Free Dead In The Hamptons by Elizabeth Zelvin Page B

the sound.
    “It’s Lewis and Karen. Last night I invited her along, but she didn’t seem interested. I guess she changed her mind.”
    “Hi, guys!” Jimmy called out, raising his arm to wave. His shoulder cracked audibly.
    Karen wore a hot pink tank and pants. A straw hat as big as a market umbrella topped the ensemble.
    “Wow, she looks like a strawberry smoothie herself,” Barbara said. “Yoo-hoo!” she yodeled as they marched toward us, Karen in the lead. Lewis carried the baskets. New century, postfeminist world, and men were still the porters.
    When they got close enough for conversation, Lewis said, “I got drafted.”
    “I want to make jam,” Karen said. “They’ve got the jars and everything in the hardware store in Amagansett.”
    “I’ve never made jam,” Barbara said. “I’ll help.”
    “We’ll do it this evening,” Karen said, “so we won’t get too hot in the kitchen.”
    Clearly experienced strawberry pickers, she and Lewis each took a row beyond ours and started efficiently stripping fruit off the plants.
    “How do you stay so clean?” Barbara asked. “I’m covered with strawberry juice.”
    Karen laughed.
    “Wait till we make the jam. I dress down for that.”
    The baskets filled. The sun climbed. Jimmy had a confrontation with a bumblebee. Sweat started getting in my eyes. Barbara handed me a red bandanna, which I tied around my forehead.
    I was about to suggest calling it quits when someone called out to us.
    “Oh, look!” Karen said. “It’s Oscar.”
    Sure enough, Oscar led a little troop of his housemates through the field.
    “Surprise, surprise,” Barbara muttered. We had reached the same point in adjacent rows, so I was the only one who heard.
    “I hope you left some for us,” Corky said. “We’re going to make jam.”
    “So are we,” Karen said.
    “I’ve already picked up everything we need,” Oscar said. “Pectin, sugar. And I got plenty of jars. Why don’t we pool resources? Use my kitchen. It’s a lot bigger than yours.”
    “What a great idea,” Karen said.
    Barbara was practically bursting by the time we got back to the car.
    “They planned that!”
    “Maybe, poppet, but so what?”
    “You weren’t there when she told us Oscar’s affairs were never serious. Summer fling my eye. Right, Bruce?”
    I had to agree Karen seemed to be blowing smoke.
    “But still, so what?”
    “Romance and intrigue, for one thing. People go to Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous for that.”
    “Oh, come on, not everything is an addiction,” I objected.
    “You only say that because you’ve got the one everybody knows about.”
    “Why do you care, peanut?” Jimmy asked.
    “Because I still don’t think Clea’s drowning was an accident,” Barbara said. “You’d like to think nothing bad could happen in a clean and sober house. But where there’s steam, there’s— there’s hot water. Romance and intrigue and murder— is it so farfetched?”
    “Karen and Oscar make a steamy pair,” I said, “I’ll vouch for that. I’m even with you on things we don’t know about bubbling beneath the surface with this crew. But how does it connect with Clea’s death?”
    “I don’t know,” Barbara said. “Yet.”

Chapter Ten
    “It’s hard to get information out here,” Barbara complained. “Everybody’s a lotus eater when they’re on vacation, especially at the beach. Nobody talks about anything real.”
    “You mean like world peace and improving the economy?”
    “No, you clod, like who slept with who last summer and who’s got a motive for murdering Clea.”
    “If Clea hadn’t died, maybe they would all be talking about who slept with who last summer,” I said. “I think people are more spooked than they’re admitting.”
    We huddled together on Jimmy’s little porch, talking quietly when we remembered. Barbara had a tendency to bounce and get louder when she got a bright idea. The small space bristled with the tools of Jimmy’s trade: laptop,