Chapter 8

For a moment, I couldn’t believe my bad luck: I’d made it through that whole stupid house without getting caught, and on my way out—when I was taking the safe route, thank you much—it had all fallen apart.

Then I realized maybe this was my chance.

Sharian was right here in front of me. The ex-bride-to-be.

And statistically, the victim’s partner was the most likely culprit.

“Looking for you.” The words popped out of my mouth before I could consider them. I rubbed my head and gave an attempt at a wry grin. “Sorry about that.”

Sharian huffed an annoyed breath, but she did look slightly…gratified, maybe?

“I’m sick,” she said, as though that explained something. But she didn’t look sick. She looked sun-kissed and blond and perfectly tousled, and keeping it all up was probably the equivalent of a three-ring circus. Maybe she was trying to draw attention away from the phone she was clutching in one hand because she brought the other to her head and said, “I have the worst migraine.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“And my vertigo.”

“Uh, do you need to sit down?”

She did a delicate little cry—real tears, ladies and gentlemen. She was still trying to hide the phone by keeping it low and tight to her side. “I miss him so much.”

Which might actually have been true; death had a way of sharpening some edges and blunting others, and although Sharian might have been angry with Mason (or, more specifically, angry about his plan to get rid of his money), people were complicated. Her anger at Mason might have coexisted with the love and affection that had brought them together, and maybe death had made it easier to set aside her resentment.

I mean, technically anything was possible.

“Oh my God,” she said, “I think I’m going to pass out.”

I helped her back to the patio and onto one of the chaises. Then I pulled over a chair for myself and sat. It was one of those late summer days on the coast that was perfect: not a trace of a cloud in the sky, warm enough for a T-shirt and shorts while you were sitting in the sun, but you’d want a jacket in a breeze or the shade. Below us, the slopes of fir and cedar glistened blue-green in the light, and beyond the trees, the waves came in like ruffled lace.

Sharian did not pass out, by the way.

I sat with her, breathing in the smell of the pool—chlorine and water on ceramic tile—and the resinous sweetness of the trees and something faint and floral, probably her perfume. I waited.

My phone vibrated with a text from Fox: Where are you?

I texted back: Almost done.

After another minute, Sharian opened her eyes.

“Any better?” I asked.

She made a faint noise of complaint and, in a weak voice, asked, “You said you were looking for me?”

“Uh, yes. To offer my condolences.” And then, before I knew what I was doing, I said, “I know what it’s like, a little. When your relationship falls apart, and your life goes with it.”

She looked at me. The water lapped restlessly in the pool.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t be bothering you.”

“Everyone thinks I was mad about the money,” she said. The words were clear, detached. They had nothing of the delicate daisy with a terrible migraine. “Or about the cheating. Or about the fact that every time he turned around, he had cold feet. They’re all talking about it. Even though the sheriff arrested that man, they’re all talking about me, like I did this. They’re all so awful. Can you blame Mason for wanting to get away from them?”

“I didn’t realize Mason wasn’t close with his family.”

“How could he be close with—with that? A dragon, an ice queen, and that little weasel. You’ve seen them. Jodi wants them all to be her little puppets. Becky’s practically a robot; all she does is work. And when Gary isn’t being emasculated in public by Becky, he’s coming up with pathetic little power plays to drive her crazy.”

“I thought I heard him on the phone earlier,” I confessed. “It sounded like he was changing an appointment or a delivery or something.”

“Oh sure. Anything to mess with Becky’s head. You should see them. She says stop, he says go. She says hot, he says cold. It could be anything—God, they argue about takeout versus delivery.” She smoothed a hand down her shirt. “Cole’s the only one that’s a human being, and he’s even more messed up than Mason. God, I cannot believe I dragged Penny into this mess.”

“I guess the deputies have been pretty hard on you.”

“Not really. They were nice, actually. When the sheriff came this morning to…to tell us, she was nice. I didn’t know there were lady sheriffs.”

“Huh,” I said. And then I fibbed. “I heard them talking about where you were last night.”

“Where I was? I was here. Where else was I going to be? I don’t have a car. I don’t have any friends. We were stuck here, especially once Mason decided to abandon me.” She must have forgotten about trying to hide her phone from me, because now she toyed with it in her lap. “And he called me selfish—can you believe that? I have a right to expect financial security, don’t I? I have a right to expect my partner to take care of me. I don’t think that’s too much to ask. I put up with all his whining and moaning, all the nights he’d lie there on the floor telling me how hard his life was because he had so much money and how guilty he felt, on and on. I put up with a lot, I think. I put in my time. And then he was going to give it all away without even telling me? Well, it was my money too. That’s what I think. We were going to get married, and that meant it was my money too!”

Her anger left her flushed by the time she finished. She sat, breathing hard, staring out at the ocean. I hadn’t noticed until now, but she was wearing her engagement ring—a massive rock that caught the light and splintered it into a rainbow shimmer across her leg. Still, I wondered. Or again?

