Leonard offered a theatrical sigh. “The work of a retiree is never done. Enjoy the party, ladies!”
Jo scanned the crowd as Leonard jogged back to the water. “So what should we do now? If everyone down on the beach is a guest, they won’t know anything about the murder.”
“How about a walk?” Harriett replied. “I’d love a look at the local flora—and the south side of the Pointe should offer a good view of Danskammer Beach. And who knows? Maybe we’ll even meet a few locals.”
Jo kept her eyes peeled as they strolled along the water’s edge past the sunbathers and children. Once they’d rounded the tip of the point, the shrieks and shouts of the kids died away. A long, empty beach stretched ahead of them and the only sound was the rhythmic lapping of waves. The first mansion they passed was set back from the sand. A traditional beauty, it featured a wraparound porch that looked out over the scrub. The chaise longues at its pool sat empty and the sand on the beach appeared undisturbed.
“Where is everyone?” Jo asked.
“Watching,” Harriett replied. “There’s a man with a pair of binoculars pointed at us right now.”
“Shit!” Jo didn’t dare turn to look.
“Don’t be nervous.” Harriett’s soothing tone was half hypnotist, half Jedi knight. “We’re not trespassing. The key to getting away with anything is convincing yourself that you’ve done nothing wrong. We left the party so we could have a private conversation, nothing more.”
They passed over the property line and the scenery abruptly changed. A starkly modern house, its exterior walls clad in black-stained cedar, hovered over the dunes. The island’s native vegetation had been shorn and a perfect green carpet of grass laid out in its place. A long concrete planter ran along the lot line to the beach. Corralled inside were hundreds of green stalks rising four feet high, each crowded with pale yellow flowers. The transition from one property to the next was so abrupt, it was hard to imagine their owners could have anything in common.
“Interesting landscaping,” Harriett mused, but Jo wasn’t listening. Her attention had been drawn to a woman in a white bathing suit sitting alone on the deck that stretched out over the lawn, her blond hair wafting in the wind and her mirrored glasses reflecting the sun. A bowl of brightly colored fruit and a carafe of water rested on a table beside her. She was so still that Jo assumed she was sleeping. In the house behind her, a painting loomed over the living room furniture. In it, a young woman in her underwear stared out at the ocean. Her eyes seemed to warily follow her viewer as if watching to see what their next move would be. A white medical mask hid the rest of her face, and an old-fashioned nurse’s cap was pinned in place atop a sixties-style bouffant.
Jo focused again on the blond sunbather, recognition dawning. “I know that woman,” she said. “Her name is Rosamund Harding.”
“You know Rosamund Harding?” Harriett asked, eyebrow raised. “You run in some interesting circles.”
“She’s a client, not a friend,” Jo said. “Do you know her? Is she someone important?”
“Rosamund Harding used to be one of the world’s best divers. She was expected to win gold at the London Olympics. Then an injury ended her career and she married Spencer Harding, the art dealer, instead.”
“I’ve never met Spencer Harding, but I know he’s an asshole,” Jo said.
“That’s a logical assumption,” Harriett replied. “He collects Richard Prince.”
“What?” Jo asked.
“The creepy nurse art.” Harriett pointed at the house. “It’s a Richard Prince.”
“Yikes.” Jo grimaced. “It’s like he painted all his icky little schoolboy fantasies.”
“Which is why his paintings are so popular with former icky little schoolboys,” Harriett said. “So what else do you know about Harding?”
“He sent a bodyguard to my gym a few weeks ago looking for Rosamund, and she definitely didn’t want him to find her. I called her afterward, and she acted like it was no big deal, but she hasn’t been back to the gym since.”
“So Spencer fetishizes nurses and sends thugs after his wife. Sounds like poor Rosamund lost the marriage lottery.”
“No joke,” Jo said. “I’m going to go talk to her. Make sure she’s okay.”
Behind her glasses, Rosamund must have been watching them. When they stepped off the sand and onto the lawn, it was as if they’d tripped an invisible wire. Rosamund sat up and plucked an apple from the fruit bowl on the table. She kept her head bent as she whittled away at the apple’s skin with a paring knife.
“What is she doing?” Jo muttered. “Is she trying to pretend she doesn’t see us?”
They were almost to the deck when Rosamund suddenly stood and tossed the whole apple onto the grass as though it were trash. It landed a few feet from Jo. When she looked back up, Rosamund was hurrying inside the house.
“Okay, that was weird,” Jo said.
Harriett walked over and picked up the apple. Then she held it out for Jo to see. Etched into the apple’s skin was a word. FAITH.
Jo took a step forward and reached out for the apple. Harriett casually raised it to her mouth and took a bite.
“What did you do that for?” Jo demanded.
Harriett gestured with her chin at a man hustling across the lawn toward them. On the Pointe, his dark blue suit instantly identified him as a worker, not a resident.
“Shit,” Jo groaned.
Harriett swallowed. “Another friend of yours?” she asked.
“That’s the bodyguard I was talking about. He isn’t going to be happy to see me. I had to kick his ass when he showed up at my gym a few weeks ago.”
“Hmmm,” Harriett said. “Looks like you may need to do it again.” The man had picked up speed and was now jogging straight for them. “But look at all the effort he’s making. Let’s see what he wants first, shall we?”
The sight of the two women patiently waiting for him seemed to confuse Chertov, and he slowed to a brisk walk. His face was flushed when he reached them.
“Well, it’s about time. We’ve been looking all over for a waiter.” Harriett took another bite of the apple. “I’d love a banana daiquiri, and my friend here would like a pi?a colada.”
Chertov ignored Harriett. “You’re trespassing on private property,” he told Jo. “How did you get through the gate?”
“I walked, just like everyone else,” Jo said.
“Well, it’s time to go.” He reached a hand out toward her. “Mr. Harding knows you’re here, and he wants a word with you.”
Jo glanced down at the man’s hand, and it paused in midair. “Didn’t you learn your lesson the other day?”
The hand that had been traveling toward her changed course and disappeared under the man’s jacket. When it emerged, it was holding a gun. “Start walking,” he ordered.
“Fuck you.” The whole scene struck Jo as ridiculous, and she refused to play along.
“It’s okay, Jo,” Harriett said. “I’d like to have a word with Mr. Harding, too, wouldn’t you? If nothing else, we should try to convince him to buy better art.”