Whelan had been standing behind her, observing the exchange. She turned to him now.
“Are you in?”
“All the way.”
“I know which house Garrett calls the hookup house,” Traci told Whelan, on the way back to the island. “It backs up to the seventh hole. Owned by Joe and Anita Deibel. We manage the house through the Saint’s rental program.”
They were halfway across the causeway. “What makes you so sure?”
“His car is broken down, so he must have walked over from there to my house tonight. Plus, I know Madelyn helped Anita Deibel order new furniture and window treatments for their cottage this past spring. Makes sense she would still have the key. It’s Oleander Cottage.”
“Aren’t oleanders poisonous?”
“Like Madelyn,” she said.
They walked across the golf course from Traci’s house, keeping to the shadows. She pointed to the small stucco cottage. “That’s it.”
Oleander was one of the original 1920s cottages Hoke’s grandfather, F. A. Eddings, built when he developed the resort. She knew it had the same floor plan as Gardenia Cottage, where, ironically, Fred Eddings had drawn his last breath only days before.
The house was dark, with a screen porch that ran across the back.
“How do you propose we get in?” Whelan asked.
Just then a light blinked on from within the house, and a couple of silhouetted figures were visible moving about.
“We’re gonna walk up and tell the sheriff we’re here.”
“And if the sheriff doesn’t like that plan?”
“He’ll have to arrest me. But I’m betting he doesn’t have the will, or the time, to do that before Madelyn arrives.”
“You really think she’ll show up?”
“She can’t afford not to. That prenup? She’s got to convince Garrett to keep his mouth shut, or she’ll lose everything.”
The door to the screened porch was unlocked. They stepped inside, then walked over to the French doors leading inside, where they saw the sheriff and Shapley, who was taping something to Garrett’s bare chest.
She tapped lightly on the glass. The sheriff whirled around, his hand on his holstered service weapon.
“Judas Priest!” he exclaimed, opening the door. “You’re lucky I didn’t just put a bullet in you. What the hell are you two doing here? I don’t want you spooking our suspect.”
Traci stepped past him. Whelan hesitated for a moment, then followed.
“We won’t spook anyone.” She pointed to a doorway on the far wall of the living room. “That’s the powder room. We can hang out in there.”
“This is so fucked up,” Garrett moaned. His nose was bandaged, but already bruises bloomed beneath both eyes. “As soon as she sees me like this, she’s gonna figure it out.”
“Tell her you got in a fistfight with KJ,” Whelan suggested.
“Did you text her yet?” Traci asked, looking around the living room, wondering if Madelyn had ripped off Anita Deibel the way she’d ripped off the Saint. She touched the drapery stretching across the front window, which was some kind of cheap, synthetic fabric. Yup, Madelyn had been here. She pointed at Garrett, who’d pulled his shirt down. “Is he miked up?”
“Never mind that,” Coyle said. “You two need to leave. Now.”
Shapley walked to the front of the house. “Too late,” he called softly. “She just pulled into the driveway.”
“Judas Priest!” Coyle pointed to the powder room. “Get in there and don’t make a goddamn sound.”
The powder room in Oleander Cottage was much smaller than the one in Fred Eddings’s house. Traci sat on the closed lid of the commode and Whelan leaned against the sink.
