Chapter 1
Skylar and Dylan were concentrating on painting their kites with the vegetable dye paints we'd made ourselves using beets, carrots, and spinach rescued from the compost bin. The little pink tip of Skylar's tongue poked out of her mouth as she ever so carefully painted a pale red squiggle down the midline of her kite. Dylan's paint strokes were less precise and bolder than his sister's, but he, too, was working hard. In the background, faint world music played—the latest from Putumayo Kids. Sunlight streamed through the window and dappled the blond wood of the crafting table. I busied myself with rinsing the brushes and tidying the workspace while the kids focused on their creations. The island's Chinese Kite Festival was coming up, and they were so excited to make the kites they'd be flying over the beach.
All in all, it was a picture perfect morning in the life of an attachment parenting consultant, also known as a nanny, also known as yours truly.
Then Muffy burst into the room, wild-eyed and frantic.
"Mom?" Dylan said, dropping his paintbrush on the newspaper.
Skylar froze, her brush, hovering in midair, and stared wide-eyed at her mother.
Muffy rarely came into the craft room—not because she wasn't interested in her kids' art, but because, for someone so polished and put together, she was surprisingly clumsy. Odds were good that she was going to knock over the paint and ruin either her designer outfit or one of the kids' masterpieces.
"Is everything okay?" I asked in a low voice as I whisked the orange paint away from the bell sleeve of her pink and yellow printed shift dress just in time.
She shook her head 'no' emphatically then jerked her hand in the direction of the kitchen.
"Momma needs to talk to Sage for a moment, sweethearts," she trilled at the kids in a too-high, too-fast voice.
Uh-oh. What did I do? I worried as I trailed her into the gleaming kitchen that had been featured in an issue of Coastal Chic magazine.
I racked my brain but, as far as I knew, I hadn't done anything. That said, Muffy's expression was unusually grim. Funereal, even.
As soon as I crossed the threshold, she reached behind me and quietly closed the French doors leading to the craft room. Her hands were trembling.
"Muffy? What's wrong?"
She took several deep breaths, gulping down air, and the words came rushing out. Her voice quavered. "Something awful’s happened. Fred's dead."
"Fred Spears?"
The only Fred I knew on the island was Fred Spears, a professional golfer who belonged to the same golf and swim club as Chip did. He couldn't have been any older than fifty—maybe fifty-five, and he had that broad-shouldered, weightlifting build that Tiger Woods had popularized. He'd looked to be in pretty good physical shape. "What happened? Heart attack?"
"Someone killed him."
"Like, a car accident?"
"No, like murder." She was definitely shaking.
I stared at her in mute confusion for a moment and then shifted my gaze to the craft room to make sure Skylar and Dylan weren't eavesdropping. They weren't. Both of their blond heads were bent over their kites.
I turned my attention back to Muffy. "That's horrible."
"It's worse than horrible. The course superintendent found him lying on the locker room floor in a pool of blood. Someone bashed in his head with a golf club."
I gasped, and a shudder ran through me. What an awful way to die. But Muffy wasn't finished yet.
"Chip's eight iron was lying next to the body, covered in blood. Sage, they took him to the police station for questioning. The police think Chip killed him." She stared at me pale faced and on the verge of tears.
Not knowing what else to do, I wrapped my arms around her and gave her a tentative hug.
* * *
After I'd made Muffy a cup of herbal tea and calmed her down sufficiently that she felt sturdy enough to get herself to the police station, I returned to the craft room.
"I want to show mama my dragon," Dylan shouted, lifting his kite from the table as streams of red paint dripped from the bottom.
"Wow, that's colorful. Let's put it on the counter to dry," I said as I carefully transferred the newspaper kite, heavy with multiple coats of paint, to the counter that sat under the windows. "We can show it to your mom when she gets back."
"Back from where?" Skylar asked, scrunching up her little forehead in confusion. "She didn't have any meetings or lunches today." She punctuated her statement by pointing to the 'command center'—a large chalkboard/whiteboard/bulletin board monstrosity that took up almost one whole wall of the room. She was right.
The daily calendar on display clearly showed that Muffy's agenda for the day held only an early boot camp fitness class at the gym (already checked off) and a cocktail party with her garden club in the evening. It was an unusually quiet day for Muffy. Or, it had been, at least, before her husband had become a murder suspect.
"She had to run an errand," I said in a breezy, casual tone. My entire child care philosophy could be summed up by a handful of maxims: don't lie to the kids; model respect and self-respect; and meet them where they are. My answer came dangerously close to a lie of omission, but I told myself that springing one's husband from central booking was not all that different from popping into the bank. An errand.
We cleaned up the painting supplies and went outside. The kids made a beeline to their tree house and scrabbled up the ladder in a dervish of sinewy, tanned arms and scraped, Band-Aid-decorated knees.
I stood on the patio watching until they waved from the cut-out window. Then I perched on the pastel blue Adirondack chair and pulled out my phone.
My older sister answered on the third ring.
"Hey, Sage." Rosemary sounded slightly out of breath. Judging by the background noise, she was outside somewhere.
"Can you talk?" Ever since she'd quit her job as a personal chef and started her own catering company, she had more flexibility, but more responsibility. I never knew when she'd be available. But I knew that right now, I wanted to talk to my big sister.
"Sure. Dave's off today, and all I have tonight is a small engagement party. Easy day. So we brought Mona Lisa to the dog park to burn off some energy. What's going on?"
"I'm not sure," I admitted. I gnawed on my lower lip for a moment. Then I said, "Chip's been arrested."
"What? What did he do? Oh, insider trading, I'll bet."
I shook my head to myself. Despite everything I told Rosemary, she still swallowed the Moores' public persona of carefree wealth. Sure, Chip and Muffy seemed prosperous. They lived in a breathtaking beach house on Hilton Head Island. They belonged to an exclusive country club. Their faces were plastered all over the society pages, showing them at black-tie galas, silent auctions, theater openings, you name it.
But it was a carefully constructed house of cards. The Moores came from landed gentry—old money—but while they had all the trappings of wealth, they had very little actual financial stability. Not that it was any of my business. They paid my ridiculously high salary and gave me free room and board in the adorable guest cottage at the end of their property.
I knew, though, that they were cash-poor. My degree is in accounting, and I'd worked briefly as a forensic accountant for the government until my own parents' poor financial decisions came crashing down on all of our heads and I'd had to find a more lucrative line of work than 'civil servant.' Muffy was vaguely aware of my former career and had asked for my help with her taxes—not that forensic accounting and personal tax preparation shared much in common beyond, you know, numbers. But I'd given her a hand and had managed to hide my astonishment: Chip's endorsement contracts with various brands were all that was keeping the Moores afloat.
"No," I corrected her. "I guess he's suspected of murder."
"Murder? Chip?" She sounded as shocked as I felt.
"I know, right?"
"Who?"
"Some other golfer. A dude named Fred Spears was found in the locker room at Chip's golf club with his head bashed in."
"Oh, that's awful. Why do they suspect Chip?"
"I guess because one of his golf clubs was the murder weapon."
Rosemary gasped. "Oh, wow. Do you think he did it?"
"Of course not," I said hotly. I'd have thought that she, of all people, would remember that he was innocent until proven guilty. I mean, it hadn't been so long ago that she herself had been the prime suspect in both a murder and an attempted murder.
"Sorry. I mean, I just wondered," she hurried to apologize.
I could hear Dave's muffled voice in the background asking her questions about the murder. "Listen, just ask Detective Dave what comes next? Muffy's on her way to the police station now to bail him out … or whatever. I mean, will they let him go?"
There was more back and forth between Rosemary and her boyfriend. Finally, Dave Drummond's voice sounded in my ear. "Hi, Sage. What happens next depends on if your boss was actually arrested or just questioned. He could be questioned and released. He could be charged and released on bond or his own recognizance. He could be held in custody. Do you want me to make some calls? See what I can find out?"
"No! I mean, no, thank you—that's really kind—but I think Muffy would be upset to know I told you. I appreciate the offer though."
"No problem. And it's an open offer, so if you change your mind, let me know and I'll reach out to them," he assured me. Then his kind voice turned serious. "But, you need to be careful, Sage. Just because you think you know this man, doesn't mean you do. I'm speaking from experience here—there are lots of people out in the world who aren't who they appear to be. People have secrets. And sometimes they're deadly."
He handed the phone back to Rosemary, but I barely heard what she said as we wrapped up the call. Detective Drummond's words of warning looped in my brain, crowding out everything else. It seemed ridiculous.
To call Chip Moore 'mild-mannered' was almost too strong a word. He's just an extremely decent man—pleasant and maybe a little bland. But wasn't that what every co-worker and neighbor of a convicted murderer always said to the local reporter? He was such a nice guy. We can't believe he was capable of murder. It’s unimaginable to think the police found all those heads in his freezer; why, he plays the bells in the church choir!
I ended the call and rubbed my bare arms. Despite the sun blazing overhead, I felt chilled.
Chapter 2
By the time Muffy returned with Chip in tow, I'd managed to push the echoes of Dave's questions out of my head. I lost myself in a spirited game of freeze tag with Skylar and Dylan. I was frozen, one arm at a crazy angle and back to the gate, when Dylan shouted "Dad's home!" and raced past me with Skylar on his heels.
I turned in time to see Chip scoop a squealing child up in each arm and spin them around in their favorite nausea-inducing pastime: airplane daddy.
