“Almost a week before she died,” he said.
“That must have felt like a long time to be away from the woman you loved,” Reid said.
“It did.”
“So, what were you doing during that week?”
“I was on Fishers Island. Teaching art to my friend Lainie’s grandchildren.”
“Did you leave the island?”
He shook his head. “Unfortunately, no.”
“Unfortunately?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Jed, what’s that ring you’re wearing? Did someone give it to you?” Reid asked.
Jed’s mouth was clamped shut, as if he had finished talking and was ready to go.
“The soup kitchen,” Reid said, deciding to change directions. “Where Beth volunteered and you sometimes had meals. Is there a food pantry there too?”
“Yes,” Jed said.
“Did you ever meet Martin Harris there, at either place?” Reid asked.
Jed looked blank and shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. Who is he?”
Reid thought Jed seemed to genuinely not recognize the name, or maybe it was just the numbness left over after crying. “Okay, Jed,” he said. “Give me your friend Lainie-from-Fishers-Island’s full name and contact info so I can get in touch with her.”
“She’ll tell you I was there the whole time,” Jed said.
“Teaching art,” Reid said. “Got it.”
Jed pulled a sketch pad and pencil from his orange backpack and began writing out the name and phone number.
“One other thing,” Reid said. “A minute ago, when I asked if you had left the island, you said, ‘Unfortunately, no.’ What did you mean by that?”
“If I had, I might have been able to save Beth,” Jed said, tears filling his eyes again.
Reid stared at Jed and without thinking handed him a napkin. The thing was, he believed him, that he really did feel that way.
37
Scotty Waterston sat on the beach with Lulu, taking the sun full on, no umbrella, no sun hat, the lowest SPF sunscreen. She’d been careful all summer, but she wanted a Saint-Tropez tan. Hubbard’s Point had tons of rules, including no drinking alcohol on the beach, but Scotty had filled water bottles with gin and tonics. Lulu sipped hers slowly, but Scotty was getting quietly, progressively drunk. The two women had pulled their beach chairs close to the water’s edge, and the advancing tide sent waves to tickle their toes with sea-foam, then withdraw, then return.
“It’s all too much,” Scotty said.
“Yep,” Lulu said.
“It’s heartbreak for all of us, but you don’t even have kids. I mean, Beth was our friend, but Sam is Isabel’s. My daughter is a wreck.” She stared across the water to where Isabel was sitting on the raft, all alone.
“It must be horrible. I remember how it was for us when we were her age, how hard to know how to be around Kate and Beth.”
Scotty took a very long drink. She wished she had brought slices of fresh lime. No need to suffer. She’d have to remember for next time. “The detective is coming to interview Isabel. I made the mistake of telling him how she and Pete had read the same book, gruesome thing about a killer hiding a body in a cold room.”
“God, like Beth,” Lulu said.
“Poor girl; he’s coming over to grill her later.”
“Well, it’s good of her to help the investigation.”
“Sam isn’t taking Isabel’s calls,” Scotty said. “They had that bit of trouble over at Little Beach, with the rocks.”
“The graffiti,” Lulu said, so harshly it felt like a slap in the face.
“I’m not trying to sugarcoat it, if that’s what you think.”
“Good, because what they did was horrible.”
“I agree. But I get the feeling Kate is blaming Isabel for it. Has she said anything to you?”
“No. I just think she’s worried about Sam.”
“Well, of course!” Scotty said. “If you can’t act out after your mother gets murdered, when can you?” She caught the look Lulu gave her and checked herself. Drinking always made her want to be outrageous—the worst was when she drunk-texted or posted political messages on Facebook or Twitter. The next day she’d go back and do a mad scrub, furiously deleting everything. At least Lulu was drinking too and hopefully wouldn’t remember.
“This is really hard on Kate,” Lulu said.
Scotty peered at her. Lulu always looked so chic. She and Kate hadn’t had children. They’d kept their svelte shapes and single-woman attitudes. While Scotty wore a Hawaiian-print bathing suit with the hint of a frilled skirt to cover her thighs and built-in bra cups to keep everything from wobbling, Lulu wore a white lace halter dress over her black bikini and looked like a model from the Sundance catalog, where they were all too thin, too pretty, and far too cool.
“It’s hard on all of us,” Scotty said, staring out at Isabel. “We loved Beth too. And let’s face it—she confided in us more than she did Kate. Has anyone talked to Jed, by the way? He must be destroyed.”
“Kate met him,” Lulu said. “She hasn’t told me the details yet, but she texted that she found him.”
“I can’t believe I had to be the one to tell her about him. I felt so awful. And I haven’t heard from her at all, as if she’s blaming me. Where is he, anyway?”
“Camping somewhere,” Lulu said, sipping her drink and looking away as if she wanted to evade further questions. That was so Lulu—keeping Kate mostly to herself. It had always hurt Scotty, the way the two of them were a closed society. Beth had felt that way too. Scotty felt herself burning over it.
“Sometimes you seem so superior,” Scotty said.
“What?”
“Yes, you and Kate. The pilots. Above it all, better than me and Beth. It hurts.”
“I’m sorry; I don’t mean to make you feel that way,” Lulu said, sounding genuinely surprised. Was it possible she didn’t know how fat and suburban and boring Scotty felt beside her?
“Well, you do,” Scotty said. She realized she was slurring her words but took another long drink anyway. She was about to tip over into weepy territory, feeling sorry for herself about Beth, feeling helpless about Isabel’s pain—and even Jed’s. Beth hadn’t treated him very well at the end.
And then there was Julie. Her beautiful little girl with schizotypal personality disorder. The name alone terrified her, but the reality was even worse. Even the literature was hurtful—people with the disorder were labeled “odd and eccentric.” Julie turned inward, had never had a close friend. She didn’t know how to interpret people’s words and actions, so she was easily hurt and confused.
Julie had started dreaming about the murder, screaming out in her sleep.
“When I think about Sam’s mommy, it hurts me a lot!” she cried while Scotty rocked her.
Scotty wanted her daughter to feel peace, to not be so scared. She felt as if Julie’s fears would pass as time went by, but some nights they were extreme.
“Sweetie, it was just a dream,” Scotty whispered, holding her.