Parrish tapped her pen on the notepad. “I don’t think she’s calling with condolences. Says she’s working on a story about Wendell’s questionable financial dealings, wants to know if it’s true the FBI is involved.”
The iced tea glass slipped from Riley’s fingers, shattering on impact.
“I’ll get the broom,” Parrish said, handing her the phone.
Riley touched the phone’s Message Replay button and listened.
“Hi, Riley? This is Kasey Kennedy at WRAL? I don’t know if you remember me, but we worked together several years ago. Anyway, I’m soooo sorry about your husband. And this is kind of touchy, I know, but I just have to tell you, I’m working on a story about your husband’s business dealings with a bank in Southpoint. And I understand the FBI is investigating? So if you could call me back, I’d really appreciate it. I’m kind of on a deadline, too. I know you know how that is!”
* * *
Parrish busied herself sweeping up the glass and mopping up the spilled drink.
“The FBI?” Riley put the phone back on the table. “And some bank in Southpoint? This is crazy.”
“You have no idea what she’s talking about, right?” Parrish asked, sitting beside her on the swing.
“No! And it can’t be true. I’d have heard something.” Riley clasped and unclasped her hands, trying to stop them from shaking.
“What are you going to do?”
Riley grabbed the phone. “I’m going to call that little bitch and threaten to sue her ass for slander if she so much as repeats one word of this shit. And then I’m calling Jim Swearingen, the station manager. He’s known me forever. He’ll put a stop to this crap.”
Parrish gently took the phone out of her friend’s hand. “Don’t. Don’t call the reporters. Don’t call the station manager. I’m not your lawyer, but when you get a lawyer, she’ll tell you the same thing. I know it’s hard, but just button your lip, okay?”
“My God,” Riley said, staring at Parrish. “What if it is true? What if Wendell really was involved in some kind of shady stuff? Maybe the house foreclosure is connected? The FBI—Parrish.”
“I know. Scary. But we’ll get it figured out. You want some lunch? I picked up sandwich stuff at the Mercantile.”
“Food. Ugh.” Riley grimaced. “I better get home.”
“How’s Maggy today?”
“Okay, from what I can tell, but she’s such a funny kid. Yesterday, she was completely undone. Wouldn’t come out of her room, wouldn’t talk to anybody. Then, early this morning, she calmly announces she’s going fishing with the Billingsley kids. Like nothing had happened.”
“Wouldn’t you rather have her doing that than sitting around brooding?”
“Yeah. I’m glad she finally made friends with some kids on the island. It’s just … I worry, you know? She and Wendell were so close. Much closer than she and I are. I think she’s still in shock. And I am, too. Oh my God. The FBI. What am I going to tell Maggy? What’ll I tell Mama? If it’s true…”
“Maybe it’s just gossip,” Parrish said, thinking back uneasily to the pillow talk she’d shared with Ed earlier in the day.
“As if this day couldn’t get any worse, I’m taking Maggy over to Southpoint this afternoon to view Wendell’s body.”
“Really?”
“She’s adamant that she wants to say good-bye to her Daddy,” Riley said. “And I don’t have the heart to say no. So that’s the fun we’ve got in store for the rest of the day. Whee!”
“Call me later and let me know how it went,” Parrish said. “In the meantime, I’ll light a fire under Ed to find you a lawyer.”
15
“Mrs. Griggs?” The social worker who met them in the hospital lobby wore dangly turquoise earrings and a white lab coat unbuttoned over a lime-green blouse and coral slacks. Her skin was smooth and unlined. The name badge pinned to her coat read DIANE LOPRESTI, M.S.W.
“That’s right,” Riley said. She gestured toward her daughter. “And this is Maggy.”
“Please call me Diane.” She shook both their hands. Her grip was firm and cool, and the gray eyes behind her wire-rimmed glasses were kind, but not pitying.
“We’re going to go down to the hospital’s basement,” Diane said, noticing Maggy’s tank top. “They keep it pretty chilly down there. Can I get either of you a sweater? I keep extras in my office.”
“I’m okay,” Maggy said.
“All right. Did the sheriff tell you what to expect today?”
Riley’s throat was dry. She coughed and coughed again. “Just that you’d be taking us to the hospital’s morgue. He, um, said the autopsy hasn’t happened yet.…”
“That’s correct. So I’m going to take you into a room, and your husband will be on a sort of table, covered with a drape. We’ll be the only ones there. Does that sound all right?”
Maggy’s eyes were the size of saucers. Riley took her hand and squeezed it.
“Okay,” Maggy said.
When the elevator stopped, they stepped into a tile-floored corridor, then paused a few yards down the hall, in front of a set of double doors. Diane swiped a plastic key card through an electronic reader and the doors swung inward to admit them.
They walked slowly down another short hallway, then paused in front of a third door. The social worker repeated the key-card procedure. The door swung open and they were in a tile-floored room.
The table was stainless steel. The sheet was white. Wendell Griggs’s face was a waxy gray.
Riley felt her own breathing slow. She couldn’t look. But she couldn’t not, to convince herself that this was real.
The first thing that struck her was that a stranger had combed Wendell’s hair, parting it on the wrong side. His beard was unshaven, at least a three-days’ growth shadowed his cheeks, chin, and upper lip. He’d always been so particular about shaving, keeping a razor at work, just in case of a late-day or early evening meeting.
She stared. This had been a face she’d kissed, caressed, dreamt about. Not a classically handsome face, but strong, with a straight, prominent nose, a square chin, and cheekbones that looked as though they’d been sculpted with a hatchet.
Riley had told herself dozens of times over the past few months that this thing they’d had, their love, passion, sense of partnership, had cooled, and finally extinguished itself. She’d quit caring, or so she’d convinced herself.
It was all a lie.
Now Wendell’s face, always mobile, agitated or excited, was flaccid, like old rubber. She felt burning bile rise in her throat and had to swallow, hard, to keep from gagging.
Maggy grabbed her mother’s hand and held on tight. Riley gripped her daughter’s hand with both of her own, fearing that if she didn’t, she, the mother, the supposedly nurturing adult, would have bolted for the door.
“Okay?” Diane asked.
“Can I touch him?” Maggy whispered, turning to look at the social worker, who stood beside her, a hand resting lightly on her shoulder.
“Do you want to?”