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Macmillan Childrens Publishing Group

Death at High Tide

An Island Sisters Mystery

The Island Sisters (Volume 1)

Hannah Dennison

Minotaur Books


Chapter One

“I’m sorry, but I don’t understand what you mean.” Anxiety pooled in the pit of my stomach, and I knew it had to be reflected in my face because my sister, Margot, grabbed my hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

Nigel Hearst, my newly deceased husband’s accountant, regarded me with sympathy. “I’m sorry to say that over the past five years Robert had encountered some challenges with two of his major streams of revenue—”

“Yes.” I nodded. “I knew he was worried about the safari park after the … accident.”

Margot’s eyes widened. “It was Robert’s safari park? Was that where a guest tried to take a selfie with a baby rhino and the family sued?”

“It was awful,” I said.

“Robert refused to fight it and settled out of court,” said Nigel. “But I am hoping that you will be able to keep the house and, of course, your car.”

“Keep the house?” I said, feeling a rising sense of panic. “Why wouldn’t I be able to keep the house? We didn’t have a mortgage—did we? I know the settlement was huge, but … Nigel, what’s going on?”

Nigel adjusted his pink tie and straightened the blotter on his immaculately tidy desk. He refused to meet my eye. “Don’t worry,” he said smoothly. “I promised Robert I’d take care of you—”

“I think what Evie is trying to ask you is what the hell happened to all his money?” Margot flashed a megawatt smile with her startling white veneers that seemed to bring out the emerald green in her eyes. I cringed with embarrassment. I could always rely on my big sister to get straight to the point.

Nigel looked uncomfortable. “He had an expensive divorce.”

“That was nine years ago,” Margot said. “Anyway, Evie told me he could afford it.”

I was mortified. It was true I had said that, but out of context my comment sounded callous. “It’s not about the money, Margot,” I said. “I’m just surprised because—”

“It’s always about the money,” Margot went on. “Evie gave up a lucrative career for Robert. He was a quarter of a century her senior—”

“Twenty-two years, actually—”

“Whatever. Anyway, he must have provided for her future.”

“I am perfectly capable of getting a job,” I said, shooting Margot a furious look.

Margot winked at me. I’d also forgotten about her warped sense of humor. In fact, I’d forgotten about a lot of Margot’s qualities, which were now coming back to me at breakneck speed.

“Are we able to look at Robert’s finances?” Margot asked. “No offense, Nick—”

“It’s Nigel—”

“I mean, this is my sister’s life you are talking about here, and I’m not sure how you expect us to just accept what you’re telling her.”

I saw concern etched on her face, and even though I was embarrassed, I felt so grateful that she had flown five thousand miles, all the way from California, to be with me. I had phoned her at ten in the morning U.K. time—two, West Coast time—and all I had said was, “Robert’s dead.” Eighteen hours later, she arrived on my doorstep with a hug and her Gucci luggage.

“Of course, you are welcome to look through everything,” said Nigel. “Cherie will give you whatever you need.”

At fifty-five, Nigel was still a dashingly attractive man, with a shock of salt-and-pepper hair, dark brown eyes and a charisma that came off him in waves. Today, though, I thought his face looked unusually florid, with small beads of perspiration dotted across his high forehead. He retrieved a bottle of pills from a drawer in his desk and knocked back a couple, dry. “Blood pressure,” he said. Then he reached for the monogrammed silver cigarette case, but Margot snatched it out of his grasp.

“You just told us you had high blood pressure.” She turned to me. “Did you know that smoking is totally illegal in Beverly Hills? Even outside. Don’t look at me like that, Evie. The minute I started running, I gave up just like that.” She snapped her fingers. “I haven’t smoked for years.”

“Is it hot in here?” Nigel got up and opened a window. A blast of freezing cold November air whipped up the papers on his desk.

“Not anymore,” said Margot.

He slammed the window shut.

We fell into an uncomfortable silence as he swiftly reorganized his documents. He really seemed on edge today. Margot’s iPhone pinged an incoming text.

“Sorry, L.A.,” Margot said apologetically. “Won’t be a moment. Talent issues.”

“She’s a film producer in Hollywood,” I said.

“I need to handle this immediately. Excuse me.” Margot stood up and disappeared through the door into the outer office. She was dressed in a tight, plum-colored leather jacket, skinny jeans and Louboutin ankle boots. I noticed she’d become very thin. I also noticed that it made her boobs seem much bigger and for a moment wondered if she had actually had cosmetic surgery—something she swore she would never do.

“What’s the time in Los Angeles?” Nigel mused. “It must be seven in the morning.”

