Which left Riley and Evelyn alone in the kitchen.
Under Evelyn’s watchful eye, Riley dried each plate with a faded flour sack dishcloth and placed it on the lowest shelf of the cupboard just to the right of the sink.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” Evelyn said, shaking her head. She upended the plastic tube of rose-scented lotion she kept on the counter and squeezed a dollop into the palm of her hand.
“Do what?”
“You know what I mean. All this talk about being ‘honest’ with Maggy. There are some things she is too young to know about.”
“I disagree,” Riley said, folding the dish towel and hanging it over the towel bar at the end of the cupboard. “You know what this island is like, better than anybody. The coconut telegraph has been working overtime. And I’ve already started getting phone calls from reporters from Raleigh and Wilmington. I don’t want Maggy being blindsided by this stuff. It’s better she hears it from me.”
Evelyn dropped the plastic lotion tube onto the countertop, where it bounced once. “What? Did you say it’s been on the news? About Wendell?”
Riley picked up the bottle and squeezed some lotion into her own hands, rubbing it onto her wrists and forearms.
“I’m afraid so. Three different reporters left messages on my phone.”
“You didn’t talk to them, did you?”
“No! And I don’t plan to. But the word is out. Prominent Raleigh businessman Wendell Griggs was found murdered Saturday at the resort community founded by his wife’s family.” She made air quotes with her fingertips. “Film at eleven,” she added bitterly.
“Dear God. The scandal,” Evelyn whispered.
“Exactly. And just like this lotion of yours, Mama—once it’s out of the tube, there’s no putting it back in.”
* * *
Riley opened the door to Maggy’s bedroom and peered in at her daughter, who was sprawled on the bed, typing something into her phone. The hated dress was tossed on the floor, and she’d changed into soccer shorts and a T-shirt.
“Thought you were supposed to be reading,” Riley said, leaning on the doorjamb.
“I read two whole chapters. Dumbest, most boring book ever,” Maggy said, looking up, tapping the open book at her side.
“And who are you texting with now?”
“Just one of the kids. Annabelle. We’re thinking about maybe going shark fishing out on the beach later tonight. Shane says they’ll be biting because of the full moon.”
“Nuh-uh,” Riley said.
Maggy shot upright. “Why not? I finished my reading. School’s out. Anyway, it’s boring as shit hanging around here.”
“Watch your mouth,” Riley said mildly. “You know the rules. And they don’t change because it’s summer and you’re on the island. You’re still only twelve, and you still aren’t allowed to wander around after dark.”
“Dad always let me go down to the beach when there was a full moon.”
“Dad let you go with him—not with a bunch of kids,” Riley pointed out.
“Shane is almost fourteen. And his mom lets him drive their golf cart all over the place.”
“It’s illegal for anybody without a valid license to drive one of those carts. Also, Shane’s mom is not your mom.”
“Unfortunately,” Maggy shot back. “You are so totally unfair, it’s sick. You’re the reason I hardly have any friends at home.”
“The answer is still no,” Riley said. “And we’re not going to fight about this, Maggy, because the issue is nonnegotiable. It’s been a long, horrible day for both of us. Please don’t make it any worse by nagging at me. You can read, watch television, play Words with Friends, whatever. You just can’t leave this house tonight. Understand?”
Maggy flung herself face forward onto the bed.
Riley sighed again and started to close the door.
“Bitch.” The word was muffled by the pillow, but still audible.
“I heard that,” Riley said.
“Good.”
* * *
Back in the bedroom she’d once shared with Wendell, Riley dug out the notecard Parrish had given her and dialed Sharon Douglas’s phone number.
After the third ring, she was ready to disconnect, when a woman’s voice answered.
“Hey, don’t hang up.” The voice was soft, Southern. “Sorry, I was just walking in the door.”
“Hi, um, Sharon?”
“That’s me. And you’re Riley? I spoke to your friend Parrish earlier today. She said you might call.”
“Is now a good time to talk?” Riley asked.
“Sure thing. Let me just get to my desk so I can make some notes while we chat,” Sharon said. “But first, let me say how sorry I am about what you’re going through.”
“Thanks,” Riley said. “I don’t even know where to start, or what I should ask.”
“Parrish gave me the big picture, but I’ll need to hear it all from you, of course.”
Riley sat cross-legged on the bed. “I think maybe we’d better talk money first. The thing is—I don’t know what kind of state our finances are in. I know this makes me sound incredibly naïve, but Wendell, my husband, late husband, handled our money.”
Sharon’s laugh was warm. “Not naïve. Trusting. I know lots of marriages that work that way. Mine did, until it didn’t.”
“God, I could kick myself for being so stupid.”
“Listen, Riley. We’ve never met, but after I talked to your friend, I Googled you. I even watched some of your television segments on YouTube. I can tell you’re not a stupid woman. So just cut out that stupid talk, okay?”
“Okay,” Riley said, her voice shaky.
“We can come back to the money part in a little bit,” Sharon said. “Parrish said something about the FBI being involved in all this?”
“I haven’t been contacted by the FBI, but yes, a reporter for the NBC affiliate in Raleigh left me a voice mail saying that Wendell was under investigation because of his involvement in a bank failure. Some small community bank down here on the coast.”
“Okay. Did the reporter name the bank?”
“No. Look, Wendell was a developer, not a banker. And our bank is Wells Fargo, the branch in Raleigh.”
“Parrish said your home on Belle Isle was foreclosed on by a bank. Do you know which bank?”
“I didn’t pay attention to that part,” Riley admitted. “The foreclosure notice is downstairs in my purse. I can get it and see.”
“Let’s just talk first,” Sharon Douglas said. “You had no idea that a foreclosure was imminent?”
“No. Wendell and I had been more or less living apart for the past few months, and I’d told him I wanted a divorce. So, our communication has been pretty minimal. The first I knew about a foreclosure was Friday, when I got to the house and the locks had been changed and I saw the notice tacked to the front door.”
“Brutal,” Sharon said. “This is weird because the law requires you to have been notified in writing—and the foreclosure has to have been published in the legal organ of record in your county.”