kind of crap kids do at that age. Remember what a terror I was? All the schools I got kicked out of? And, look, I survived, right? Just remember she’s a good kid who’s going through a bad time. I’ll talk to her if you want. Maybe she’ll listen to me.”
“There’s something I haven’t told you yet,” Riley said, keeping her voice low. “A television reporter from Raleigh has been calling and leaving me voice messages. About Wendell. She claims the FBI is investigating Wendell’s involvement in some bank failure on the coast.”
“The FBI?” Billy felt a cold shiver run down his spine. “You don’t think it’s true—do you?”
“I don’t know,” Riley said. “I don’t know anything about Wendell’s business dealings. Except,” she said bitterly, “he somehow managed to lose our house here.”
“What are you going to do?” Billy asked.
“What can I do? I’m going to the courthouse first thing tomorrow, to try to figure out the foreclosure and to see if I can sniff out anything else Wendell might have been up to. I talked to a lawyer yesterday, but since I can’t guarantee I can pay her a retainer, I guess I’m going to have to try and figure this stuff out for myself.”
Billy turned to look at his sister. “What can I do to help?”
She gave him a wan smile. “Keep Mama off my back. She’s driving me nuts insisting we have to have what she calls a ‘proper memorial service’ for Wendell. She’s already got everything planned. And in the meantime, I don’t even know when the coroner is going to release Wendell’s body. I know it’s awful, but I’m dreading this whole ordeal.”
“It’s not awful,” Billy assured her. “Why don’t you just tell Mama to back off? There’s no law that says you absolutely have to have a funeral if you don’t want one. Especially under the circumstances.”
“No law?” She snorted. “There’s Evelyn Riley Nolan’s law. It’s the only one that matters on Belle Isle.”
22
Riley’s cell phone shattered the peace of the morning. “Mrs. Griggs? This is Sheriff Schumann. I was wondering if you’d have time to answer some questions for me.”
It was barely 8 a.m. on Tuesday. Riley was sitting on the front porch at Shutters, sipping her coffee and watching a blue heron poking around at something in the front yard. It had rained overnight, and the air was cool and fresh. Butterflies hovered over the red salvia in her mother’s flower beds, and the day would have seemed ripe with the promise of summer. If only.
“Yes,” she said cautiously.
“Is now a good time?”
She looked down at her cotton nightgown and bare feet and sprang from the wooden rocking chair.
“Right now?”
“I could come over there if you like. I’m at the ferry dock in Southpoint, as a matter of fact.”
“No, no,” Riley said quickly. “If it’s all right with you, could I meet you someplace else? My daughter is still pretty upset about everything.”
“Have you had breakfast?”
“Just coffee,” Riley said.
“Then let’s meet at Onnalee’s. Say, in an hour?”
“I’ll see you there,” she said.
* * *
Once again Riley was thankful for being an early riser in a house full of sleepyheads. Evelyn never came downstairs before 9:30 in the summer, and Maggy had barely shown her face outside her room since being put on double-secret probation.
She dressed quickly, not bothering with makeup or more than a cursory hair brushing, left a note saying she’d gone to town to run errands, and managed to make the 8:30 ferry.
Another reason to be an early bird was that she mostly had the boat to herself. The season had barely started, but the residents of Belle Isle had already eased into their relaxed summer schedule. Islanders who had jobs on the mainland had mostly taken the first ferry of the morning, and anybody who had shopping or errands to run in town would probably wait another hour or so.
After enduring the sympathetic inquiries of three or four neighbors, Riley found a sunny but deserted spot on the upper deck and barricaded herself behind the pages of the three-day-old Wall Street Journal she’d bought from a vending machine at the landing, for just that reason.
A shadow fell over the newspaper page. She looked up and saw Nate Milas, holding out a steaming cardboard cup of coffee.
He flashed her a hopeful smile. “We’re fresh out of olive branches at the concession stand. I was hoping maybe this would do.”
She lowered the paper. “Is that supposed to be an apology?”