Chapter 1
“Mama, please get in the car! The LIE will be a parking lot if we don’t leave now.”
Whitt Blake pushed the last of the beach bags in the trunk and slammed it hard.
“You don’t have to get so perturbed, Whittaker. I had to finish my makeup—and you took your good time in the bathroom!” Mama, also known to Daddy as Kat, had drawn herself up to her full five-foot, eleven-inch height and peered at Whitt imperiously with hazel eyes that were illuminated by her now almost silver hair. True, Whitt had taken more than her allotted share of shower time in her sister Finley’s small New York apartment, but asking three women to share a single bathroom was beyond the pale.
“Mama, you look lovely, as always. Let’s just get going,” Finley chimed in, trying to smooth over the rough edges of the conversation before it devolved into a full-blown argument. “Mooney is waiting for us.”
Mona Allen—referred to as Mooney by just about everyone—was Finley’s best bud here in Manhattan. They had only met a few months ago, following Finley’s return to the city after a stint in Morocco, but Mooney had proven to be a haven in the storm during that time.
The few blocks uptown to Mooney’s apartment passed without further incident. For that, Finley was glad. She had let Whitt drive to distract her from any further discussion with Mama. Loving though they were, the little tiffs between Mama and Whitt had always put her on edge—and this was supposed to be a relaxing weekend celebrating Mama’s birthday. Just the girls, some wine, some spa, and a lot of beach.
They had settled on weekending in the Hamptons in part because of its proximity to Manhattan, but also because of its cachet. Mama had high-end tastes and didn’t suffer fools. Daddy had asked the sisters to give him the names of places that would offer world-class service, outrageously gorgeous settings, great wines and food, and fantastic shopping. The Hamptons came immediately to mind.
The Hamptons wasn’t a single place, but rather a string of exclusive hamlets and villages along the pristine southern Long Island coast. It was a place to see and be seen for a certain segment of the population—the rich or rich-wannabes. Whitt, Mooney, and Mama were sure to have fun celebrity-spotting and grazing at some of the trendiest restaurants in New York. Needless to say, there would be shopping, but for shopaholics like those three, there was always a good find to be had.
Finley, on the other hand, couldn’t care less about shopping—but luckily her sister, Whitt, had taken that into consideration. Finley had come a long way over the past couple of months, Mama had said, but she still was fragile and needed peace and quiet, above all. Montauk was the perfect place. Not as trendy as its western neighbors, Southampton, East Hampton, and Sag Harbor, Montauk claimed its position as the easternmost point on the island with pride. The monster waves were a surfer’s delight and the soft-powder dunes a place that Finley could get lost taking pictures.
“Where are we staying?” Mama turned in her seat to talk to Finley, who had her head stuck in Whitt’s travel guide for Montauk and the Hamptons. “What are you reading?”
“Whitt’s travel guide,” Finley answered distractedly. She had folded her tall frame into a pretzel on the rear seat, the guidebook resting in the crook of her arm as her eyes ate up the words on the page.
“Whatever for? You have lived here forever. And you are always taking the jitney to the Hamptons.” Mama had one eye on Finley and the other on the road. “Whitt, watch that car!”
“I know, but you always learn something new in these things,” Finley said. “Like, did you know that Gurney’s just had twenty rooms when it opened in 1956? Now it has fifteen buildings!”
“There is a lot of other info in there as well on restaurants and wine bars. And loads of shops.” Whitt cast a side glance at her mother. Now I’ve got her attention. Shopping will keep her happy for a long while!
Whitt returned her attention to her driving and pulled up in front of Mooney’s building. Mooney was waiting at the curb wearing a floral Amur jumpsuit, straw-colored wrap wedges, and oversized sunglasses. Not a hair in the perfect blowout of her champagne blonde curls was out of place, and yet she managed to look casual and approachable.
“Don’t get out. I’ll just…” Mooney eyed the overstuffed back of the SUV they’d rented for the drive out. “I’ll drop my bag on the seat. It’ll make a great armrest.”
Leave it to Mooney to see opportunity in any situation.
“Mrs. Blake, how are you?” Mooney extended her hand over the back of the seat. “What a pleasure to meet you—finally!”
Mama smiled politely at Mooney, taking in her full measure. She isn’t at all as flashy as I thought she would be. Lady wheeler-dealers always have an edge to them. But this bird is collected. And well-mannered, as well. I won’t judge. Yet!
Her assessment took less than thirty seconds. Her response dripped with Southern charm. “Pleasure meeting you as well, sweetheart. Finley has told me so much about you. I can’t wait to get to know you better.”
Mooney smiled politely in response before asking, “So, where are we staying, and what are we doing?”
“Daddy booked something on Airbnb. It looked pretty nice in the pictures I saw,” Whitt said. “He wanted Mama’s birthday to be a special girls’ weekend with lots of wine, spa, and beach time.”
