We pass through the kitchen next, where top-of-the-line appliances and granite countertops meet the old-world charms of a butcher block table and an antique built-in hutch. On the other side of the kitchen is an enclosed sunroom, a porch of sorts, with screened windows to filter the ocean breezes on warm summer nights. Louisa stops at the entry and steps aside, waving me in ahead of her, a gracious hostess. She follows and shuts the double doors behind us.
The windows are closed against autumn’s chill and the sunroom is warm, bathed in the golden glow of Cape Cod’s singular morning light. The room’s oversized, curtainless windows frame an unobstructed portrait of Strong Island and the open ocean beyond. A half dozen white wicker rocking chairs, all with cushions that mirror the vibrant blue of the water, face the glass. If there’s a more breathtaking view on the Cape, I haven’t seen it.
“Sit down, darlin’. Make yourself at home. What can I pour for you?” Louisa turns her back to me and walks toward a brass tray on the white wicker table by the windows. It holds a thermal coffee pitcher and an electric teapot, along with two cloth napkins that match the cushions. When she faces me again, she’s arranging bone china cups and teaspoons on saucers. I sink into one of the rockers and set my briefcase on the slate floor.
“Coffee,” I tell her. “Coffee would be great.”
Her golden tan defies the calendar. Above her scooped neckline hangs a single strand of cultured pearls and a lustrous matching gem rests on each earlobe. She’s perfect. My stomach was right; I shouldn’t have come here.
“Cream and sugar?”
“No, thanks. Black is fine.”
“That’s how you keep your girlish figure,” she says, looking up from the table and smiling.
I don’t want to have this conversation with Louisa Rawlings.
She hands me a cup of coffee and a napkin, then eases into the rocker across from mine. “Me, on the other hand,” she says, crossing her long legs and working her tea bag, “the only reason I drink tea is so I can have lots of cream and sugar.”
She needn’t worry; the calories seem to know where to go. I don’t say so, though. I don’t plan to discuss live bodies with Louisa Rawlings. Not mine anyway. And certainly not hers.
Once she’s settled in her rocker, I set my cup and saucer on the edge of the side table, pull a legal pad from my briefcase and a pen from my jacket pocket. It’s time to get to know a few things about Louisa Coleman Powers Rawlings.
CHAPTER 5
Harry taught me an important lesson when I moved from the prosecutor’s office to the defense bar: Keep the initial client interview spare. Get the big picture; reread the pertinent cases; think it through. And then hand-select the follow-up questions. On this side of the bar it’s better, sometimes, not to know everything.
“Mrs. Rawlings,” I begin, “why don’t you summarize the events of the past week for me. We’ll go back later and fill in the details.”
“First of all,” she says, leaning into the space between us, “the only Mrs. Rawlings I know is my mother-in-law, a woman who sobbed through her baby boy’s wedding, from beginning to end. And let me assure you, darlin’, hers were not tears of joy.”
I almost laugh, but catch myself. This isn’t a social call, after all.
Louisa leans back in her chair, smiling again, and recrosses her long legs. “It gives me an enormous amount of pleasure to report that Mrs. Rawlings went to her heavenly reward some years ago.”
This time I can’t help it. I laugh out loud and Louisa joins me. “So please,” she begs, mock dismay in her large, chocolate-brown eyes, “let that woman rest in peace.”
“Okay,” I tell her. “I will. Now why don’t you give me the short version of what happened, Louisa.”
She stops laughing but her smile lingers. She stares at me and shakes her head. “I’m afraid that’s about all I can give you, darlin’.”
I wish she’d stop calling me that. I reach for my coffee and stare back at her. “What do you mean?”
She falls quiet and her gaze moves to the water. Her shoulders are broad—swimmer’s shoulders—and the sheer sleeves of her blouse hug well-toned, athletic arms. “I mean the short version is all I know,” she says. “Only Herb knows the rest.”
I nod.
She sighs, shakes her head, and her eyes return to me. “Knew the rest, I suppose I should say.” She stares into her lap. “I just can’t get used to talking about Herb in the past tense.”
I nod again. That’s a sentiment I’ve heard before, more than once.
“Anyhow,” she says, “I’ll tell you as much as I can.”
I set my cup down and reposition my legal pad.
“It happened on Sunday.” She pauses and swallows hard. “Five days ago, but it seems like a century. I’d gone to the club. A few of the women members had invited me to play nine holes—make it a foursome—and then have brunch at the grill. When I got home, the house was empty. Herb was gone and so was the boat.” She looks up at me and reaches for her teacup.
“Was that unusual?”
She sips and shakes her head. “Not at all. Herb was crazy about that boat. Carolina Girl, he named it. That’s why we moved here”—she points out at the floating dock—“so he could keep his baby girl at the back door. It didn’t surprise me at all that he’d taken her out.”
I keep my eyes on her, but say nothing. I want Louisa Rawlings to do the lion’s share of the talking. It’s her story, after all. And once she tells it to the Chatham cops, she’ll be stuck with it.
She takes a deep breath and holds it for a moment, then lets it out slowly and leans toward me once more. “It was close to noon by the time I got home. I went straight in to shower, then put on my robe and came in here with The New York Times. That’s when I found his note.”
She opens a small drawer in the wicker table next to her chair, pulls out a single sheet of plain white paper and hands it to me. Five short lines of boxy handwriting in blue ink are centered on the page:
My dear Louisa, Sometimes I don’t make good decisions. I realize I’ve let you down. Please forgive me. Always, Herb
I pass it back to her, well aware that neither of us should be handling it. But that’s the prosecutor’s worry, not mine. And so far at least, there is no prosecutor. She returns it to the drawer and looks over at me, apparently awaiting a question.
“Did you call the police?”
She sighs. “No, I didn’t. Not then.”
“Why not?”
“It didn’t even cross my mind. It never occurred to me that I was looking at a suicide note. I wish to God it had. Maybe someone could have reached Herb in time, talked some sense into him.” She sighs again, gazes out at the water, and falls quiet.
“What did you think it was?”
She looks back at me, her eyes the darkest brown I’ve ever seen. “I knew what it was,” she says. “At least I thought I did.”
She stops, takes a deep breath, and I wait.
“Herb was having trouble,” she says at last.
Now we’re getting somewhere. We’ll be hard-pressed to explain the man’s suicide if he wasn’t having trouble of some sort. “What kind of trouble?” I ask.
She’s quiet again.
“Financial?”
She shakes her head. “Oh no, darlin’. Money was never a problem.”
I do wish she’d stop calling me that. “What, then?”