Death in Rough Water by Francine Mathews

Author:Francine Mathews
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Crime Fiction / Mystery
Publisher: Soho Press
Published: 2016-05-05T20:57:25+00:00

Chapter 17

Felix Harper’s off ice was in a Federal-style shingled house on South Beach, with roses growing up both sides of the door and a miniature brass lightship basket for a knocker. Other than the discreet wooden sign at the foot of the slate walk that read felix harper, attorney, it might have been any other island home—of a wealthy off-islander resident for a month, Merry thought. The place had the carefully tended perennial borders lining its picket fence, the fresh paint trim, and the clipped expanse of lawn that characterized the retreats maintained in absentia for the fashionable sea­sonals of New York and Connecticut. Felix was doing well.

Merry lifted the handle of the lightship-basket knocker and let it fall with a thud.

Del’s cell phone calendar showed several appointments with the lawyer, one rea­son Merry wanted to talk to him. Other entries were equally interesting. Del had lunched with Tom Baldwin a few days after his nephew had thrown f ish guts over Merry’s head—looking for her old job, perhaps? She had also seen Dave Grizutto—or so Merry assumed. The notation said only “Dave, 7:30”; but it sent a chill through her nonetheless. Del talked to him the very night of her murder.

It was Mrs. Harper who opened the door, a small, sparrowlike woman with white hair the texture of cotton candy and bright blue eyes. Faded pink lipstick was smeared in the crevices of her lips, and her skin had softened into well-worn suede the color of parchment. She wore a Fair Isle sweater and vivid pink linen shorts, and she held a trowel in her hand.

“The peonies,” she announced. “Just readying them for the show. And how can I help you, dear?”

“Detective Meredith Folger,” Merry said. “Nantucket police. I was hoping to see Mr. Harper.”

“Fil!” she called over her shoulder. “Are you engaged? There’s a lady to see you.”

A low murmur from within, and the sky-blue door opened wider. “Through to the left, dear, and Fil will show you out. Mind you make him ask if you’d like some lemonade. It’s sitting on the counter.”

Merry worked her way past the dining room’s Chippendale side chairs with their needlepointed seats to the study off the hallway beyond. A dim circle of light cast on a desk piled with papers illuminated a pair of hands, the left one holding a pen, and the right braced against a yellow legal pad. At her appearance, Felix Harper ducked into view and stood up, pulling his reading glasses from the bridge of his nose. Tall, gaunt, and distracted, with dark hair just beginning to feather into gray, he was a good thirty years younger than the woman who’d answered the door.

“Yes?” he said. “How can I help you?”

“I’m Meredith Folger, Mr. Harper. With the Nantucket police.”

“Ah, yes. Is this a follow-up, then, to that fellow who came by yes­terday?”

“Detective Bailey?”

“That was the name.”

“Only sort of,” Merry said. “I’ll be honest. I’m not assigned to Adelia Duarte’s case. I was just an old friend of hers, and I wanted to talk to you.

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