“Ry looks after me so well. I can go for the wine and spa, but the beach will be taken in moderation,” Mama said.
“You always tan so nicely. It’s a pity you don’t like the sun,” Finley said.
“Us southern girls protect our complexions with a vengeance, especially at my age.” Mama grew wistful. “So much has happened in my sixty years. I’ll bet you don’t even remember The Beatles, much less the Mamas and the Papas or Creedence Clearwater Revival!”
Whitt’s brow knitted quizzically, and Mooney’s face grew blank.
“Okay, who the heck are the Mamas and the Papas, and why did they name themselves that? And what’s that other one—a gospel group or Christian rock?” Finley sputtered through a burst of giggles.
It is so good to hear her laugh. Whitt caught a glance of her sister in the rearview mirror. The past few months since Finley’s return from Morocco had been tough for her. Whitt had moved to Manila for a job with a development bank shortly before Finley came home, but during those first few months, her mother had filled WhatsApp with questions that Whitt was at a loss to answer and Finley refused to speak about.
“Supposedly they got their name from the Hells Angels’ reference to their ‘women’ as mamas. Cass Elliott, the lead singer of the group, said they had mamas and papas, and the name stuck,” Mama explained.
“I think we’re going to have to add some oldies to the weekend playlist.” Mooney looked at her phone and started downloading songs. “The Beatles and the Mamas and the Papas, it is! Is the Fifth Dimension any good? Another name that needs explanation!”
Mooney filled the rest of the ride to the island calling out the names of old rock and roll and R&B groups and playing snippets of their songs. By the time they had pulled up to the address they’d booked through Airbnb, they had giggled, guffawed, and nearly died laughing at Mama’s running commentary on each of the artists Mooney named off.
“Here it is!” Whitt exclaimed as she pulled up to a massive two-story beachfront house.
“Are you sure this is the one?” Finley asked. “It looks different from the one Daddy sent pictures of.”
“It does look different, but this is the address that the owner gave us,” Whitt said. “Maybe we just pick up the keys here.”
“Well, we’ll find out.” Finley’s eyes were fixed on the man who was making his way down the stone path that led from the front door. He reminded Finley of the White Rabbit in Alice in Wonderland—a slight personage in his middle age with a prominent beak-like nose, slightly protruding teeth, and quick, darting movements.
“Hello, hello! I hope you had a pleasant trip! Traffic wasn’t too bad, was it? The LIE can be a bear if you don’t catch it at just the right time. But then, you came early. Good, good…. And you were going against traffic for much of the way. Good, good!” The man seemed to be talking to himself even as he held his hand out to each of the women. “David Jameson.” He repeated it with each handshake, his bird-gray eyes holding their stares. “Pleasure to meet you. Pleasure to meet you all.” He turned and led them up the path to the front door, talking over his shoulder as he climbed. “Miles will get your bags if you just give him the key.”
“We’re to stay here?” Whitt asked. “For whatever reason, I thought we were at another one of your properties.”
The owner paused at the front door and looked pointedly at Mooney. “We had a cancellation and so I decided to upgrade you—at the same price, of course. I hope you will enjoy your stay and spread the word.”
Mooney had done it again. The mere mention of her name and doors opened, tickets became available—front row, no less—and rooms or flights got upgraded. That was power and Mooney, as one of the city’s premier event planners, had it. Keep her happy and you could have any number of A-listers at your event.
Clearly, the man wanted something. Exactly what that was would be revealed in time.
“Thank you so much!” Mooney gushed, tossing her champagne-blond curls. “That was so kind of you.”
Kindness doesn’t have a dang thing to do with it, and Mooney knows it. She’s just working this for all it’s worth. Finley knew her friend’s mind and already knew Mooney was categorizing Mr. Jameson. It was hard to tell whether she’d slotted him as a savvy businessman or a sleazy lecher. She’d have to confirm later.
“Let me show you around.” He had taken the car key Whitt has passed him and handed it to a gentleman with a ramrod posture and an ageless, expressionless face. If ever there was an American version of a British butler, Miles was it. He nodded slightly as the women came in and slipped out behind them.
“That”—Jameson inclined his head toward the man walking to the car—“is Miles, as I suspect you gathered. He comes with the house. He generally is here on the property to get groceries, run errands, oversee the cleaning staff. Should you need anything day or night, just ring. Literally.”
He pointed to a small button on the wall. “They are all over the house, so you don’t even have to get up. Leaning is sufficient.” He smiled. “Lest you think me indulgent, I had them put in when my mother lived with me. She was an invalid in her later years, so these made life easier.”
Mama’s demeanor changed visibly. The dour “bless your heart” countenance she had maintained since she walked up the path softened as he spoke. Mama was a sucker for people who did right by their mothers. They could be ax murderers or cheat on their taxes, but if they mentioned their mothers, Mama went all soft.
