Death at a Premium Page 3

  The message was from her insurance agent, asking her to call him at home if it “wasn’t too late” when she got his message. Josie frowned. What was too late for one person was the shank of the evening to another, but her agent had never before called her at home. That, combined with the fact that this was the second call today, worried Josie enough for her to decide that it very definitely wasn’t too late. She reached for the phone.

  It wasn’t good news and it was delivered rather abruptly by her agent, who explained that he didn’t mind her calling—it was just that he had been in the shower. When Josie hung up a few minutes later, she knew she had a problem. Leslie Coyne was uninsurable.

  There are people who eat when they’re worried and those who don’t. Josie could never understand the latter group. She headed straight for her freezer where she expected to find a pint or two of Ben and Jerry’s finest.

  Unfortunately Tyler had gotten there first. Her small freezer was empty except for three ice cube trays, a frost-covered Weight Watchers mac and cheese meal, and a bag of peas so old Josie couldn’t be sure that they hadn’t been in the freezer when she rented the apartment. She closed one door and opened the other. The refrigerator wasn’t much better. And there was no milk—a necessity for a teenage boy who could easily empty two boxes of cereal in twenty-four hours. She sighed and reached for her purse. A trip to the twenty-four-hour Wawa was in order.

  Less than fifteen blocks away from her apartment, the convenience store marked the beginning of the small town at the southern end of the island. As usual at this time of day, the parking lot was busy with customers coming and going, buying the last six-pack of the day, or picking up Rice Krispies for tomorrow’s breakfast. Josie noticed Leslie Coyne driving off as she pulled into a parking spot, hopped out of her truck, and hurried into the crowded store, determined to quickly complete her errand. Unfortunately the woman at the head of the check-out line had misplaced her credit card. By the time the sliver of platinum plastic had been discovered tucked in a side pocket of her Coach carry-all, Josie was about to scream with frustration.

  And that was before she left the store and found her son sitting in the police cruiser parked out front.

  “Tyler!”

  “Mom!”

  “What’s going on? I thought you were going to a beach party.”

  Officer Trish Petric answered Josie’s question. “We’re just talking, Ms. Pigeon. That’s all that’s going on here. Your son and I were having a little chat. And now I think it’s time he went home. I have to finish my patrol.” And much to Josie’s amazement, her son—with a sheepish expression she had never before seen on his face— got out of the car and, thrusting his hands in his jeans pockets, stared at the ground.

  “Get in the truck and we’ll go home,” Josie said.

  “I rode my bike here.”

  “Toss it in the back.”

  “I’d rather ride home . . . it won’t take more than five minutes,” he added. Tyler hopped on his bike and had taken off in the other direction before his mother could protest.

  She bit her bottom lip. She could use those five minutes to think of something to say to him . . . maybe. What did any mother say to her child after discovering him “chatting” with the local police? What could Tyler have done? Underage drinking, illegal drugs, and shop-lifting all came to mind immediately, but none of those things sounded like her son. But wasn’t the family frequently the last to know when teenagers had serious problems? Could Tyler be suffering from a serious addiction and she hadn’t even had an inkling of the problem? She drove home, her imagination active. By the time Tyler walked into their apartment, she had envisioned him homeless on the streets of a big impersonal city after a long series of unsuccessful stints in various treatment centers. So vivid was her vision that she was almost shocked by his happy, wholesome demeanor as he greeted his cat.

  “Hi there, Urch, time for bed,” he announced, lifting his small Burmese cat high in the air.

  “Why were you talking to that police officer?” Josie asked, knowing immediately that she sounded rather ridiculous.

  “Officer Petric had some questions for me, about some of the kids on the island. Nothing serious,” he added, heading, as he usually did, for the refrigerator. “Anything to eat in here? I’m starving.”

  Josie smiled. That was her Tyler—always hungry. And he was exactly the right person for Officer Petric to question about the other teenagers. Tyler knew and was liked by everyone. “There’s cereal, and I just bought milk. And I hid a bag of Mint Milanos in the cupboard over the refrigerator,” she added, smiling now that she no longer had to worry.

  “Thanks, Ma. I’ve been waiting to get my hands on those cookies,” Tyler said, reaching for the bag.

  Josie grinned at him. “I’m going to head off to bed. Tomorrow is going to be a long day for me. What are you doing?”

  “Working, working, working. You know me—nose to the grindstone,” he said. His reply was rather muffled as his mouth was full of cookies.

  “Sam’s mother is coming to the island tomorrow. Do you want to join us for dinner?”

  “Yeah, cool. I don’t want to miss any of Carol’s cooking.”

  “I’ll call and let you know what time. Make sure your cell phone is charged, okay?”

  “My cell’s always charged—you’re the one who forgets to charge your phone, Ma.”

  “Well, we’ll see you at dinner then.”

  Josie was in the shower before she realized that Tyler could have used the five minutes it took to ride his bike home to decide what excuse he would offer for being discovered in the patrol car “chatting” with Trish Petric, that he hadn’t mentioned why he wasn’t at the beach party, and that he had managed to go to bed without explaining anything about his evening.

