Killer Summer
Lynda Curnyn
For my brother, Brian
About the Author
Lynda Curnyn is a native New Yorker who hasn’t migrated very far from her Brooklyn birthplace. She spent her adolescence on Long Island but escaped to downtown Manhattan just as soon as she could.
After getting a liberal arts degree from New College at Hofstra University, she went on to New York University for her master’s in English literature, even contemplated a Ph.D. before she realized she didn’t want to spend her 20s in the library. So she did what all good English majors do—she went into publishing, and was hooked. As an editor of women’s fiction for Silhouette Books, Lynda works with some of the industry’s top authors.
When a senior editor suggested to her that she might try her hand at writing a novel for the Red Dress Ink program, she laughed. Then she wrote. And wrote and wrote. And soon enough she had finished her first novel! Now she is a self-professed writing addict and happily writing a book a year for Red Dress Ink.
Acknowledgments
This book was born during one hot summer on Fire Island, and so I must thank my wonderful housemates, for barely batting an eye while I plotted in their midst.
First and foremost, my dear friend Linda Guidi, who convinced me that life is just better at the beach. Thank you for your inspiration, for sharing your knowledge of the leather industry and for the killer title!
My lovable hosts, Jane and Gregg Weisser, who opened their beautiful beach house to me, fed me gourmet meals and even let me walk their dog, Sophie. And outside of the house, the dog and the good eats, all resemblances to real life, purely coincidental.
For helping me keep my facts straight, I’m indebted to Bryan Mechutan, for giving me the scoop on the music business (and for the TLC). Andrew Rauchberg, whose considerable brain I picked regarding the life and times of a law student. Detective Lieutenant Jack Fitzpatrick, Commanding Officer of the Suffolk County Homicide Squad, for patiently answering my questions. Joe Scotto di Carlo, aka Uncle Joe, my favorite garmento, for brainstorming plot ideas about the garment industry. (Any mistakes are mine, of course.)
Many thanks to Sarah Mlynowski, who suggested I put a dead body in this story and who lugged my drafts on airplanes to read. Lisa Sklar, for listening to my ever-changing plot ideas and for lots of emotional support. Robert Clegg, for helping me hash out plot details. Anne Canadeo, for all sorts of writerly advice, but especially the use of earplugs.
My fabulous agent, Laura Dail, whose publishing savvy and outlook eased my transition to the full-time writer’s life. A huge thank-you (and a big hug) to my wonderful editor, Joan Marlow Golan, who went the extra mile to guide me on my first mystery. Thanks to Anna Cory-Watson, superb editorial assistant. Margaret O’Neill Marbury and everyone at Red Dress Ink for letting me push the boundaries of the genre with this book. And a special thanks to Pam Lawson, for her kind patience and for keeping the production gods at bay. And as always, lots of love and thanks to my family, especially my mother, for endless support.
Contents
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Epilogue
Prologue
Maggie
What a way to spend a Saturday night. Kismet, Fire Island, 10:00 p.m.
I’d always heard that when you die, your whole life flashes before your eyes.
In my case, it was a song. Janis Joplin. Good ol’ Janis. She was always there when I needed her. Of course, “Freedom’s Just Another Word for Nothing Left to Lose” has a whole new meaning once you’re floating facedown in the tide.
The water was so cold. Even colder now that I had been left alone. But as I learned, just moments before I took my last breath, I’ve always been alone.
Who knew death would make an existentialist out of me?
Kind of ironic that my husband was once a lifeguard. That was when Tom was a teenager spending summers on the shores of North Carolina. He used to brag to everyone in earshot that he had saved seven lives over the course of two summers. Oh, Tom was everybody’s hero. At one time, he was even mine.
But not now. Definitely not now.
Of course, I probably deserved to drown. I wasn’t, after all, the best wife.
God, what a waste. My life. My marriage…
Even my death was a disappointment. Tom once told me that something like three thousand people a year die in drowning incidents. Well, la-di-da. Now I’m a fucking statistic.
I just wished I had some clothes on. I knew there was a reason I never skinny-dipped before. Too many opportunities for humiliation. This was worse than humiliating. It was downright pathetic.
I can just see the headlines now: LONELY MILLIONAIRE’S WIFE
DROWNS