“I take it your mother has passed on,” Mama said quietly, elongating the last word as only a true southerner can do.
“Yes, a few years ago. Since then, I have been renting the place out.” Jameson averted his eyes as he continued showing the rest of the house. “I divide my time between Long Island and Cancun. An odd juxtaposition, I admit, but it works. I must leave you ladies to your weekend. I have a flight to catch,” Jameson added as the tour of the house led them back to the entryway. “Again, Miles can take care of whatever you need. Enjoy.”
The four women watched as the man bounded down the stairs and into a waiting black car that had appeared, like magic, just as he reached the last of the stone pavers.
“Was that an alt universe we just experienced?” Whitt asked. “Do you think if we touch the walls, we’ll discover that they’re just an illusion?”
Mama laughed. “Leave it to your father to find the most spectacular properties owned by the most peculiar people. Ry has them crawling out of the woodwork.”
“Let’s grab rooms and then get ourselves oriented. The water looks incredible.” Mooney stood in front of a wall of windows that ran the length of the house, facing the ocean and reaching up over two stories. The view looked like a seascape version of Monet’s waterlilies—panoramic panels of liquid blues with cotton ball clouds hugging the horizon. “This is unbelievable!”
As luck would have it, all the bedrooms faced the ocean. The house had been built to nestle into the dune flush against its backside so that even with the two stories of windows downstairs, there was another story above that housed the bedrooms—six of them, all en suite.
“Neither of you have any excuse for being late this time!” Finley addressed her mother and sister as she pointed at the separate bathrooms. “You don’t have to share, and there is no allotted time.”
Miles had put their bags in their rooms—somehow matching the décor of each room with the personality of each woman. For Mama, he’d chosen the most contemporary of the rooms, one decorated in Swedish modern with a massive four-poster bed that acted as the centerpiece. He had put Mooney’s bags in a stylishly decorated robin’s egg blue room with Chinese porcelain accents. Finley had gotten the room with the blush-colored walls and the black and white moiré patterned bedspread. And lastly, Whitt had been settled in the room with the celadon and gray motif.
“Is he a robot that scans us and calculates room assignments using some strange algorithm?” Whitt asked as they made their way back downstairs. “The colors of the room he chose for me are exactly my design sensibility. How did he know?”
“Don’t know, but I’m hungry,” Finley said. “That bagel is long gone.”
Miles coughed quietly to make his presence known. “I can make you breakfast. Just let me know what you would like.”
“Thank you, Miles, but no need,” Whitt said. “We’ll probably be eating out most of the time and just grab something at the grocery store that we can use for breakfasts on other mornings.”
Finley rather pitied the poor man. All trained up and nothing to do. She hoped he had a hobby or something to help him pass the time when he had self-sufficient guests who had little need of his services.
“We’ll probably just wander around and get our bearings today.” Finley stated. “Perhaps you can recommend a good place for brunch—or even a diner for breakfast. And a grocery store!”
Finley remembered a couple of greasy spoon diners in the area that turned out the best omelets. She really didn’t want white tablecloth dining just yet, although she knew, traveling with Mama, that was largely what she would get.
“What would you prefer, Mama?” Finley asked.
“A diner would be nice. French toast or maybe a gooey omelet.”
Whitt and Finley both stopped and stood, looking at their mother. Mooney was silently observing the exchange.
“If you both don’t close your mouths, a fly is going to go right in,” Mama said haughtily. “What? Just because I ordinarily go upscale doesn’t mean I always have to.”
“Yes, Mama,” Finley and Whitt said simultaneously. Miles’s mouth turned up slightly before he recovered himself and offered several suggestions for restaurants and nearby grocery stores.
“If there is nothing else, I will leave you ladies to your adventures. I have left my card on the table, so you have my number. Again, if you need anything, just call,” he said as he turned and headed out the side door.
Whitt picked up the card and the keys to both the car and the house. “Anyone for breakfast before we hit the beach?”
The diner Miles had recommended was on the way to Montauk town proper. The drive, though short, made Finley glad she had brought her camera. The sweep of the dunes and the capping of the waves as they headed toward Ditch Plains was the stuff of impressionist paintings.
Nellie’s was a bit more than a diner and hung in that casual dining category with grace. Housed in a small, salt-shingled bungalow with faded blue shutters, it looked at home in the dunes that surrounded it. Once inside, the down-home feel continued. Patterned blue curtains framed the windows. Wooden tables crowded the floor as they strained to find their place amongst the chairs. A blackboard with the day’s offerings dominated the front wall. Above all, the unbelievable smell of bacon and cinnamon and maple wafted around them as soon as they came in the door.
“Sit anywhere you’d like. I’ll be with you in a minute.” The single waitress spoke over her shoulder as she carried an armload of omelets, farmer’s breakfasts, waffles, and French toast to a table on the back porch.
