Элин Хильдебранд - What Happens in Paradise

“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.”

Huck, Irene thinks. Maybe he can stay with Huck for a night or two. Which is a crazy thought. Huck isn’t family; he’s merely a sort of friend.

“I guess I’m confused about what you’re after. Is this part of the investigation about the helicopter?”

“Possibly related,” Beckett says. “Do you know a man named Todd Croft?”

“Russ’s boss,” Irene says. “I met him once, December 2005, in the lobby of the Drake Hotel in Chicago. That was right before he offered Russ the job at Ascension. They knew each other at Northwestern. Or at least, that’s what Russ said.”

“Do you have contact information for Mr. Croft?” Beckett asks.

“I don’t. Mr. Croft’s secretary, Marilyn Monroe, called here on the night of January first to tell me Russ had died. I’ve tried calling her back since then but that number has been disconnected and the Ascension website is down.”

Beckett says, “Your husband made quite a good living, isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” Irene says. “After he took the job with Ascension.”

“This house must have been expensive to renovate.”

“It was.”

“And how did you think your husband was earning so much money?”

“He worked at a hedge fund,” Irene says. “And I thought that provided a good salary. I didn’t know about St. John. I didn’t know about the other house…”

“You went down there recently, though? After he died?”

“Yes. That was my first time. We went for a week and returned home last Friday. My mother-in-law, Russ’s mother, was failing. Now she’s passed away so I have that to deal with.”

“I’m sorry,” Beckett says. He looks at her again, this time more sympathetically.

“Would you like some tea, Agent Beckett?”

“No, but thank you.”

“ I’d like some tea,” Irene says. “Is it all right if we go into the kitchen so I can make some? I mean, I’m free to move around the house, right?”

“Just stay where we can see you,” Agent Beckett says. He rests his hands on his thighs and pushes himself to a stand. “Actually, some tea might warm me up.”

Irene makes a pot of Lady Grey, and while she’s at it, she prepares a tray of sandwiches and rinses two bunches of grapes. Agent Beckett accepts a ham and cheese and a cup of tea. An agent who looks like Tom Selleck pops into the kitchen to report that they have found nothing.

“Did you remove or destroy any of your husband’s papers or personal belongings after he died?” Beckett asks.

“I did not,” Irene says. “I searched through both this house and the house on St. John, looking for clues.”

“Clues?”

“What he was into,” Irene says. “Certainly, Agent Beckett, you realize that I think all this is suspicious as well. My husband was killed in a place I didn’t know he was visiting, then I found out he lived there. He owned property there. I was looking for answers.”

“What did you find?”

A mistress, Irene thinks. A love child. “Nothing,” she says.

The youngest agent—a baby-faced ginger—pokes his head into the kitchen. “Nothing in the master bed or bath,” he says. He eyes the tray of sandwiches. “Are those for everyone?”

“Help yourself,” Irene says. Then she thinks of something! A hiding place! She looks at Beckett, who is reviewing his notes as he eats his ham and cheese.

No, she won’t tell them. Maybe they’ll find it. Maybe they won’t.

Irene wonders if this investigation can work both ways. “I called my real estate contact in St. John to request a death certificate.” She blows across the surface of her tea. “My family attorney here says that until I produce it, Russ is technically still alive.” She pauses, waiting for a reaction, but none comes. “Which would be quite something, because we’ve already scattered the ashes. Or what we thought were Russ’s ashes. I never saw the body and I wasn’t consulted about the cremation until after it was a done deal. Is there any chance…I mean, do you think my husband might still be alive?”

Beckett stands up to secure the door to the hallway and then the door to the dining room. “You’ve been very accommodating,” he says. “And we appreciate it. I’m sure you realize that we’re here because we have reason to believe your husband had illegal business dealings. The one thing I can assure you”—Agent Beckett holds Irene’s gaze—“is that your husband is dead.”

“He is,” Irene says. Yes, he is, she knows this. She has been processing this news for over two weeks. And yet hearing Beckett say the words comes as a fresh shock. Irene’s eyes sting with tears. The dreams were just that—dreams—but Irene must have been hanging on to a thread of hope. None of this added up. From the beginning, it felt like a hoax. The person who told Irene that Russ was dead—Marilyn Monroe—wasn’t someone Irene had ever met face to face. Paulette had been professional to the point of seeming insensitive, nearly as if she was just going through the motions because she knew Russ would turn up eventually. “You’re sure?”