breath. “You’ll forgive me for being indelicate and asking the obvious. Are any of your husband’s former investors living on Nantucket that you know of?”
Meredith raised her face to the chief. Her expression was so blank, Connie was scared.
“Mary Rose Garth lost forty million. The Crenshaws lost twenty-six million; Jeremy and Amy Rivers lost nine point two million; the LaRussas lost six million and so did the Crosbys and so did Alan Futenberg. Christopher Darby-Lett lost four and a half million.”
The chief scribbled. “These people live on Nantucket?”
“They’re summer residents,” Meredith said. “The Rosemans lost four point four, the Mancheskis lost three eight, Mrs. Phinney lost three five; the Kincaids, the Winslows, the Becketts, the Carlton Smiths, Linsley Richardson, the Halseys, the Minatows, and the Malcolm Browns all lost between two and three million. The Vaipauls, the McIntoshes, the Kennedys, the Brights, the Worthingtons…”
Connie sucked down a glass of cold water and tried not to let her surprise show. She had no idea so many of Freddy’s investors were on this island. She and Meredith were sitting in the heart of enemy territory.
The chief left an hour later with a list of fifty-two names of Nantucket summer residents who had lost over a million dollars in Freddy’s scam. He couldn’t question any of them without probable cause, but it was good to have the list to reference, he said. Of course, he pointed out, it wasn’t certain that the vandal was an investor; there were all kinds of creeps in the world. The chief was taking the photograph and the envelope with him. The main thing, he said, was that Connie and Meredith should try to relax while remaining vigilant. The house had an alarm system, though Connie had never felt the need to set it. Nantucket—and Tom Nevers in particular—was so safe! She would set it tonight; she would set it from now on.
“And we’ll send a squad car out like I promised,” the chief said. “Every hour on the hour throughout the night.”
“Thank you,” Connie said. She hated to see him go. He was the first man to help her in this kind of practical way since Wolf had died. And he was handsome. She checked for a wedding ring. He wore a solid gold band—of course. Chiefs of police were always happily married, with a couple of kids at home. That was as it should be. Still, Connie was pleased with herself for noticing him. It felt like some kind of progress.
Less than an hour later, there was a knock at the door, and both Connie and Meredith froze. They were still at the dining-room table, drinking coffee and letting their bowls of cereal grow soggy. Meredith was talking in circles—mostly about the investors who lived on Nantucket. She only knew a few of them personally. She, of course, knew Mary Rose Garth (net loss $40 million); everyone in New York society knew Mary Rose Garth, the anorexically thin, sexually lascivious rubber heiress. She had served on the board of the Frick Collection with Meredith.
And Jeremy and Amy Rivers (net loss $9.2 million) had been friends of Meredith’s from Palm Beach.
Meredith told Connie that she had met Amy Rivers during a tennis clinic at the Everglades Club. Amy had a high-powered job for a global consulting firm; she had gone to Princeton three years behind Meredith, though Meredith didn’t remember her. But they bonded over their equally pathetic backhands and their mutual admiration of the tennis pro’s legs, and became casual friends. Amy traveled all the time for business—Hong Kong, Tokyo, Dubai—but when next she was in Palm Beach, she called Meredith to go to lunch. They sat out on the patio at Chuck and Harold’s—very casual, very friendly—but at the end of the lunch, Amy bent her head toward Meredith as if to confide something. Meredith was wary. Palm Beach was a vicious gossip town. Meredith was okay with accepting confidences, but she never, ever told any of her women friends
Meredith raised her face to the chief. Her expression was so blank, Connie was scared.
“Mary Rose Garth lost forty million. The Crenshaws lost twenty-six million; Jeremy and Amy Rivers lost nine point two million; the LaRussas lost six million and so did the Crosbys and so did Alan Futenberg. Christopher Darby-Lett lost four and a half million.”
The chief scribbled. “These people live on Nantucket?”
“They’re summer residents,” Meredith said. “The Rosemans lost four point four, the Mancheskis lost three eight, Mrs. Phinney lost three five; the Kincaids, the Winslows, the Becketts, the Carlton Smiths, Linsley Richardson, the Halseys, the Minatows, and the Malcolm Browns all lost between two and three million. The Vaipauls, the McIntoshes, the Kennedys, the Brights, the Worthingtons…”
Connie sucked down a glass of cold water and tried not to let her surprise show. She had no idea so many of Freddy’s investors were on this island. She and Meredith were sitting in the heart of enemy territory.
The chief left an hour later with a list of fifty-two names of Nantucket summer residents who had lost over a million dollars in Freddy’s scam. He couldn’t question any of them without probable cause, but it was good to have the list to reference, he said. Of course, he pointed out, it wasn’t certain that the vandal was an investor; there were all kinds of creeps in the world. The chief was taking the photograph and the envelope with him. The main thing, he said, was that Connie and Meredith should try to relax while remaining vigilant. The house had an alarm system, though Connie had never felt the need to set it. Nantucket—and Tom Nevers in particular—was so safe! She would set it tonight; she would set it from now on.
“And we’ll send a squad car out like I promised,” the chief said. “Every hour on the hour throughout the night.”
“Thank you,” Connie said. She hated to see him go. He was the first man to help her in this kind of practical way since Wolf had died. And he was handsome. She checked for a wedding ring. He wore a solid gold band—of course. Chiefs of police were always happily married, with a couple of kids at home. That was as it should be. Still, Connie was pleased with herself for noticing him. It felt like some kind of progress.
Less than an hour later, there was a knock at the door, and both Connie and Meredith froze. They were still at the dining-room table, drinking coffee and letting their bowls of cereal grow soggy. Meredith was talking in circles—mostly about the investors who lived on Nantucket. She only knew a few of them personally. She, of course, knew Mary Rose Garth (net loss $40 million); everyone in New York society knew Mary Rose Garth, the anorexically thin, sexually lascivious rubber heiress. She had served on the board of the Frick Collection with Meredith.
And Jeremy and Amy Rivers (net loss $9.2 million) had been friends of Meredith’s from Palm Beach.
Meredith told Connie that she had met Amy Rivers during a tennis clinic at the Everglades Club. Amy had a high-powered job for a global consulting firm; she had gone to Princeton three years behind Meredith, though Meredith didn’t remember her. But they bonded over their equally pathetic backhands and their mutual admiration of the tennis pro’s legs, and became casual friends. Amy traveled all the time for business—Hong Kong, Tokyo, Dubai—but when next she was in Palm Beach, she called Meredith to go to lunch. They sat out on the patio at Chuck and Harold’s—very casual, very friendly—but at the end of the lunch, Amy bent her head toward Meredith as if to confide something. Meredith was wary. Palm Beach was a vicious gossip town. Meredith was okay with accepting confidences, but she never, ever told any of her women friends
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