“On Bunker Hill Road in the old town hall building,” Oliver said.
I mentally calculated how long it would take me to get the kids off to school, get dressed and drive there. “I could be there in two hours.”
The police officers exchanged a look, but Demer nodded.
“We’ll see you then,” he said.
Once the front door was closed and we were alone again, my husband looked anxiously at me.
“What’s going on? Why do the police want to talk to you?” Todd hissed, keeping his voice low so Liam and Bridget wouldn’t hear. Children have superhuman hearing when it comes to picking up on any brewing parental conflict.
“I have no idea,” I said. “But Howard’s death was...odd.” An understatement, to say the least. “I’m sure they have to investigate. Make sure there wasn’t any...I don’t know, foul play.”
Foul play. It was such a melodramatic phrase, like something out of an Agatha Christie novel. Murderous vicars and little old ladies who put arsenic in the tea.
“But why do they think you’d know anything about it?”
“I’m sure they don’t.” I shrugged. “But they obviously know that Kat and I are friends.”
“I don’t think you should speak to the police without having an attorney present.”
“What? Why? I’m not a suspect,” I said.
“How do you know?”
“Because that would be insane,” I said. I shook my head. “Look, I’m sure they have to investigate, even when the death was clearly accidental. It’s certainly nothing to worry about.”
“Then why are the police at our door at eight in the morning,” Todd pointed out.
“I have no idea, but there’s no reason to overreact,” I said, turning away. “I have to go check on the kids. If I don’t pay attention, Liam eats all the toast and none of his eggs, and Bridget doesn’t eat anything at all.”
My husband grabbed my arm and spun me back toward him. He leaned forward, his face close to mine, and whispered, “What’s going on? Did Kat have something to do with Howard’s death?”
His breath was hot and smelled of coffee. I pulled my arm out of his grip and took a step back. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course she didn’t.”
Todd wasn’t sure if he should believe me. I could tell by the way he was searching my face, looking for some trace of a lie in the way I blinked my eyes or clenched my jaw.
Like a visitor to the island of Knights and Knaves, Todd wanted to try his hand at ferreting out the liars.
I felt a stab of fear and hoped I was more convincing when I spoke to the police.
Jupiter Island was a long, narrow barrier island north of Palm Beach. There were only a few access points to reach it from the mainland, which I assumed was by design to ensure the privacy of its well-heeled residents. I approached it from the south, driving up US Highway 1, taking a right just past the Jupiter Lighthouse, then heading north up the island on Beach Road.
I drove past the tall condo buildings of Palm Beach County. They abruptly stopped, signaling that I’d passed into Martin County with its more stringent zoning laws. I passed through the Blowing Rocks Preserve, where the road was lined with short palm trees and bushy sea grape shrubs. Just past the preserve and tourist parking, the private houses began. Some were visible from the road, others sheltered behind gates and privacy hedges. All were large and ostentatious. The houses to the east fronted the Atlantic Ocean, while the ones to the west faced the Intracoastal Waterway. Each property had a twee white sign set by the curb, displaying the family name or the name of the house—Sand Castle or Shangri-La—or the more practical, if somewhat pointed, Service Entrance.
Kat’s house was on the left about a mile past the preserve, set back at the end of a gravel drive. I wondered if she was home, and I thought about stopping and checking on her before I went to the police station. I’d called her twice on my way over to the island, but she hadn’t picked up. This wasn’t entirely unusual. Unlike most people of the modern world, Kat had only a tenuous connection to her cell phone. She didn’t always pick up when I called, and she frequently ignored texts for hours, or even a day.
We’d spoken only once, briefly, since Howard’s death. Kat had been in London to meet with several artists whose work she was considering carrying in her gallery. She’d called me from Heathrow while she was waiting for her flight home. Kat had been subdued, which wasn’t surprising. The police had tracked her down at her hotel in London only hours earlier to notify her that Howard was dead. The housekeeper had found his body lying facedown on the back patio.
“Are you okay?” I’d asked.
“No,” she’d said. “But I will be. At least, I think I will.”
“I wish you didn’t have to be on your own right now.”
“I usually hate the flight back from Europe, but I’m sort of glad that I’ll have this time to pull myself together. There will be so much to do once I get home,” Kat said.
“Have you spoken to Amanda?” I asked. Kat’s daughter was in her first year of medical school at Emory, in Atlanta.
“I’m going to wait until I get home,” Kat explained. “She’s studying for a big test in her anatomy class. I don’t want to upset her.”
“You probably won’t be able to avoid upsetting her,” I said as gently as I could.
“I know, but I’d like to at least put off telling her until after her exam is over.” Kat sighed. “Marguerite was apparently hysterical. It must have been awful for her, finding him like that. What does it mean when the housekeeper has shed more tears for my dead husband than I have?”
“It probably means you’re in shock,” I said.
Kat’s flight had been called then, and she had to hang up. I hadn’t spoken to her since. I’d tried calling and texting her a few times, but she hadn’t responded. I knew she was probably busy planning the funeral and dealing with her relatives. Stopping by now, uninvited, at a house in mourning seemed intrusive. I drove by.
I arrived at the Jupiter Island Public Safety Department. It was located in a charming yellow building with green shutters, lush landscaping and neat hedgerows, and across the street from one of the holes of the Jupiter Island Club’s pristinely manicured golf course. I parked my ancient Volvo in a small lot just to the left of where the island’s two fire trucks were housed.
I checked my phone, but Kat still hadn’t responded. I sent her a text:
At Jupiter island police. They asked me 2 come in 4 interview about Howard. Not sure what’s going on, but will try to be helpful. Hope ur ok. xx.
I dropped my phone into my bag and climbed out of my car into the Florida sunshine. It was an unusually warm morning, and I had dressed for it in a light blue linen shirtdress and flat brown sandals. But the fabric was already starting to wilt in the heat, and perspiration beaded on my forehead. There was a flagpole in front of the building with an American flag at full mast. A light breeze caused the pulley to bang with a metallic rhythm against the pole.
As I entered the police station, a frigid blast of air-conditioning hit me. The waiting room area was small and, apart from some chairs and a table scattered with magazines, empty. Jupiter Island did not appear to be