“What was that all about?” I asked. “Giving away the money?”

Sharian snorted. “Don’t get me started. The whole family is weird about money. Grandma Jodi uses it to control Becky. Becky uses it to control Gary. Gary’s so desperate for it that he sticks around no matter how badly Becky treats him; I think he’s hoping that when Jodi dies, she’ll leave him something of his own, which goes to show how stupid he is. Mason spent his whole life feeling he’d done something wrong somehow, like he ought to feel bad because he had a trust fund waiting for him.” In a rush, she added, “Don’t get me wrong: I loved Mason. And I was so proud of him, all the good work he did. He was so generous and kind. But that’s family money. And he had a family of his own to take care of. That should have been his responsibility, don’t you think?”

“Does Cole feel guilty about the money too?”

“Cole’s always too stoned to feel anything about anything. That’s all he does: gets high so he doesn’t have to deal with the fact that he’s a waste of space.” She turned the phone in her hands, her ring catching the light, and those prismatic glimmers streaked across the chaise. “He and Mason fought about everything. Put them in the same room, and they couldn’t breathe the same air without getting into it. It’s not their fault, I guess. Becky and Gary left them pretty messed up. Mason didn’t talk about it a lot, but I picked up enough to get an idea. Becky was always at work. Gary was—well, God, you’ve met him. The boys had a nanny. Then they went to school. If they wanted something, Gary and Becky bought it for them, even if it wasn’t for sale. One time, Mason told me they got one of his teachers fired because of something he’d said to Mason—he wouldn’t say what, but I got the impression it was one of the reasons Mason always felt guilty about all that money. And he told me about another time, about how they’d bought Cole’s way onto a baseball team in high school—even though Cole wasn’t good enough. Those kids don’t mess around, you know? They’re serious about the game, and they made Cole’s life miserable. He quit, and I think that was the last time he ever really tried at anything.”

Water splashed against tile, and it sent pale, reflected light bobbing in the shadows of the lanai. I was thinking about my own parents, about all the award ceremonies and banquets and writing retreats, about the empty house and the empty hours. They’d never tried to buy my way onto a baseball team, but when I’d been ready to start sending out manuscripts, querying agents, they’d had Phil in their pocket, ready to go. I wasn’t sure I could put into words why I’d said no, why I kept saying no. Even if I’d been able to tell her, I wasn’t sure Sharian would understand. But Mason would have, I thought. And Cole definitely would.

“He promised he’d take me to try out for The Voice,” Sharian said, and for the first time, her tears sounded genuine. She touched her eyes; she was still staring out at the restless Pacific. “God, I’m going to be so pitchy after all this crying.”

“You said something about Mason having cold feet. Before you called off the wedding, I mean.”

“Oh God. Every time, it was the exact same thing. That’s why yesterday, as soon as the fight started, I knew what he was going to do. He gets on one of those stupid apps and finds somebody and thinks he’s going to make me jealous.” She let out a scoffing little laugh. “He’s terrified of ending up like his parents. Loveless marriage. The fighting. All those issues about money—maybe that’s why he thought he had to give it away.”

“But wasn’t it already an issue? The money, I mean.”

“God, I wish. Cole and Mason don’t get access to their trusts until they’re thirty-one; that’s what Grandma Jodi decided. It’s family money, that’s what she says. It’s for the family. And that’s what Mason and I talked about too—that money was for our family, and we needed to get married to start a family, and that kind of thing. Well, take somebody like Mason, who grew up with parents like that, is it a surprise he freaked out every time we talked about marriage? Every few months, it’d be the same conversation: are we in love? I don’t know how I feel. Why am I so messed up? I wish I knew what it felt like to love someone.”

For a moment, I couldn’t say anything. All I could do was watch the reflected light from the pool rise and fall in the darkness of the lanai.

Sharian didn’t seem to notice my silence. She shrugged. “He’d always come back and apologize, of course. He loved me—he did.” A little too late, she corrected herself: “We were in love. But God, that boy had so many hangups, it was a full-time job keeping his head on straight. I guess that’s over now.”

“What are you and Penny going to do?”

“Jodi wants us to stay. Probably because I told her she’s like my grandma too, even with Mason gone. That’s what family does—stick together, you know.” It sounded so scripted that I wondered how long it had taken her to come up with it. “I can’t run off and leave them now.”

“Sharian, I need to ask you something. You told me that everyone thinks you were upset about the money, and about the cheating, and about—well, everything Mason did. But I don’t think that. I think you cared about Mason, even though he was confused and hurting and made a lot of mistakes.”

Her eyes slid from the ocean to me. Her hands stilled in her lap.

“And I think you know, like I know, that what happened last night wasn’t a terrible accident.”

She said nothing, but I saw it in her face: confirmation. And fear.

“Do you know who might have wanted to hurt Mason?” I asked.

“The sheriff arrested somebody.” Sharian’s words were stiff, almost tongue tied. “She told Becky; I heard her.”

