Margot Hunt: Best Friends Forever: A gripping psychological thriller that will have you hooked in 2018

“Oh, right. Of course. You’re with the Jupiter Island Police?” I guessed. Kat and Howard lived—or in Howard’s case, had lived—on tony Jupiter Island. While their home was close geographically to where we lived, in the Town of Jupiter, the island was its own separate and quite exclusive municipality.

“The Jupiter Island Public Safety Department,” Sergeant Oliver corrected me, her tone needlessly officious.

“Actually, Sergeant Oliver is with the Jupiter Island Public Safety Department,” Detective Demer said. “I’m with the Florida Department of Law Enforcement based in Tallahassee. I’ve been temporarily assigned to look into Howard Grant’s death.”

“I thought Howard’s death was an accident,” I said.

Detective Demer gazed down at me, his expression inscrutable. “That’s what we’re looking into. And that’s why we need to speak with you.”

“Of course. Please, come in,” I said, stepping aside to give them room.

Todd shook his head, and I could tell from his expression that I was missing something important.

“Alice, they want you to go with them,” my husband emphasized. “To the police station.”

“Really?” I looked at the police officers. “Why?”

Demer held up a placating hand. “It’s nothing to worry about, Mrs. Campbell. Your name came up in the course of our investigation, and we have some questions for you. It’s all very routine.”

I nodded slowly. I didn’t understand why the conversation couldn’t take place in our living room. And if they wanted me to come to them, why hadn’t they just called? What was the point of showing up on my doorstep first thing in the morning?

“What’s going on?” Liam asked, appearing behind me. He had his shorts on now, thankfully, but was still not wearing a belt.

“Nothing,” I said. “The eggs are ready. Go serve yourself. I’ll be right in. And don’t forget to put on a belt.”

“I’m sorry if we’ve come at a bad time,” Demer said. He did look as though he regretted the imposition. Maybe he had children of his own back in Tallahassee and knew how chaotic the mornings could be. I nodded and smiled faintly to signal that I understood he was just doing his job.

“When would you like me to come in?” I asked.

“As soon as possible,” Oliver snapped. In contrast to her colleague, she didn’t seem at all sheepish about appearing on my doorstep before 8:00 a.m. and disrupting our routine. “In fact, we’d like you to come with us now.”

I shook my head. “That’s impossible. I have to finish helping my children get ready for school and then drive them in. I can meet you after that.”

“How long will that be?” Demer asked.

In truth, it took me only twenty minutes to complete the school run. But I was currently wearing a ratty old T-shirt of Todd’s and a pair of jogging shorts. I’d never put much thought into what one wore to a police interview, but I was fairly sure this was not the ideal outfit.

“Where is the Jupiter Island Public Safety Department located?” I asked, wondering why it couldn’t just be called a police department. Was that somehow offensive to the extremely wealthy residents of Jupiter Island? Were police necessary only for regular citizens? The marked differences between the very rich and everyone else reared up at the oddest times, even in our so-called equal society.

“On Bunker Hill Road in the old town hall building,” Oliver said.

I mentally calculated how long it would take me to get the kids off to school, get dressed and drive there. “I could be there in two hours.”

The police officers exchanged a look, but Demer nodded.

“We’ll see you then,” he said.

Once the front door was closed and we were alone again, my husband looked anxiously at me.

“What’s going on? Why do the police want to talk to you?” Todd hissed, keeping his voice low so Liam and Bridget wouldn’t hear. Children have superhuman hearing when it comes to picking up on any brewing parental conflict.

“I have no idea,” I said. “But Howard’s death was...odd.” An understatement, to say the least. “I’m sure they have to investigate. Make sure there wasn’t any...I don’t know, foul play.”

Foul play. It was such a melodramatic phrase, like something out of an Agatha Christie novel. Murderous vicars and little old ladies who put arsenic in the tea.

“But why do they think you’d know anything about it?”

“I’m sure they don’t.” I shrugged. “But they obviously know that Kat and I are friends.”

“I don’t think you should speak to the police without having an attorney present.”

“What? Why? I’m not a suspect,” I said.

“How do you know?”

“Because that would be insane,” I said. I shook my head. “Look, I’m sure they have to investigate, even when the death was clearly accidental. It’s certainly nothing to worry about.”

“Then why are the police at our door at eight in the morning,” Todd pointed out.

“I have no idea, but there’s no reason to overreact,” I said, turning away. “I have to go check on the kids. If I don’t pay attention, Liam eats all the toast and none of his eggs, and Bridget doesn’t eat anything at all.”

My husband grabbed my arm and spun me back toward him. He leaned forward, his face close to mine, and whispered, “What’s going on? Did Kat have something to do with Howard’s death?”

His breath was hot and smelled of coffee. I pulled my arm out of his grip and took a step back. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course she didn’t.”

Todd wasn’t sure if he should believe me. I could tell by the way he was searching my face, looking for some trace of a lie in the way I blinked my eyes or clenched my jaw.

Like a visitor to the island of Knights and Knaves, Todd wanted to try his hand at ferreting out the liars.

I felt a stab of fear and hoped I was more convincing when I spoke to the police.

2

Jupiter Island was a long, narrow barrier island north of Palm Beach. There were only a few access points to reach it from the mainland, which I assumed was by design to ensure the privacy of its well-heeled residents. I approached it from the south, driving up US Highway 1, taking a right just past the Jupiter Lighthouse, then heading north up the island on Beach Road.

I drove past the tall condo buildings of Palm Beach County. They abruptly stopped, signaling that I’d passed into Martin County with its more stringent zoning laws. I passed through the Blowing Rocks Preserve, where the road was lined with short palm trees and bushy sea grape shrubs. Just past the preserve and tourist parking, the private houses began. Some were visible from the road, others sheltered behind gates and privacy hedges. All were large and ostentatious. The houses to the east fronted the Atlantic Ocean, while the ones to the west faced the Intracoastal Waterway. Each property had a twee white sign set by the curb, displaying the family name or the name of the house—Sand Castle or Shangri-La—or the more practical, if somewhat pointed, Service Entrance.

Kat’s house was on the left about a mile past the preserve, set back at the end of a gravel drive. I wondered if she was home, and I thought about stopping and checking on her before I went to the police station. I’d called her twice on my way over to the island, but she hadn’t picked up. This wasn’t entirely unusual. Unlike most people of the modern world, Kat had only a tenuous connection to her cell phone. She didn’t always pick up when I called, and she frequently ignored texts for hours, or even a day.

We’d spoken only once, briefly, since Howard’s death. Kat had been in London to meet with several artists whose work she was considering carrying in her gallery. She’d called me from Heathrow while she was waiting for her flight home. Kat had been subdued, which wasn’t surprising. The police had tracked her down at her hotel in London only hours earlier to notify her that Howard was dead. The housekeeper had found his body lying facedown on the back patio.