Killer Summer, Lynda Curnyn [books suggested by bill gates .txt] 📗

was I, despite the fact that this was what I had been hoping for for days. “Myles!”

“What are you doing here?” he said, his golden brown eyes studying me.

“Getting falafel. What else? You know Ahmed’s falafel. It’s, uh, irresistible.” Noticing he carried a knapsack, too, I asked,“Did you just get back from the beach?”

“Yeah. We decided to walk to the Sunken Forest yesterday. I didn’t realize how far of a hike it was from Kismet. Took us all day. It was pretty cool, though. Have you been yet?”

“No, I haven’t,” I replied, fighting not to ask who was a part of the “we” that went on this little day trip. Instead, I studied his T-shirt, which I noticed had the logo for an environmental organization I once did a short film for. I had given it to him, since it was two sizes too large for me.

“Nice shirt,” I said.

He smiled. “Some chick gave it to me.”

“Some chick, huh?” I replied, a smile edging at my lips.

“Yeah, some crazy chick who doesn’t want to be my friend anymore because I took a beach share on her island—”

“Myles, I’m sorry, I—”

He shook his head. “It’s okay. I guess I should have spoken to you beforehand. It’s just that I honestly didn’t think you were going to go out there. You said as much.”

I frowned. “I didn’t think I was going to be out there. But Sage kinda thought it would be good for me. Now I’m not so sure.”

His expression turned sympathetic. “I guess things must be pretty bleak over at your place.”

I shook my head. “No, my house is pretty cheerful.” I looked at him.“Except for the fact that I might be sharing it with a murderer.”

His eyes widened. “What?”

Okay, maybe I was being a little melodramatic. So I explained. How I had found Tom at home that night, damp and angry in his kitchen. How he had responded to the drowning. How he had been acting ever since, especially the night of that strange Fourth of July party. How his only alibi happened to be the chief of security at Saltaire.

Whether or not Myles was as worried as I was, I wasn’t sure. But he did invite me up to his place to talk. I took it as a good sign.

I took it as an even better sign that Myles’s studio looked pretty much the same as it did the last time I had been in it, three months ago. Same Escher poster hanging over his bed. Same bookshelf, lined with volumes and volumes of law books. I was especially happy to see the spider plant I had given him was still alive and well and thriving on his windowsill.

“The place looks good,” I said, after I dropped my knapsack on to the floor beside the couch and turned to Myles, who stood in the small galley kitchen, which sat just off the living room.

“Yeah,” he said, gazing around the small space with what looked like dissatisfaction. “Want something to drink?”

“Water would be great,” I said, watching as he turned to the refrigerator and pulled out two small bottles of purified water. The same brand I had recommended to him after explaining the horrors of the tap water he used to mindlessly imbibe. See what a good influence I was on his life?

Moments later, when I was seated across from him on his sofa, going over the minute details of the investigation I had begun— i.e., my trip to Fair Harbor—I wondered if water intake was about the only impact I had made on him.

“I don’t know, Zoe, it’s not much to go on. I mean, what motive would Tom have for killing his wife?”

“How about a mortgage free and clear on a million-dollar beach house?” I said.

His eyes widened. “Wow. He’s got that house free and clear?”

“Now he does,” I said, explaining the little insurance provision that paid off his mortgage just as soon as he filed Maggie’s death certificate with the bank.

His gaze turned pensive. “Looks like a nice house, too,” he said. “I bet you get a great view of the ocean from those windows in the front.”

I tried to squelch the glimmer of happiness I felt at the idea that Myles might have roamed up the beach this weekend, hoping for a glimpse of my house—or better yet, me.

“Still,” he continued, “I can’t see it. Doesn’t he own the company Sage works for? He’s gotta be loaded.”

I had already thought about that, long and hard, since returning from the beach. So I gave him the answer I had come up with. “The fact is, Tom is loaded. But he’s also financially overburdened at the moment. Sage told me he went out on a limb last year when he decided to start up Edge. I mean, yeah, he did some leather accessories for Luxe, even a few jackets, but he was mostly in textiles. Leather outerwear is a whole new business. I bet he’s up to his eyeballs in debt. Sage told me a few months ago that part of the reason he started Edge was that Luxe wasn’t doing as well as it had in years past. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was a little hard up for cash. I mean, think about it—he even took on shareholders in his beach house this year.“

Myles chuckled. “C’mon, Zoe, he couldn’t be bringing in that much cash through shareholders. He’s only got the three of you, right?”

“And his daughter,” I added, though I didn’t think she was paying a dime. Not that I mentioned that. Though the fact that she moved right in on Maggie’s turf bugged me, too.“But it does seem kind of odd that he opened his house after all these years of it being just him and Maggie. Now why do you think a man would do that?”

He shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe he likes the company.”

“Or maybe he needed a buffer between him and Maggie,” I said, thinking of my own roommate, who