“Where was Mrs. Richardson during all of this?” Zara asks.
“I’m not sure,” Busy says. “Leslee wasn’t up front with the rest of us. Bull called out for her, then went looking for her.”
“Was she below deck?”
“Either below deck or somewhere else on the boat. There were a few minutes when I don’t remember seeing Bull or Leslee but then eventually we all saw Leslee crying. Bull told Lamont to lower the sails and motor back as fast as he could.”
“Thank you,” Zara says. “I’d like you to stay, if you don’t mind. You’re the only person who seems to know the Richardsons well.”
“Yes,” Busy says. “I’m the only one who’s stuck by them this summer.”
“Stuck by them?” Zara says. “Did something happen?”
Busy waves a hand. “Oh, you know how people gossip.”
Zara had gone through a divorce from a public figure on Martha’s Vineyard; she definitely knows how island people gossip. “Thank you. Please stand by in case we have further questions.”
Mrs. Richardson’s long white sundress is soaking wet and she’s wailing about the things she’s lost. “All those Urban Electric light fixtures!” she says. “The jukebox, my champagne coupes, the seashell fireplace! My Amalfi lemons!”
Amalfi lemons? Zara thinks.
“Leslee, stop,” Mr. Richardson says. Zara is surprised to hear he has an Australian accent. “Coco is missing. She might have drowned.”
“If she did drown, it would serve her right. She burned our house down!”
Oh, boy. Zara peers through a gap in the hedges at the remains of Triple Eight. She understands why they’re upset—they’ve been left without a toothbrush, without a bathrobe or a change of clothes. The house is a charcoal briquette.
One good thing is that their garage is untouched, and it looks like there’s a living space or a home office above. And they still have this garden, which is one of the most breathtaking outdoor spaces Zara has ever seen, with its lush hydrangeas and rosebushes along manicured cinder paths; the centerpiece of the garden is a mahogany hot tub. On the far side of the hot tub, Zara sees the Chief and his daughter talking to Lamont Oakley, the captain of the boat. She hopes the Chief hasn’t started questioning Lamont without her present. When she said they would partner on this one, she meant it.
Dixon’s talking to two men who met the Richardsons while having dinner at the Languedoc. “Sergeant Dixon?” Zara says, trying to convey a sense of urgency. She looks at the gentlemen. “Would you excuse us a moment?”
“Did they find her?” one of the gentlemen asks. He turns to the group assembled behind him: “I think they found her.”
Zara raises a hand. “Whoa, that’s how rumors get started. The harbormaster has launched the search, and when we know more, we’ll announce it.” She beckons Dixon away from the party guests and nods discreetly in the direction of Lamont, the Chief, and his daughter. “I’ll be questioning the principals alongside Chief Kapenash. Just so things are aboveboard.”
Dixon squares his shoulders. “Ed is always aboveboard.”
Zara is on slippery terrain here. Of course Dixon is loyal to Ed, as he should be, but not at the expense of the investigation.
“What I’d really like is for Chief Kapenash to step away from this investigation,” Zara says. “His last day is Monday. He shouldn’t be taking on the onus of this case, of these two cases, with only a few days left.” She sighs, then blurts out, “It’s like he wants some kind of swan song.”
Dixon says, “There’s no way Ed would walk away from this case. His daughter is friends with the missing woman, so Ed has skin in this game. He understands the connections between all these players better than anyone.” Dixon lowers his voice. “He used to hang out with the Richardsons.”
“He mentioned that,” Zara says.
“He came to their parties. They were… friends, or friendly. But then I think something happened.”
“What?” Zara says. “What happened?”
“Hell if I know. Ed doesn’t gossip.” Dixon pats Zara on the shoulder in the most patronizing way possible. “But you’re right about one thing: This is a hell of a swan song.”
12. Triple Eight
“I’m sure you’ll love the job,” Kacy says to Coco as they drive out to 888 Pocomo Road. “If you need anything, text me; if it’s an emergency, call. Just because these people have money doesn’t mean they own you. Stand up for yourself. Ask about your days off.” Kacy raises her aviators to the top of her head. “Why do I feel like a helicopter parent dropping her only child off at a faraway college?”
Coco is glad Kacy is doing all the freaking out; it means she doesn’t have to. There’s a version of this summer where she just stays in the Kapenashes’ guest room and bums around the island, jobless, with Kacy. The night before, as they ate fish tacos at the Oystercatcher, their feet in the sand, Kacy made a list of the Nantucket summer things they still had to do: There were at least a dozen beaches to lounge on, afternoons at Cisco Brewers with live music and food trucks, rainy days at either the Whaling Museum or the Dreamland Theater, oysters at Cru, a sunset cruise on the Endeavor, singing around the piano at the Club Car, and dancing at the Chicken Box, followed by a late-night Stubbys run. Of course, living that kind of life required an endless stream of cash, and Coco can’t lose sight of her purpose: her script. She wants—needs—Bull to read it, to believe in it, then give it to the people who can green-light it. Every night before she falls asleep, Coco imagines the announcement in Deadline: “Newcomer Colleen Coyle’s First Script ‘Rosebush’ Sold in Competitive Three-Way Auction.”
Kacy lets Coco play her music as they drive; she chooses Twenty One Pilots’ “Stressed Out” and sings along under her breath.
When Kacy pulls into the long white-shell driveway of 888, Coco feels like she’s standing on a precipice. What is it going to be like, not only working but living with the Richardsons? Will she hate it? Will she love it? She has no idea.
Once they park in front of the house, Kacy unloads Coco’s army-green duffel and hands her the white eyelet dress from the Lovely, which is on a hanger, sheathed in protective plastic.
“Do you want me to stay until you get settled?” Kacy asks.
Yes! Coco thinks. “Oh, I should be fine,” she says. She holds her arms out. “How can I ever thank you?”
“I’ll see you in a couple days,” Kacy says. “Just keep me posted.” She gives Coco a hug, then gets in her Jeep, turns around, and heads back out the driveway, blaring “Summertime Sadness” by Lana Del Rey. Coco smiles. She must have planned that.
Coco climbs the steps to the front porch, feeling like a street urchin straight out of Dickens. She knocks on the door with a conviction she doesn’t feel. She bluffed her way into this job by invoking the name of poor Ms. Geraghty; she’s pretty sure the Richardsons are going to figure out she’s a fraud. Coco might be calling Kacy within the hour to come pick her up.
Coco hears footsteps. She prays that it’s Bull; Coco is better at handling men.
The door swings open—Leslee.
Shit, Coco thinks. She beams. “Hey!” she says. “I hope I’m not too early?”
In Coco’s nightmares, Leslee responds in one of the following ways:
