What Happens in Paradise - Elin Hilderbrand Page 0,33
that, unless Paulette read Irene’s mind before she left the voicemail, that’s logistically impossible. It might be Lydia, though Lydia normally flings open the door and walks right in. Maybe Lydia called the Dunns and the Kinseys and this is the start of the onslaught. Bobbi Kinsey will have pulled a casserole from her freezer or stopped by the Hy-Vee for a deli tray.
Irene pauses before opening the door and takes a sustaining breath. She’ll tell people the truth—helicopter crash, Virgin Islands, work, but leave out the villa, the mistress, and Maia.
Strong, beautiful Maia.
Irene opens the door. It’s not Lydia, and it’s not Bobbi. It’s four men in dark suits, trench coats, and impractical shoes for the weather. The man in front—African-American, tall and broad, with a grim facial expression—flashes a badge.
“Irene Steele?” he says.
Irene is so stunned, she can’t speak. Is she being arrested?
“Are you Irene Steele?” the man says. “Is this the Steele residence?” He glances above the door frame, then down toward the corner of Linn. “Thirty Church Street?”
Irene nods. “Yes, it is. I am.”
“Agent Kenneth Beckett, FBI, white-collar crime division. We have a search warrant for this address. If you’ll kindly step aside.”
White-collar crime. Irene steps aside.
Three of the agents start searching the house. Irene’s instinct is to follow them—not to hide anything but to make sure they’re careful with her things. However, Agent Beckett wants to talk to Irene in private. She leads him to the amethyst parlor. It’s chilly and she offers to lay a fire.
“Just please sit down, Mrs. Steele,” Agent Beckett says. He’s stern and serious, like an FBI agent on television. Irene notices a black and gold knit cap sticking out of his briefcase.
“Iowa grad?” she asks. “I’m the class of ’84.”
“Class of ’91,” Beckett says. For a second, his eyes smile. “Go Hawks.”
“They aren’t going to break anything, are they?” Irene asks. “This house…well, it took me six years to renovate and the antiques are real. There’s a mural in the dining room; the moldings and trim have all been restored to period. The carpets…” She stares down at Beckett’s wet and icy wingtips on the Queen Victoria jewel-box carpet. “They’ll be careful, right? Respectful?”
Quick nod. “We’re professionals.”
“Of course.”
“Your husband was Russell Steele?” Beckett says. “Died January first in a helicopter crash off the coast of Virgin Gorda?”
“Yes.”
“And what did your husband do for a living, Mrs. Steele?”
Irene briefly wonders if she needs a lawyer present. She tries to imagine Ed Sorley in his sweater-vest dealing with these gentlemen. The idea is nearly laughable.
The fact is, Irene has done nothing wrong. Irene has nothing to hide.
“He worked for a hedge fund called Ascension,” Irene says.
“What was his position there?”
“My understanding was that he was in customer relations.”
Beckett looks up. “Customer relations.”
“Not like he answered the phone and took complaints,” Irene says. “He wined and dined the clients, played golf, a lot of golf, made them comfortable. Russ was a very…nice guy. Nonthreatening, friendly, engaging. He told a lot of corny jokes, asked to see pictures of your kids, remembered their names.” Irene had been jealous, at times, of how good with people Russ was, how generous with his attention. All of their friends and acquaintances liked Russ better than her. And that was fine, Irene understood; they had their roles. Irene let Russ do the talking because he liked it and she didn’t. She enjoyed quieter things—reading novels, cooking, nurturing one-on-one friendships, achieving goals in a timely and organized fashion, whether it was renovating a room in this house or putting an issue of the magazine to bed. She enjoyed fishing, the peace of being out on the water with a single simple mission.
Why is she thinking about fishing?
Well, she knows why.
“And where is this company, Ascension, based?” Beckett asks.
“Miami?” Irene says. “I’m not sure, though. Russ did a lot of traveling for work. He told me he was in Florida, Texas…”
“Told you?” Beckett says.
“Yes,” Irene says. “But I now have reason to believe he spent most of his time in the Virgin Islands. In St. John.”
Beckett scratches down a note.
“You know my husband owns property in St. John.”
“Yes,” Beckett says. “Federal agents are searching that house now.”
“Oh, dear,” Irene says.
Beckett looks up. “What?”
“I put my son Cash on a plane to St. Thomas this morning,” Irene says. “He’ll arrive at the house in St. John sometime tonight.”
Beckett nods. “They should be finished with the search by then.”
“But if they’re not?”
“They’ll let him know and he can make other arrangements.”