“For god’s sake, I’m not a drug addict!” I practically shouted into my cell. “I told you last night, I’m trying to help David. Do I have to remind you what I put up with during those days when you were an addict?! Enable me! You’ve really got a lot of nerve laying drug psycho-jargon on me!”
“Christ, Clare, take it easy! I’ll help you, all right. Just calm down.”
I did. Then I gave Matt the phone number. He punched it into the internet site with the reverse directory. Easy as pie, the answer was there. He gave me the address attached to the number.
“That’s very close to where I am now,” I said. “Is there a name?”
“Only a first initial and last name…someone named S. Barnes.”
“Thanks, Matt. Just one more favor…”
He groaned. “What?”
“Since you’re still in the Hamptons, I’d like you to go by the hospital and check on David. You said you wanted to talk to him anyway, right? Give him the update on how the Village Blend kiosk installations are going on the West Coast?”
“Right.”
“So go visit and hang around for a while. Keep an eye out for anything suspicious.”
“Suspicious? Clare—”
“Please, Matt.”
There was a long silent pause.
“Okay?” I pressed.
“Okay, Clare. You win. Okay.”
Seventeen
S. Barnes lived on Gate Street, a tiny lane in the hamlet of Bridgehampton—population approximately fourteen hundred.
Back in its heyday, most of Bridgehampton’s founding families were connected to the whaling industry. But today it’s known for its stately traditional homes located on an elevated acre of the town’s highly desirable Bridge Hill Lane area.
It was also known for its picturesque Main Street business district, but on the July Fourth weekend, traffic on that route was sure to be a horrorshow. So I did my best to avoid it, taking side roads through neighborhoods dominated by brick doll houses with modest yards.
Gate Street was located on the un-chic side of the highway, a secluded little lane lined with topiaries and post fences. A bubbling creek meandered out of a kettle hole and along the road until it vanished in a thick tangle of century-old trees, their roots partially exposed.
The address Matt gave me belonged to a small ranch, a typical 1960s tract house (what canny realtors were lately referring to as “mid-century dwellings”). Surrounded by trees, it sat on a nice stretch of yard that sloped gently down to the edge of that pretty little bubbling creek.
I passed the house once, then circled the block for a second look. Lucky thing, too, because I came back in time to see the front door open and a man step outside. Before he noticed me, I swung into a parking spot between two SUVs, cut my Honda’s engine and slid across the front seat to watch him.
He locked the front door, then checked the mailbox, running his fingers through a shaggy mane of copper hair. Tall, with long legs encased in scuffed denims, he had a rugged build with broad shoulders evident under an electric-blue diver’s shirt. I spied a smudge of color on his muscled forearm—a tattoo? From this distance I could only guess.
The man crossed the lawn and little bridge over the creek, and mounted a motorcycle parked at the curb. A moment later, he sped off. I watched him head toward Main Street. Just around the corner I’d seen a newsstand, a bakery, and a diner. Was he going for a quick newspaper? A fast pastry? Or a long breakfast?
I waited ten minutes, until I was sure he wasn’t coming back right away. Then I climbed out of my car, walked across the street and little bridge, and approached the house. The front door was locked, of course, but the man had left a large bay window open, its lacy curtains billowing in the ocean-tinged breeze. I scanned the neighborhood, saw absolutely no one on the street or lurking on a porch or yard, so I walked over to the window and peeked inside.
I couldn’t see much because the interior of the house was dark. I strained my ears, but heard no sounds—no radio, no television, no footsteps or voices. All I heard were the bees humming around the pink and red rose bushes in the yard. I was fairly certain the man had left the house completely empty.
Cautiously, I followed a concrete path to the rear of the dwelling, past a coiled garden hose and a brick barbecue pit. There was no porch, only two concrete steps that led up to the back door. The screen door was closed, the wooden door wide open. I knocked, not quite sure what I would say if someone actually answered. Fortunately no one did, so I tested the screen door. It was unlocked, and I entered.
I knew I was taking a big risk. Huge. This wasn’t a rental boat in an open marina, this was a private home. And the muscular man who’d left it didn’t strike me as a softee who’d fall for a pathetic story about Cristal champagne and true love. If I were caught, the guy could have me arrested for breaking and entering—if he didn’t decide to break my head first. Nevertheless, with the windows open, I reasoned I could hear the sound of the motorcycle engine approaching and slip away before I was discovered.
The back door led to a tidy little kitchen with French Provincial-style cherrywood cabinets, spotless white walls, stove, and refrigerator. My eyes were drawn to the familiar silver and octagonal shape of a stovetop espresso pot on the back burner.
“Okay,” I reassured myself. “He makes his own espresso. He can’t be all bad.”
The sun streamed through a large window above the sink. A healthy spider plant hung above it. In a dish rack, three glasses and two dishes were lined up to dry. The only sign of disorder in this room was the overflowing trashcan. I noticed it was filled with fast food containers, crinkled up Dorito bags, and Twinkie wrappers. Lined up next to it were empty Sam Adams beer bottles, no doubt waiting to be recycled.
Well, now I’ve got a clue what this guy lives on.
I also knew this was the right address.
Still…something didn’t add up. The scruffy rogue on the motorcycle who left Twinkie wrappers, Dorito bags, and beer bottles in his wake didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who kept an immaculate kitchen and made his own espresso.
“Hello?” I called, still wary of being discovered. My voice sounded hollow in the empty house so I quickly moved to the next room.
If the kitchen seemed like it belonged to another tenant, the living room seemed to belong in another house. The space was adorable and very feminine, with shades of pink the dominant color scheme and ruffled everything. The chair, the sofa, the flowery wall paper, the wall-to-wall carpeting, the tablecloths and curtains, were all cast in tastefully combined hues of rose, salmon, pink carnation, and subtle reds. Scattered about the too adorable room were scented candles, sachets, colorful quilts, and empty vases ready to be filled with fresh cut flowers.
Now I started to wonder if I should introduce Motorcycle Man to my head barista, Tucker Burton. Either the guy was bucking for a spot on Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, or he was married to Homemaker Barbie.
I found the bedroom next, its door ajar. Once again, things didn’t compute. The tidy order of the rest of the house was no longer evident. Was it possible, I wondered, for a hurricane to blow through just one room?
The queen-size bed was rumpled and unmade, clothing hung from chairs, and two posts of the four-poster bed frame. Two pairs of socks and sneakers were scattered on the floor, along with a pair of dirty boat shoes and another enigma. Magazines were stacked high against the wall with dumbbells as paper weights: Teen People, Celebrity, Diva, Star Watch, Guns and Ammo, and Soldier of Fortune. What kind of a person would subscribe to that schizo mix?