Dead In The Hamptons by Elizabeth Zelvin Read Free Book Online Page B

live?” I asked.
    “East Seventies.”
    “Doorman building?”
    “Of course.”
    I lived less than a mile from Phil, but my building was an old-law tenement without a lobby or elevator. The closest it got to a doorman was when the super’s wife popped out in the hall in housedress, flip-flops, and curlers to see who was going up the stairs.
    “Why can’t your doorman confirm you had the car parked on the street?” Cindy asked.
    “He didn’t see it.” If Phil had sounded this sulky with the police, I bet he hadn’t endeared himself to them. “I parked around the corner.”
    “You didn’t double park when you picked up your stuff?” That’s what everybody else does.
    “The doorman wasn’t there. They’re not supposed to leave the lobby, but they always do.”
    That left Phil with no alibi. He could have driven out to Dedhampton early in the morning. Or the night before. He might even have met Clea on the beach by prearrangement. If he killed her, he could have found someplace to hide out during the day and shown up at dinner time as if he had just come from the city. The red Lexus was a conspicuous car. Or was it? In the Hamptons, Lexuses and BMWs were a dime a dozen. He could have ditched it for the day, parked it somewhere it fit in. As for getting to the beach, his girlfriend was a runner. Maybe he was too. Maybe the fancy running shoes he kept picking gravel out of weren’t just for show.
    So Phil had opportunity, but what about motive? Phil was the boyfriend in residence, but it sounded like Clea played the field. Could she have told him she didn’t want him with her after all? Would someone kill for a summer in the Hamptons? Or they could have quarreled about almost anything. He obviously had a temper and a streak of arrogance. She liked secrets and manipulating men, if she was anything like her younger self. She’d also chosen a profession that gave her license to be nosy. That could have given her leverage over a lot of people, including an uppity boyfriend she wanted to keep in control.
    “You know, the autopsy could change everything,” Cindy said. “In a few days, if we allow for the holiday slowing things down, we could find out it was an accident.”
    “Those bastards won’t make it that easy,” Phil said, “even if it does turn out she drowned. They asked if she’d ever tried to kill herself. Idiots. Nobody buys bagels and puts on their high end New Balances to commit suicide.”
    When Phil left, Cindy and I picked up our tools without comment and started working on the boat again. He’d broken the mood, and I wanted it back. I hoped she did too. The rising heat of the day brought out all the country smells: dirt and flowers, green things growing, a tang of salt. Also the stink of two-day-old lobster shells. No garbage collection in Dedhampton. A heap of well filled black plastic garbage bags stood ready for a trip to the dump. Someone in the house had turned on the radio, and the strains of Vivaldi’s
Seasons
floated out the window on an undercurrent of bees buzzing and birds twittering.
    I was mulling over ways to get Cindy to talk about herself when the crash and clatter of someone carrying too much beach stuff in not enough hands announced Barbara’s arrival. She dumped all but a tote bag with a brightly striped towel peeking out the top on the gravel near the Toyota and came over to survey our efforts.
    “Wow, that’s quite a project,” she said. “Work— I could sit and watch it for hours. Wanna come to the beach?”
    I looked hopefully at Cindy. She shook her head.
    “Later. I don’t want to lose the momentum. This is the kind of project that partway gets you nothing.”
    “Like a PhD in psychology,” Jeannette said, coming up behind her with Stephanie on her heels. “That’s why I’ve got a master’s in social work.” Her red flowered muumuu billowed about her. Stephanie, scrawny in a black bikini, carried a boogie board under her arm.
    “Bruce, why don’t