“But it’s the wrong person. I know it’s the wrong person. And I think you know it too.”

Her breathing hitched. The sun was high enough that now she looked washed out. Pale.

“Please,” I said. “I know I’m asking a lot, but this is important. If you know anything that could help—”

When she spoke, her voice was rushed and breathy. “She said she was home all night. She said she was home with Gary and Becky all night, but I know she wasn’t. I saw her leave.”

“Who?” I asked. “Penny?”

“Jodi.” Her voice was a breath now. “She was so angry. She said—she said she’d kill him. Those were her exact words. She said she’d kill him herself before she let him ruin the family like this.”

Behind us, a door opened, and a voice said, “Mr. Dane, I’d like a word with you.”

I turned in my seat. Sheriff Acosta stood in the doorway to the lanai.

Sheriff Acosta (technically, acting Sheriff Acosta) was a stocky woman in a khaki uniform. Her skin was a warm brown, her eyes were tawny, and she had her dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. She gelled her baby hairs to her forehead, and they almost hid the faint scar on her temple. Right then, her face was set and neutral, even though she still managed to radiate disapproval.

“Right now,” she added.

“Please don’t say anything,” Sharian whispered.

I nodded, mostly because I didn’t know what to say or whom to say it to, and rose and followed the sheriff.

She led me through the house, past the icy stares of Jodi, Becky, and Gary. No sign of Penny—maybe she was back in Mason’s room, oh-so-suspiciously searching for something. When we stepped outside, the sheriff pulled the front door shut. Then she gave me a long look.

One of those things you learn as a mystery writer? Law enforcement types love to use silence as a weapon. Special Agent Will Gower of the FBI was known for his stony silences that caused even the most hardened criminal to break down and confess.

It is a good tool, though, and finally I said, “Fox is waiting—”

“Mr. Dane, I want to get a few things clear. I understand that my predecessor caused you a lot of problems. And I also understand that you played an important role in resolving matters.”

That was an understated way of saying that the previous sheriff had helped Vivienne Carver fake her own death and let me take the fall for it, and the only reason I was still a free man was that I had found Vivienne and tricked a confession out of her (admittedly, with the help of my friends).

“I also understand that you’re smart and you’re curious and you are—” Her mouth soured around the word. “—knowledgeable, to a degree, about criminal justice.”

I wondered who had told her I was smart and curious. Deputy Bobby, maybe? I wanted to know if he’d talked about me. If he’d talked to her about me, I mean. That was a strange, fluttering thought, that maybe sometimes Deputy Bobby said something about me in passing—Last weekend? Oh, Dash and I went on a hike. Or No big plans for my day off; I’ll probably swing by Hemlock House to see Dash.

“But,” Acosta said, drawing me back to the present, “you are also a civilian. You are not a peace officer. You are not a sheriff’s deputy. You have no authority to investigate crimes.”

“I know.”

“Even though you feel like this case is personal. Even though you have a preexisting relationship with Mr. Fairchild.”

“Hugo didn’t do this.”

“I’m taking the time to have this conversation with you as a courtesy—”

“Tell me why Hugo would have killed him. Give me one reason.”

“—as a courtesy—”

“You can’t. Hugo didn’t have a reason to hurt Mason. There’s no way he killed him.”

“—because you’re a citizen of Hastings Rock and because I understand that your relationship with the Sheriff’s Office is complicated—”

“You’re making a huge mistake.”

“—and so, I wanted to be the one to talk to you about this and explain that, regardless of what happened in the past, I will not tolerate any interference in my investigations. Do I make myself clear?”

“You can’t tell me why he’d do it. You can’t even tell me how he’d do it. When I saw him, Hugo was so drunk he could barely stand. How could he have murdered Mason?”

“People who are intoxicated get in fights, Mr. Dane. They have poor judgment. Reduced impulse control. And manslaughter isn’t the same as murder, but either way, somebody ends up dead.”

I tried to wrap my head around that sentence. Manslaughter? So, what? They thought Hugo had killed Mason by accident? As soon as the thought came to me, I could see how it must have looked: Mason’s coconut-bead necklace broken, the beads scattered across the parking lot; Mason crumpled at the base of the dumpster; Hugo passed out next to him, with wounds consistent with a fight. The chain of events, if you didn’t know Hugo, must have seemed obvious: they argued; Hugo grabbed Mason’s necklace; the necklace snapped; Mason stumbled back, lost his balance, and hit his head on the dumpster. An accident. A horrible accident. Manslaughter.

But I knew Hugo, and Hugo had never once gotten physical, never once been violent, not in all the years I’d known him. I shook my head.

“This is your warning, Mr. Dane,” Acosta said as she turned to head back inside the house. “Next time, I’ll arrest you for obstruction.”

She paused, and then she drew a phone from her pocket and answered it. Her expression changed: her mouth hardened, her eyes tightened, her free hand curled into a fist. She ended the call curtly and looked at me. “I guess today’s your lucky day, Mr. Dane. Your friend made bail.”