  It took her longer than usual to fall asleep.

  FOUR

  LIVING IN A resort community has its own special set of problems. People on vacation are relaxed. Josie was always in a rush, trying to get jobs done on time, before the season ended, before the autumn storms arrived. People on vacation spend money impulsively. Josie was constantly worried about where each dollar went, both in her private life and on Island Contracting’s books. And people on vacation sleep late. Josie’s alarm went off at 5:30. Today, after hours of tossing about on sheets that desperately needed to spend some time in a washing machine, it was almost a relief to get up and get going.

  Josie’s morning routine was more “no maintenance” than “low maintenance,” and she was out the door less than five minutes after setting her feet on the floor. Driving to her office, she stopped worrying about Tyler and focused on work. First problem: insurance. Second problem: a new and unknown crew. Third problem: well, she wasn’t sure what the third problem was, but she suspected she would know in a few hours.

  Island Contracting’s office was a converted fishing shack which hung over the bay dividing the island from the mainland. Remodeled by Noel Roberts, former owner of the company and Josie’s mentor, it was both charming and practical. Josie dedicated as much of her free time as was necessary to maintaining it, and the first rays of daylight bounced off paint applied only the month before. Making a mental note to water the nasturtium seedlings beginning to emerge from the soil in the window boxes, she unlocked the front door, switched on the overhead light, and headed straight for the coffee maker.

  A caramel-colored tabby kitten, dozing on the counter, lifted her head off a packet of coffee filters and meowed a greeting.

  “Coffee for me, then kitten chow for you,” Josie promised, reaching for a bag of ground beans.

  In minutes the scent of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the ever-present aroma of tidal mud, and the kitten, happily fed, was playing with a brilliant red crab shell on the floor while Josie worked at her computer.

  Her insurance agent had sent a long e-mail explaining that Leslie Coyne could not be covered by Island Contracting’s insurance policy. Josie dutifully printed out all the infor
mation and then poured her first mug of coffee of the day. She had no idea what she was going to do. According to the man she had been buying insurance from for almost a decade, Leslie Coyne was uninsurable because he had “a previous medical condition,” although the agent couldn’t say more because medical information is confidential. But she was assured that once the condition cleared up—and remained cleared up for a certain, unspecified number of years—he would be eligible for health insurance again, at a premium.

  Her coffee grew cold as she considered the situation. She couldn’t afford the liability of an uninsured worker. But if Leslie left, would Vickie leave as well? She also couldn’t afford to be two workers short at the beginning of the season and she had no idea how, or if, she could replace them. Damn! She got up and stomped out onto the deck overhanging the bay behind her office. The sun was sparkling off the water. A lone kayaker paddled by and smiled up at her. Josie waved and plunked herself down on one of the ragged captain’s chairs to think.

  She was still thinking when she realized she was no longer alone.

  “Hi . . . you didn’t hear me come in, did you?” Leslie Coyne was standing in the open doorway; the kitten, dwarfed by his huge biceps, was nestled in his arms.

  “No. But I was thinking about you.”

  “Shit. I guess you’ve heard from your insurance company.”

  “How did you know?”

  He shrugged. “It happens. Usually sooner rather than later. But you don’t have to worry. I don’t mind working without insurance.”

  “But you can’t do that! What if you get hurt?”

  “I’ll be careful. I won’t.”

  Josie stood up. “You don’t know what might happen. And . . .”

  “And you’re afraid I’ll get hurt and sue your company.”

  Actually, Josie hadn’t gotten any further than Leslie getting hurt in her thinking. “I . . . would you sue Island Contracting?”

  “Of course not. I’d never get another job if it got out that I had sued my last employer. And I’d be happy to sign something. You know, a statement that I won’t sue. I’ve worked for other companies that were content to leave it at that.”

  Josie thought for a minute. “Why can’t you get health insurance?” she finally asked. “What’s wrong with you— if you don’t mind my asking,” she added, perhaps a bit late.

  “Multiple sclerosis. The first symptoms appeared about five years ago.”

  “But insurance companies can’t just drop your coverage because you become ill! One of my carpenters had cancer and she was covered.”

  “I was too—at first. But then I became too ill to work. I went on disability for almost a year. It was barely enough money to survive on despite help from my family and friends. If I hadn’t used my ingenuity, I would have starved. But then I was lucky enough to go into remission so I could return to work, only to discover that I couldn’t get insurance. It might be a different situation if I had one of those jobs you stay in forever, but I’ve always moved around from job to job. You know how it is in our business. So it’s been easy for insurance companies to deny me coverage when I—or the company I work for—apply for it.”

  “But isn’t there anything you can do?”

  “In some states I could apply for Medicaid, but then I couldn’t work, and I like to work and I like to make money. So I have little choice but to work without insurance and make sure nothing happens to me.”

  “I never knew anything like that could happen.”

  “No one does, until it happens to them or someone they know.” Leslie was quiet for a moment. “So, do I have the job or don’t I?”

  Josie didn’t see how she could say anything other than, “Of course you do.”

