. And then there’s my stepfather.”
His lips tightened. Traci gathered they were about to wade into the not-so-nice portion of the evening. She took another gulp of wine and waited.
Whelan gazed out at the backyard. A barred owl hooted from the darkness, and another hooted back. The thrum of cicadas nearly drowned out both.
“Your stepfather?” Traci prompted.
“Guess I should back up a little.”
He told her about his follow-up phone call to Mike Sullivan.
“Sullivan told me that after my visit, he reached out to his older sister and brother, who’d also been at the Saint back then. The sister was fourteen, and she remembered the flashy car, but didn’t know what kind it was. But the brother remembered. It was a very specific, very expensive Corvette.”
Traci’s mouth went dry. “A red Corvette?”
“Yeah. And then I tracked down another teenaged girl who hung out at the beach at the Saint that summer. And she remembered the Corvette’s owner.”
“Ric,” Traci said, her hand shaking a little as she took another gulp of wine. “Ric Eddings. Hoke thought the ’Vette was a metaphor for his brother’s obsession with the size of his dick. He called it Ric’s little red dick.”
Whelan rolled his eyes.
“I hadn’t seen Brad, my stepfather, since the day of Hudson’s funeral. So I looked him up online. He’s living in Myrtle Beach, where he runs a program to help homeless veterans.”
“Sounds like a very noble way to spend your retirement.”
“Brad certainly thinks so. He’s found Jesus. Refers to himself as ‘Brother Brad.’”
“Did he tell you anything you didn’t already know?”
“Yeah. After Hudson died, he was thinking of suing the Saint for negligence.”
Traci’s face went pale thinking back to that day. “Shannon and I, we did CPR, we did everything we were trained to do, but he was already—”
“It turns out there was nothing else you could have done, unless you had an EpiPen.”
Her brow furrowed. “I don’t understand.”
“The county medical examiner attributed Hudson’s death to drowning, but Brad was suspicious. He hired a private investigator, and then he had his own autopsy performed. The pathologist he hired discovered that Hudson died of anaphylactic shock.”
“Like, from a bee sting? There were always yellow jackets around, because all the kids left Coke cans sitting around. We had to spray the pool area down with bug spray twice a day.”
“It wasn’t a bee sting. Hudson had an undiagnosed peanut allergy. And not long before he went to the pool that day, someone gave him a big bag of candy, most likely peanut MM’s, which he gorged on.”
“The stranger in the red car, who handed Hudson a paper sack? You’re saying that was Ric? Why? Why would he do that? And do you think he did it intentionally?”
“According to Brad, his investigator discovered that Kasey—my mom—was having an affair with a younger man who was around a lot that summer. They surmised that Hudson had probably seen something he shouldn’t have. Maybe he let the boyfriend know what he’d seen, and maybe the boyfriend gave him the candy as a bribe—to keep his mouth shut.”
Traci mulled it over, picturing Hudson, the pesky, skinny sunburnt kid, and Ric, tanned, bare-chested, cruising the island with the top down in his penile extension, flirting with any pretty girl that caught his eye. He’d even hit on Traci more than once, until Hoke, her placid, peace-loving Hoke, threatened to knock his brother’s teeth down his throat.
“Brad claimed the PI couldn’t find who Kasey’s lover was because he couldn’t get access to witnesses. Your father-in-law saw to it that he couldn’t get past the front gates.”
“But you don’t believe Brad? Why would he lie about that detail now? Hudson’s dead, your mom is gone.”
“He didn’t know my mom was gone until I told him this afternoon,” Whelan said bitterly. “He divorced her within a year.”
“Then, why?”
“Money. I’m positive once Brad found out Ric Eddings was sleeping with my mom, and that he was at least partially responsible for Hudson’s death, he and his attorney went to Fred Eddings and threatened not just to sue, but to put the whole messy business, and the Saint, right in the public eye.”
“Fred bought off your stepfather? Paid him to walk away? From his own son’s death?” Traci shuddered. “Dear God. I don’t know why I’m surprised, but that’s so sordid. And unconscionable.”
“Brad told me he never told Kasey about the PI, or what the second autopsy showed, because she was already despondent over Hudson’s death. But I’m ninety-nine percent positive he kept it secret because as soon as he found out about the affair, he saw a payday coming. He never told Kasey he’d gotten a settlement. She never knew what had really happened. Brad made sure she paid for being ‘an adulterer,’ as he put it, and not just with the loss of her little boy’s life. She left the marriage with nothing. She was broken.”
Traci pushed the glass of wine away. “I feel sick.”
Whelan nodded. “It’s a lot.”
“No. I mean physically sick.” Traci jumped up, pushed the screen door open, and barely made it to the bottom of the steps before she was doubled over, vomiting into a bed of ferns.
Whelan waited a minute, then went to her. Her hair had come undone, so he gingerly reached over and held it off her face. She retched again and he waited. Finally, she straightened.
“Sorry.” Her voice was wobbly and she was unsteady on her feet. He helped her back inside the house and she fled to the bathroom, where she washed her face, brushed her teeth, and attempted to fix her hair.
When she emerged from the bathroom she heard water running in the kitchen, which is where she found Whelan, at the sink, rinsing their dinner dishes and stacking them in the dishwasher.
“Well, I’m officially mortified, again,” she declared.
“I shouldn’t have sprung all that ugly stuff on you. It’s a lot. Even for me. My only excuse is that I needed to unburden myself, and there’s nobody around who’d understand. Except maybe you?”
Traci nodded. “I’m glad you told me. I’m not glad about what happened to Hudson and your poor mom, but selfishly, it’s a relief to know it wasn’t our fault—mine and Shannon’s, I mean.”
The teakettle whistled and she startled at the sound.
“Hope you don’t mind. I thought some tea might settle your stomach.”
She cocked her head and considered him while he poured boiling water into a mug with a teabag.
“You’re a decent man, Whelan.”
He slid the mug in front of her. “Please don’t let that get out. It’ll ruin my tough-guy reputation.”
Traci dipped the teabag in and out of the steaming water, before placing the bag in the bowl of her spoon and wrapping the string around it to extract more of the tea.
“Honey?”
“What?” She startled again.
Whelan held up a plastic bear-shaped squeeze bottle, and chuckled.
She covered her face with both hands. “My humiliation is complete. There is nothing else I can do tonight to make a bigger fool of myself.”
He slung a dish towel over his shoulder and began attacking the greasy grill pan with a steel wool pad. “I don’t think you’re a fool. I think you’re sweet. Honey.”
To cover her embarrassment she blew on her tea to cool it. “So what happens now? You got the answers you came here for. Where to next?”