Muffy managed a wan smile in response to the screams of laughter then caught my eye and nodded toward the deck.
I threw one more glance toward the commercial-worthy father-kid scene and followed her.
She flopped into a deck chair as if she were drained of every ounce of energy. I wasn't sure what to say, so I waited for her to speak first.
"That was just awful," she finally said with a small shudder. "They were keeping Chip in a ... cell."
I made a supportive tsking noise, even though I would have been more surprised to hear that he hadn't been in a holding cell. I mean, Fred was dead. It's not like the police thought Chip might have jaywalked. They suspected him of killing a man. Or did they?
Muffy nodded as if she'd read my mind. Then she said in a soft voice, "It's terrible that Fred's gone, just terrible. But I don't think anyone really believes Chip ... you know."
"Killed him?" I supplied the words she couldn't bring herself to say.
Her perfectly shadowed and smoky-lined eyelids closed over her blue eyes for a heartbeat before she met my gaze. "Right."
"So, do you mean Chip's not a suspect? He's been cleared?"
Her gaze drifted over the railing to the backyard, where Chip was now letting the kids walk up his thighs then flipping them over. "I think so. I mean, they don't have any other suspects, so he's still technically not in the clear. But they also said Chip didn't have a motive to kill him—the officer who interviewed Chip said it himself."
"That's good news," I said to encourage her, although I'd watched enough CSI to know that not having a motive and being innocent were, like, twenty-two minutes apart with commercial breaks.
"I know." She seemed deeply rattled, which made sense for someone whose husband had been questioned as part of a murder investigation. But she also seemed oddly morose for someone whose husband had, at least for now, been cleared.
"Then what's wrong? Are you just freaked out that someone on the island is a murderer?" I winced when I heard how callous the words sounded spoken aloud. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded," I hurried to add.
I didn't want her to think I was making light of a brutal killing. And, now that I thought about it, there was, in all likelihood, a murderer loose on the island, possibly just waiting to strike again. I shivered.
But her response was even more unsettling than either my faux pas or my slasher flick imagination.
"No," she said as her eyes filled with tears. "I'm not worrying about whoever did this ... thing. I'm worried about Chip's image. He's the All-American. Clean-cut. Maybe if he were a bad boy, we could weather this. But this is too off-brand. It's not good."
And just like that, Muffy Moore uttered the coldest words I'd ever heard her speak. And just like that, my goosebumps were back.
* * *
As it turned out, Muffy's icy take on the situation was warranted.
We were eating dinner at the long wooden kitchen table, out of sight from the prying eyes of the television reporters from the Savannah and Charleston affiliates. They'd set up outside the front door and, so far, had been courteous enough to stay right there. I imagined it wouldn't take long for Southern politeness to give way to journalistic cut-throatedness and kept glancing through the picture window half-expecting to see a cameraman vaulting over the whitewashed fence with a heavy camera and a hair-sprayed reporter in his wake.
But so far, so good. Our dinner of shrimp, grits, and a green salad was interrupted only by the occasional gull swooping by the wall of windows on its way to the ocean to catch its own dinner.
Muffy, who had begged off her garden club party with a headache, was making up for the missed vodka tonics nonetheless. She reached for the carafe to pour her third glass of wine. Chip raised one light blond eyebrow and gave her a wordless look. She looked right back at him and gave herself a generous pour.
"So," I said in a cheery voice designed to cut through the tension, "why don't you guys tell your dad about our kite project?" I turned and gave Dylan a wide smile of encouragement but he was busy hiding shrimp in his napkin. I made a mental note to tell him that he was unlikely to succeed in his efforts if he didn't at least take the shells off first. Nobody was going to believe he'd eaten them shells and all. Then I shifted my attention to Skylar. "Sky? Do you want to go first?"
She nodded and took a big drink of water first. "Okay! Sage showed us how to use old veggies to make paint," she began.
"Seriously?" Chip asked in a tone that was either impressed or incredulous—I wasn't sure which.
"Theriouthly," Skylar lisped seriously. "You boil them for a long time then wait for them to cool down."
Having stashed away the last of the offending crustaceans, Dylan chimed in, "We made the kites out of newspaper and water. Mine's a dragon. Skylar made a panda."
"A dragon and a panda," Chip repeated. "Nice."
"Not just a panda," Skylar said indignantly. "A ninja panda."
Chip managed a genuine laugh at that.
For a slice of a moment, I felt as though normalcy had returned to the Moore family, despite the TV news crews staking out the front door. It seemed like this was just an ordinary dinner in the happy life of a relatively privileged family. But the respite was brief.
Chip's cell phone blared to life in his pocket. I froze. Judging by the kids' wide-eyed expressions of disbelief, they were thinking the same thing I was. Uh-oh, you're in trouble now.
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