Deadly Ever After by Eva Gates (distant reading .txt) 📗

“To put it mildly. I shouldn’t have said that in public, but Gordon Frankland is a pest. Worst of all, he’s a pest with deep pockets. He’s always complaining about something or other, sticking his nose where it isn’t wanted, threatening to sue all and sundry for nothing more than the fun of doing it. He’s mainly based in Boston—”

“Thus he uses my dad’s firm.”

“Right. He has a vacation home in Nags Head as well as a lot of business interests here. His current bugbear is opposition to plans to tear down a bunch of homes that are too close to the waterline. He claims they’re of historical value, which is true, but that’s largely irrelevant, as another big wave is going to wash them all out to sea.”

“Historical value? Not some of the unpainted aristocracy, I hope.” I was referring to several big old cottages, beloved of Bankers for their history and admired by tourists for their charm, so called because their natural wood has been allowed to age gracefully over the decades until they match their ocean-side surroundings.

“Thank heavens, no. Not them. It would be nothing short of a tragedy if any of the unpainted aristocracy have to come down.”

I smiled to myself at his tone of voice. Every time we drove past one of those marvelous old houses, Connor sighed wistfully. Connor’s family has lived in the Outer Banks for many generations, and its history is important to him. He’d love nothing more than to live in a historic house or cottage, but the unpainted aristocracy in particular are family heirlooms and almost never come up for sale.

“What do the homeowners have to say about Frankland getting himself involved?”

“They’re furious. They want to rebuild on firmer ground, and they’re in danger of being tied up in court for years. As for me personally, I used the word pest advisedly. He’s always on his high horse about something or other and demanding I drop everything on my plate to meet with him. He was out of state through most of the last election, thank goodness, but now he’s threatening to back a challenger to me next time around, on the grounds that I am, and I quote, ‘uninterested in the concerns of the average Nags Head citizen.’ ”

“How do you feel about that? You said you aren’t going to run again.”

“And I’m not. I’ve done my bit, Lucy, and as I’ve told you, seeking higher office isn’t for me. I intend to return to my practice and to enjoy married life.”

“I like the sound of that.”

He chuckled. “I can say that until I’m blue in the face, but no one believes me. They all think I’m biding my time until it’s right for a state or even federal run. I was interested to hear Frankland’s not happy with his legal representation. That might be significant. The death of his lawyer—if ‘Richard the Second,’ as you call him, was the head of his legal team—has the potential to set his plans back.”

“Don’t say that! Not even to me. We don’t need anyone implying that Rich’s death has benefited you.”

“I can’t ask for a better alibi than I had.”

“There is that.”

“One thing before I go. I got a message earlier from our realtor saying she has a house for us to view tomorrow night. Are you free?”

“Yes.” Connor and I were trying to find a house to buy together. It was not proving to be easy. We wanted to stay within the town of Nags Head, both because he was the mayor and so I wouldn’t be too far from my own work, but as in most hugely popular tourist destinations, prices are exorbitantly high for residents.

“I’ll pick you up at seven, and we can meet her there. Good night, Lucy.”

“Good night, Connor.”

As I went through the usual going-to-bed routine, I thought about Rich Lewiston. I hadn’t known him well; the man had been nothing but a vague background shape in my childhood—partner of my father, husband of Evangeline, father of Ricky. Ricky and I had gone on a couple of cruises with our moms over the years (yes, even when we were a couple, we holidayed with our mothers), but I don’t recall either Rich or my dad coming along. The Lewistons had a lake home in New Hampshire, and my parents and I went there a few times when I was young. About all I remember about those visits was the time when I was twelve and my brother tried to drown me in the lake—ha-ha, such a great joke!—with Ricky helping him. Dad and Rich spent most of the vacation in Rich’s study talking business, their heads enveloped in a cloud of cigar smoke and glasses of whiskey at their elbows. I vaguely recalled Mom telling me recently that they’d sold the New Hampshire property.

Maybe Rich had been coming to realize that things couldn’t go on as they were: a listless marriage, an uninterested son, a failing career. Had he decided to pop down to Nags Head as a surprise for Evangeline? Maybe suggest they stay on for a few days and have a romantic little vacation together?

That didn’t sound like something Rich would do, but then again, I didn’t really know what he would do. I’d probably never know. But whatever had happened to him, Rich Lewiston hadn’t deserved to end up knifed in the back and left to die alone in a back alley.

My copy of The Hound of the Baskervilles was resting on the blue-and-yellow cushions in the window alcove where I’d left it. I crossed the room and reached for it, intending to read for a few minutes in bed.

As I did so, something outside caught my eye, and I peered out into the night. My window looks over the marshes to the national seashore and the open ocean beyond. I’ll miss this incredible view when I move, but there wasn’t much of