“Margot works all the time,” I said with pride.

“Ah. The American dream.”

“But I must apologize. She can be a bit direct.” I took a deep breath and ventured, “Is it true about possibly losing the house?”

“I’ll do everything in my power, you know that,” said Nigel. “Robert was a law unto himself. He liked to take risks, and you know that once his mind was set on something…” He shrugged. “He would listen to my advice but never take it.”

Nigel was right. Robert’s harebrained moneymaking schemes had always been unpredictable, but somehow he always came up trumps—until now. Nigel was the only friend from Robert’s old life that he’d brought with him to his new life with me. Nigel had been our rock in a year that Robert called his “annus horribilis.” It wasn’t just the tragedy at the safari park. There was also the catamaran company that was lost to a fire and turned out not to be insured and most recently a property development deal that was doomed when the investors discovered the land was on a Superfund site. And yet Robert had never seemed disconcerted. He always bounced back, saying, “You win some, you lose some.” He had been the eternal optimist. As I sat there in Nigel’s office, I just couldn’t believe that I would never see Robert again. I felt as if this were all a bad dream.

The door opened, but it was Cherie, Nigel’s assistant, who poked her head inside.

“Mrs. Chandler wanted privacy,” she said in a croaky voice, pulling the red-and-gold woolen scarf tighter around her neck. Married with a ten-year-old son, Cherie was in her early forties and had worked for Nigel for years. Nigel often said that she was the worst assistant he had ever had but that she made him laugh. Robert once told me that she and Nigel had had an affair. I found that hard to believe. With long straight hair draped around her face and large round glasses, Cherie was nothing like the numerous socialites Nigel often brought over to dinner. She was a bit of an enigma.

“How’s your cold?” Nigel asked.

“Getting better,” she said, and added a dainty cough to prove it. “The hot toddy you made me at lunchtime really helped.”

“Is that a Harry Potter scarf?” I asked.

“It’s Gryffindor.”

“Cherie knows everything about Harry Potter,” Nigel teased.

“Me too,” I said. “I’m a huge fan.”

As we waited for Margot to finish her phone call, Nigel and Cherie made small talk, but I could see by the way she looked at him that perhaps Robert had been right. She adored him.

I took in Nigel’s plush city office, with his magnificent art collection adorning the three walls. The fourth was all glass and afforded a spectacular view of the Gherkin. I’d never been here before, although I’d met Nigel many times. He was a constant visitor at Forster’s Oast, our beloved converted oasthouse just outside Tunbridge Wells in Kent.

Robert and Nigel’s friendship went back years, but it was only over the last decade that Nigel had started managing Robert’s businesses. Framed photographs of their exploits lined one wall in Nigel’s office—catamaran racing, bobsledding, alpine skiing. Anything with speed. But these escapades came to an abrupt halt with Robert’s rotator cuff surgery shortly after he and I married nine years ago.

I knew very little about Robert’s life before we met and was happy not to ask about it. Margot called me an ostrich, with my head in the sand, and couldn’t understand why I showed so little interest in his first wife. But I had my reasons—ones I would never share with her.

The door opened and Margot came back. She pushed her blond hair off her face. Last time I’d seen her, it had been a rich chestnut brown—her natural color. I patted my own hair self-consciously. Margot was right. It could do with a good cut. But when she sat down, I noticed that her hands were shaking.

“Is everything okay?” I asked.

“Didn’t Robert have any life insurance policies?” she said, pointedly ignoring my question.

“Margot—,” I protested.

“Why don’t I make everyone some tea?” Cherie ventured.

“Or something stronger?” Nigel said hopefully.

“Definitely not,” said Margot.

This was a first. When Margot had lived in England, boozy lunches were the norm. We were always meeting in the pub when we both worked in London—Margot in publicity for a PR firm and I as an archivist at the Red Fox art gallery in Soho. That was before she met Brian and was whisked off to Hollywood.

“I don’t drink at lunchtime anymore,” said Margot by way of explanation. “It’s not cool in L.A. You’d immediately be checked into rehab. I’ll have green tea.”

Cherie paused and seemed confused. “Green? You mean peppermint?”

“She’ll drink whatever you bring in, thanks, Cherie,” I said.

“There may be a small policy of about seventy-five thousand pounds that I’m afraid won’t go very far. Robert’s estate is a little complicated and it will take time to sort everything out. I want to assure you that I am always here for you, Evie.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Have you heard from Michael yet?”

“Who is Michael?” Margot demanded.

Copyright © 2020 by Hannah Dennison