  “I’d be happy to sign a document promising not to sue . . .”

  Josie stood up. “That won’t be necessary,” she said. “I trust you. You trust me. That’s the way Island Contracting has always worked.”

  “Thank you. Thanks a million,” Leslie said, grabbing her hand and shaking it energetically.

  “I’d better finish up here. We’re all due on site in less than an hour,” Josie reminded him.

  “I’ll pick up Vicki and we’ll be there on time—or early even!” he added, dashing off.

  Alone on the deck, Josie stared down at the water. She had just made a huge mistake and she had known it as soon as she had done it. She didn’t know Leslie and had no reason to trust him. If Sam found out, he’d go nuts. She might even be risking the future of Island Contracting—and for a man! It was a lousy way to begin a job. Josie finished up at the office and drove over to the Higgins’s house feeling less than her normal enthusiasm at the beginning of a new project.

  A good-looking young man was standing on the porch, hands stuffed into the pockets of his chinos, with what looked like a cashmere sweater carefully tied around his neck. Josie wondered what a vacationer was doing up and about so early, and on the Higgins’s property. She parked her truck by the curb, got out, and started up the sidewalk to the house, calling out a greeting.

  “Hi yourself,” the stranger replied, smiling. “You must be Josie Pigeon.”

  “I am. Who are you?”

  “Christopher Higgins. I’m your architect.”

  “You’re . . . are you old enough to be an architect?” The words were out of her mouth before she realized just how rude she sounded. “I mean, you don’t look much older than my son. And he’s just seventeen,” she added, realizing she was making things worse.

  “I’ll be twenty-one in July. This will be my first professional job,” Christopher Higgins admitted, smiling proudly. “I was thrilled when Grandfather bought this place and suggested I draw up plans to remodel it.”

  “Seymour Higgins is your grandfather?” Josie asked.

  “Yes. Cool, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, cool,” she replied unenthusiastically. Just what she needed—an inexperienced architect.

  “I can’t wait for your crew to get started.” Christopher Higgins appeared to hesitate. “There are a few last-minute changes that I wanted to talk over with you.”

  “Changes?”

  “A few very minor changes.” He picked up an elegant and expensive-looking calfskin briefcase from the floor. “I have the drawings here, if you have a few moments to take a look.”

  “I . . .”

  “I’m going to show them to my grandparents as soon as we go over them,” he added.

  At least he was giving her an opportunity to see them first. “Sure,” she said trying to sound enthusiastic. “Let’s go inside.”

  “Great. I think you’re really going to be interested in this. I’m proposing some really innovative concepts.”

  To Josie, innovative sounded like it meant expensive. She had signed a contract with Seymour Higgins and they had agreed on a price. Changes would be made throughout the project—there always were—but making changes before the demolition even began made Josie nervous.

  “And some of my ideas are real money savers. Grandfather and Grandmother will really like that!”

  “But I thought they were rich. I mean . . .”

  “Oh, they are, but Grandfather says only fools don’t like bargains, and Grandmother clips the coupons in the paper every Sunday and insists that her housekeeper use them when she shops. They’re both going to appreciate all the money we’re going to save them.”

  Josie wasn’t quite so sure about that “we” in his statement, but she didn’t feel the need to share this with him. “Let’s look at those plans. My crew is going to be here to start demolition in a few minutes.”

  He hesitated a moment on the door step. “I pulled a few things I thought Grandmother and Grandfather might want to save—some pieces of furniture—and put them in the garage. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “No problem.” In fact, it was the first thing that morning that wasn’t a problem. After her conversation with Sam the day before, she was going to insist that her crew empty the house and carefull
y store the contents.

  Christopher opened the door for Josie and she walked into the house.

  Josie realized immediately that Christopher’s idea of “a few things” was different than hers: her immediate impression was that the house had been stripped of almost all the sixties touches that Sam had waxed so enthusiastically over the previous day. She smiled. He had just saved her and her crew a few hours of tedious work. Now they could immediately get busy with crowbars and sledge hammers.

  Just as soon as she looked at Christopher’s ideas . . .

  FIVE

  MONTHS LATER, JOSIE was to realize how lucky it was that she had been so busy that day; otherwise she might have taken the time to count all the things going wrong with the Bride’s Secret Bed and Breakfast project, and the resulting list would certainly have been a daunting one.

  Christopher was a self-confident young man, happy to pass the spare time that Josie certainly didn’t have talking about himself. He revealed the name of his girlfriend; he mentioned where he was going to college; he apparently thought nothing of explaining that this project was his first architectural job. It wasn’t actually a professional job, he explained. His grandparents weren’t paying him for his work, but, he added, at least he would get college credit.

  Josie had been forced to interrupt at that point. “You mean you’re in graduate school?” she asked, hoping for a positive answer.

  “No, but I’ll be a senior next year. In fact, this house is my senior thesis project. This should be an easy year for me, don’t you think? I mean, most of my work will be done this summer.”

  “Let me get this straight. You haven’t graduated from college. You’ve never had a professional architectural job in your life. This will be the first time anyone has ever built anything using plans you’ve drawn?”