“Let’s see if we can find a table overlooking the dunes,” Whitt said as she surveyed the options.
There was an interesting mix of customers to be found in this area, especially as it neared the off-season. This year, the Indian summer had been warm enough for beach time during the day but cool enough in the evenings for the firepit. As a result, there were surfers, overaged hippies, a couple of model lookalikes, rich soccer moms, off-duty investment bankers, and local regulars, all crammed into the space for second coffees, post-drop-off smoothies, or hangover munchies.
A large table was clearing as Finley and the crew made their way to the back. A quick wipe down later, and they were seated and looking at menus.
“You need a wipe, Mama?” Finley held out a pack of Wet Wipes.
“Thank you, dear!” Mama pulled two wipes from the package, using one for her hands and the other to wipe the table in front of her.
Whitt let them all order and settle in with their coffees before recounting the several things they could do over their four-day vacation.
“I want to get some shopping in while we’re here,” Whitt said. “I am sure Mama will join me. Mooney, you in? We can leave Finley at a café with a book, and she’ll be fine.” She looked over at her sister and smirked good-naturedly. She knew that what she said was true. As much as Whitt wanted to shake her sister out of her funk, she knew that if left to her own devices, Finley would crawl out of it herself—probably faster than if she were forced out.
“That’s fine with me,” Finley said, “but I think I might take advantage of this gorgeous scenery to shoot rather than stick my head in a book. I can read at night.”
After a few moments of comfortable silence, Whitt looked devilishly at Finley and asked a question that almost always led to a game: “Who do you think did it?”
Finley replied with a wolfish grin.
This was to be the beginning round of the Murder Game, a story-building pastime that the sisters had regularly played as children when they accompanied their parents on holiday or business trips overseas. The object of the game was to incorporate their fellow travelers into macabre scenes of murder and mayhem, much like a live game of Clue. It was not unusual for the girls to giggle through breakfast after seeing guests that had engaged in sordid affairs, shady dealings, and drunken drama during their bedtime round of the game the night before.
“Did what?” Mooney asked innocently.
“You girls should quit!” Mama looked at Whitt reproachfully, narrowing her eyes in an attempt to nip this unbecoming behavior in the bud. But Whitt’s smile said she wasn’t backing down, and she knew her sister would stand with her.
“Who was murdered?” Finley asked quietly.
“Murdered?” Mooney choked out, her face in tormented surprise.
“No one was murdered, dear,” Mama explained. “These two are playing a silly, very warped childhood game. Please ignore them.”
Mooney listened as the sisters continued as if nothing else had been said.
“The woman in the green sundress. Attractive, but she needs to be knocked off, if for no other reason than to get her out of that unfortunate dress. That putrid-looking color does nothing for her skin tone, and the style is not flattering. Does she not have a mirror?” Whitt said under her breath.
“How did she die?” Finley was meticulously dissecting the elements of the murder and pointedly interrogating Whitt to construct a plausible scenario.
“Poison. No visible signs of foul play. No incriminating fingerprints on the glasses. Seemingly, no enemies. No unusual smells or behaviors . She was just found dead in her reading chair.”
“Makes one want to give up reading,” Finley quipped, tucking into a Greek omelet oozing with spinach and melted feta. “Did she live by herself?”
“Girls, stop this! Not over breakfast. It is enough to turn my stomach!” Mama cried.
“Sorry, Mama. We’ll quit.” Finley stared at her plate before turning to her sister. She winked. This ain’t over, baby sister. I will figure it out before bedtime.
“Do you have brothers and sisters, Mooney? I can’t recall Finley mentioning any,” Mama asked.
“No, ma’am. I’m an only child—so these sibling dynamics are intriguing.”
“You make us sound like some sort of science experiment!” Finley laughed, reaching for another slice of homemade sourdough bread. She broke a piece and smeared on a dollop of fresh blueberry jam.
“It’s just that I never had anyone to banter with like you guys do. And this is the first time I have seen you two together.” Mooney sipped at her coffee, eyeing her friend over her cup as Finley closed her eyes and savored the bread and jam with a contented smile. She will survive this, but only if she opens up. Maybe Whitt can get it out of her.
“Chaos in action!” Whitt grinned. “And we get even better once we get warmed up—and lubricated with wine…or bourbon. Then the minds and the tongues really get sharp!”
“I know this is not over, so I won’t even pretend. But if you could refrain from playing this sick game over dinner, I would appreciate it,” Mama said, putting down her knife and fork and dabbing the corners of her mouth with her napkin. Much as she said the conversation would put her off her food, the empty plate where the eggs Florentine once was said something else.
“Yes, ma’am.” Whitt looked modestly contrite before her voice regained its excitement. “If y’all have finished eating, let’s pay the bill and head off to the beach!”
