“Aw, man, that’s so unfair. And shortsighted. You would have been ratings dynamite again. Nobody in this state had a following like you.”
“Had,” Riley said. “Past tense.”
“But you’ve got until August when school starts to find something, right?” Parrish asked.
“That’s only a little over a month away. I’ll tell you, I’ve even started looking outside the Triangle. I was thinking maybe I could go into a smaller market, say Roanoke, Virginia, or Columbia, South Carolina.”
“And how would that affect Maggy?”
“Exactly. That kid has been through so much this past year, with the diabetes, then Wendell, and losing the house. She’s been a trouper, but I just can’t pack her up and drag her to a strange town, especially with no family or friends for a support network.”
“You know I’m always just a phone call away,” Parrish said. “Have you thought about trying something totally different?”
“Like what? Aerospace engineer? Journalism is all I know. I’m too damn old to reinvent myself.”
Parrish lunged forward and took a swipe at Riley’s drink.
“Stop talking like that! If you’re too old, then so am I. And I can’t stand to think we’re done already—at forty-two.”
“You can go back to lawyering anytime you feel like it,” Riley said. “But you won’t have to. You can sit back and restore houses all you want. Ed is Mr. Perfect. Steady Eddie. He’d never do you like Wendell did me.”
Parrish put her sunglasses on and sank back into her chair. “Nobody knows what somebody else is capable of.”
43
The listings on TVJobs.com were depressing. They were either geographically impossible or economically laughable. Sunrise coanchor in Pierre, South Dakota. General assignment reporter in Naples, Florida. Investigative team leader in Newark, New Jersey.
Riley clicked over from the listings, searching for a response to any of the feelers she’d put out to old friends and former colleagues in broadcasting. Nothing. Crickets.
She heard footsteps coming down the hall toward the library, and quickly closed her laptop. She hadn’t told anybody but Parrish about her plan to return to work, and wasn’t eager to share that news just yet.
“Riley?” Evelyn’s voice called. “The sheriff is here, and he’d like to speak to you.”
“I’m in the library, Mama,” Riley called.
Craig Schumann trailed Evelyn into the room. He held his baseball cap in his hands, and his white-blond hair still held its imprint.
“Sorry to barge in on you,” he started. “I was on the island on business, and I did try calling, but I only got your voice mail, so I decided to drop by to fill you in on our progress.”
“Whoops. I guess I left my phone upstairs,” Riley said, standing. She pointed to one of the wing chairs that flanked the fireplace. “Why don’t you have a seat? I’m anxious to hear what news you have.”
“So am I,” Evelyn said, starting to sit in the other chair.
“Uh, Mama, maybe the sheriff wants to talk to me in private,” Riley said.
He turned and gave the older woman an apologetic smile. “If you don’t mind.”
Evelyn sniffed. “Why would I mind being kicked out of a room in my own home?”
Riley watched her leave. “Sorry about that. Are there any new leads on who killed my husband?”
“I can’t get into any specifics,” the sheriff said. “I can tell you that, based on new information from the coroner, we’ve widened the time frame in which we believe he was assaulted.”
“How so?”
“Since the body was found in the water early Saturday morning of Memorial Day weekend, we assumed it had taken a couple of days for it to wash up,” he explained. “However, the coroner took a look at the weather and tide patterns on the island in the week leading up to the murder, and he now believes your husband could have been killed as late as Friday evening.”
“Forgive me, I don’t understand the significance of that,” Riley said.
“It just means that he could have been killed either Thursday or Friday evening. More work for me, because it considerably increases the number of suspects.”
She let that sink in. “Are you telling me that I’m a suspect?”
He shrugged. “You, and everybody else who was on the island Friday night. And we know from the ferry manifest that at least a hundred and twenty more people arrived here on Friday. That’s in addition to the folks who were already here.”
“But I told you where I was,” Riley objected. “Parrish and Ed Godchaux dropped me off here at Shutters around eight p.m. My daughter was with me. We didn’t leave the house. And my mother came in when she got home from the full-moon party. I’m not sure what time, but well before midnight. I was still sleeping the next morning when you arrived to tell me Wendell’s body had been found.”
He uncrossed and recrossed his legs. “The problem is, theoretically speaking, you could have left here, after everybody in the house was asleep, killed your husband, and then returned in plenty of time.”
“And why would I do that?” Riley asked.
“Seems to me you’d have plenty of reasons. Let’s see, he’d driven you into debt, emptied your trust fund, and you suspected him of having an affair.”
“I didn’t know any of that until after he was killed.”
The sheriff smiled. “So you say.”
“Wait. Who told you I thought Wendell was having an affair?”
“Just some folks I’ve talked to around town.”
“Are you referring to Melody Zimmerman? She’s the only one I’ve accused of sleeping with my husband. And, by the way, she didn’t deny it.”
“I’m keeping an open mind,” the sheriff said.
Riley was dumbfounded. “Are you really telling me I’m your number one suspect? That’s … mind-boggling.”
“Not necessarily number one,” the sheriff said. “But you were a reporter once. I’m sure you know we don’t consider this a random stranger-to-stranger homicide. This island is small and fairly close-knit. A stranger—any stranger, would have stood out. No, ma’am, I feel sure whoever killed Wendell Griggs knew him, and from the impact of the blow to the back of his head, meant to do him harm.”
“Lots of people on this island besides me knew Wendell, and could have wished him harm,” Riley pointed out. “I take it you know about his questionable business dealings.”
“Oh, yes,” the sheriff said. He gave her a stern look. “You know you had no business ransacking your husband’s office. Tampering with what might be evidence in a homicide investigation only makes you look guiltier.”
“I didn’t ‘tamper’ with anything. I made copies of financial records that I had every right to know about—both as Wendell’s widow and as somebody who was victimized by his fraudulent activities.”
He shook his head in disgust. “This is what happens when amateurs go blundering around, trying to play detective. You have no way of knowing what evidence you might have destroyed.”