Tara.
“Can I help you with something?” Her plastered-on smile faded.
“Hi. It’s Tara, right? Barb Moss introduced us last summer.”
“Hmm, did she?”
“I think we both frequent the same garage sales.”
“I don’t make a habit of frequenting
garage
sales. I do my collecting at fine estate sales or through my exclusive connections in Manhattan.”
“Thought you sold online.” I rifled through my purse until I found her business card.
Touché!
Tara handed me back the card. It was the same card she’d given me back when we were fighting over the curtains.
“Were you interested in something or just browsing?”
“That’s a fantastic clock.” I pointed. “What are you asking for it?”
“I think it might be a little above your means.” She put a firm hand on my shoulder and nudged me toward the door.
“I think I can decide that for myself.”
“Hundred-and-twenty thousand. It’s a Dominy. Still interested?”
“I’ll think about it.”
Dominy?
“Sure you will. I was about to close up and head home.”
Yeah, right,
home
—a fifteen-foot closet.
I searched for a displeasing feature on her face but couldn’t find one.
I sat in the Jeep and watched as Tara put the CLOSED sign in the window. The lights in the shop dimmed. A figure emerged from the side of the building. Bright orange hair glowed fluorescent under the streetlamp. Adam’s mother, Frances Prescott Hughes, put a key in the shop door and walked in. I decided to wait.
A few minutes later Tara wheeled out a hand truck carrying the $120,000 tall clock. Frances and Tara loaded it into the back end of the Mercedes SUV that I’d seen parked at the Spenser estate. I crouched down and waited until Tara went back into the shop and Frances drove away. What were Adam’s mother and Cole’s old girlfriend doing sneaking around in the dark with a possibly rare piece of furniture? A mystery was a-brewin’.
* * *
I settled at my desk with a grilled sandwich of Cacio di Bosco al Tartufo, Il Forteto, sheep’s sweet milk cheese with truffles, from a nearby shop. I’d heard about the cheese on TV from a famous chef who broadcasted her show from her home in the Hamptons. I was big on things that didn’t require much cooking. My father was the gourmet home chef in our family. He was always e-mailing me recipes spelled out in painstaking detail. And he’d even offered to pay for cooking lessons. I felt bad, but I just didn’t have the patience to cut, dice, and roll. However, give me a hopeless piece of furniture and I could spend weeks planning and months refurbishing it.
On my way back from Bridgehampton, I had stopped at the Montauk Library to unearth some dirt on the Spenser clan. When I’d escaped Manhattan, I’d left behind thecomputer I shared with Michael—choosing the enlightened, wimpy path of least resistance. I should have taken the darkened path of sweet revenge and stripped the penthouse bare. At the library I’d printed out everything I could find on the Spensers. I figured it was in my best interest to learn as much as I could about the family. Plus, I was curious about the scandal that separated Caroline Spenser from her only son and wanted to learn more about Tara and Adam’s connection to the Spenser family.
Most of the articles were mundane references to social functions attended by the Spensers or money donated to various causes. Two items stuck in my mind. One was a seventeen-year-old article in the
East Hampton Chronicle
, which told of a boating accident involving Jillian and Cole. The article went on to explain Jillian spent a week at Southampton Hospital. The second item had to do with the death of Charles Spenser, Jillian and Cole’s father. He died of a heart attack shortly after the boating accident. Charles Spenser had been worth millions from his family’s company, Spenser Communications; his obituary was seventeen years old. A
Newsday
photo taken at Charles’s gravesite showed a young
“Can I help you with something?” Her plastered-on smile faded.
“Hi. It’s Tara, right? Barb Moss introduced us last summer.”
“Hmm, did she?”
“I think we both frequent the same garage sales.”
“I don’t make a habit of frequenting
garage
sales. I do my collecting at fine estate sales or through my exclusive connections in Manhattan.”
“Thought you sold online.” I rifled through my purse until I found her business card.
Touché!
Tara handed me back the card. It was the same card she’d given me back when we were fighting over the curtains.
“Were you interested in something or just browsing?”
“That’s a fantastic clock.” I pointed. “What are you asking for it?”
“I think it might be a little above your means.” She put a firm hand on my shoulder and nudged me toward the door.
“I think I can decide that for myself.”
“Hundred-and-twenty thousand. It’s a Dominy. Still interested?”
“I’ll think about it.”
Dominy?
“Sure you will. I was about to close up and head home.”
Yeah, right,
home
—a fifteen-foot closet.
I searched for a displeasing feature on her face but couldn’t find one.
I sat in the Jeep and watched as Tara put the CLOSED sign in the window. The lights in the shop dimmed. A figure emerged from the side of the building. Bright orange hair glowed fluorescent under the streetlamp. Adam’s mother, Frances Prescott Hughes, put a key in the shop door and walked in. I decided to wait.
A few minutes later Tara wheeled out a hand truck carrying the $120,000 tall clock. Frances and Tara loaded it into the back end of the Mercedes SUV that I’d seen parked at the Spenser estate. I crouched down and waited until Tara went back into the shop and Frances drove away. What were Adam’s mother and Cole’s old girlfriend doing sneaking around in the dark with a possibly rare piece of furniture? A mystery was a-brewin’.
* * *
I settled at my desk with a grilled sandwich of Cacio di Bosco al Tartufo, Il Forteto, sheep’s sweet milk cheese with truffles, from a nearby shop. I’d heard about the cheese on TV from a famous chef who broadcasted her show from her home in the Hamptons. I was big on things that didn’t require much cooking. My father was the gourmet home chef in our family. He was always e-mailing me recipes spelled out in painstaking detail. And he’d even offered to pay for cooking lessons. I felt bad, but I just didn’t have the patience to cut, dice, and roll. However, give me a hopeless piece of furniture and I could spend weeks planning and months refurbishing it.
On my way back from Bridgehampton, I had stopped at the Montauk Library to unearth some dirt on the Spenser clan. When I’d escaped Manhattan, I’d left behind thecomputer I shared with Michael—choosing the enlightened, wimpy path of least resistance. I should have taken the darkened path of sweet revenge and stripped the penthouse bare. At the library I’d printed out everything I could find on the Spensers. I figured it was in my best interest to learn as much as I could about the family. Plus, I was curious about the scandal that separated Caroline Spenser from her only son and wanted to learn more about Tara and Adam’s connection to the Spenser family.
Most of the articles were mundane references to social functions attended by the Spensers or money donated to various causes. Two items stuck in my mind. One was a seventeen-year-old article in the
East Hampton Chronicle
, which told of a boating accident involving Jillian and Cole. The article went on to explain Jillian spent a week at Southampton Hospital. The second item had to do with the death of Charles Spenser, Jillian and Cole’s father. He died of a heart attack shortly after the boating accident. Charles Spenser had been worth millions from his family’s company, Spenser Communications; his obituary was seventeen years old. A
Newsday
photo taken at Charles’s gravesite showed a young
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